I track how she moves and note where she shifts her weight, where she positions her hands, what weapons she might be carrying beneath the House Draven uniform.
“You killed Torvin.”I watch her face for any reaction. The maintenance worker only saw her fleeing after Kash's shooting, but if Vezra is the traitor, then the other deaths connect to her as well. I'm guessing, but educated guessing has kept me alive through worse situations than this one. “Krel almost died because of you. Jorath. Rennith. How many years of service did they give House Draven before you poisoned them?”
I hold my breath and wait for her to deny it, to tell me I've got it wrong, that she was only responsible for Kash and someone else handled the rest.
Her expression doesn't change. “Sacrifices for the greater good. The house required stability. Drazex was becoming unpredictable, developing attachments that clouded his judgment. Lord Vorath understood the necessity of intervention.”
The confirmation settles into my stomach. She doesn't deny any of it. All three deaths belong to her. Torvin's poisoned heart. Jorath's sabotaged transport. Krel bleeding out on a medical table while I fought to save him. She orchestrated each one, and she's proud of it. Drazex was right.
Her words echo in the small cell, and my mind races to connect what she's telling me. Vorath understood. Not ordered, not commanded, but understood. The phrasing is too careful, too deliberate.
“You're not working alone. You never were,” I say.
Vezra's mouth curves, and this time it almost reaches her eyes. “Did you think I was some disgruntled servant with a personal vendetta? That I was killing enforcers for my own amusement?”
“I thought you were working for a rival house. Korvan, maybe. The equipment signatures pointed to military-grade manufacturing.” I watch her face as I speak, tracking every micro-expression. “But that's not it, is it? The equipment came from inside House Draven. From resources only someone at the very top could access.”
She says nothing, but her silence is its own answer.
“Lord Vorath.” I let the name hang in the air and watch for her reaction. “He's been running this operation from the beginning.”
“The Lord of House Draven protects his legacy.” Vezra's chin lifts with something that looks almost like pride. “By whatever means necessary.”
This conspiracy rearranges itself into a new and uglier shape. There’s no outside enemy. No rival house seeking to weaken House Draven from without. This is an attack from within, orchestrated by the one person Drazex should have been able to trust above all others.
His own father.
“He's been killing his son's enforcers.” The words come out flat as I work through the logic. “Weakening Drazex's power base. Keeping him dependent. Controllable.”
“A son who builds too much independent strength becomes a son who challenges his father's authority. Lord Vorath has seen it happen in other houses. He won't allow it to happen in his own.”
“So he murders loyal men to keep his heir weak.” The fury building in my chest makes it hard to breathe. “And you help him do it.”
“Lord Vorath's disappointment in the current situation is significant.” Vezra continues as though she hasn't just confirmed the worst betrayal I can imagine. “Drazex was supposed to identify the threat eventually. Was supposed to prove he could still function despite his sentiment. Instead, you helped him get close to the truth, and that made you a complication that required removal.”
The phrasing snags my attention, and I realize what she's actually saying. She thinks we were still searching. Still guessing. She doesn't realize how far we got before they dragged me from his bed.
“Is that what you think?” A smile spreads across my face.
Her eyes narrow. “The investigation was progressing, but Lord Vorath moved before you could—”
“He already figured it out.” The words cut through her explanation, and the satisfaction of watching her expressionshift is worth every bruise on my body. “Drazex identified you as the traitor.”
Uncertainty flickers across her face before she smooths it away. “How?”
“A maintenance worker saw you fleeing after you shot Kash.” I let her hear her perfect plan has crumbled. “She described the scar on your throat. We identified you before his father ever summoned him. Before they took me. Drazex already has your name.”
She says nothing, and I let the quiet hang while her jaw tightens. The first sign her control is slipping, the first indication that she isn't as certain as she pretends.
“It changes nothing.” Her words carry less conviction than before. “Lord Vorath will handle this. Someone will remind Drazex of his duties. Someone will dispose of you. House Draven will continue as it always has.”
“You believe that.” I study her face and search for the female who Drazex trusted. “You believe you're protecting the house by killing the beings who serve it.”
“I'm protecting what matters.” Her tone hardens. “Drazex's sentiment made him weak. His attachment to you made him dangerous. Lord Vorath saw what his son couldn't. Sentiment will destroy this house the way it destroyed the heir's mother.”
Her fingers drift to the scar. The motion is subconscious, a reflex worn smooth by decades of repetition. I track it, that pale ridge of tissue cutting from jaw to collarbone, and she catches me looking.
“His mother gave me this.”
