Something shifts in his expression, subtle but there.
“Good.”
19
LYRIA
The first time I step into one of their planning rooms, I expect it to feel different, like something in the air should mark it as more important than the rest of the estate. Instead, it’s the same kind of quiet I’ve learned to recognize everywhere here—controlled, deliberate, as if even sound is allowed only when it serves a purpose. The air is cooler than the corridors, dry enough that it pulls at the back of my throat, and the long obsidian table at the center of the room reflects the dim overhead light like a sheet of dark water.
I slow just enough at the threshold to take it in before stepping fully inside, aware of how out of place I am in a way that doesn’t need to be spoken. It shows in the way my boots sound too loud against the stone, in the way I keep my hands still so I don’t draw attention to them, in the way the space seems to hold itself tighter around me as if deciding whether I belong. I don’t. That part is obvious. What matters is that I’m here anyway.
Skot stands at the far end of the table with several parchments laid out in precise alignment, each one positioned as if the spacing between them matters as much as the contents written across them. He doesn’t look up immediately, but I canfeel the moment he registers me, the subtle shift in his posture giving it away even before he speaks.
“You came,” he says.
“You told me to.”
“That’s not why you’re here.”
He’s right, and we both know it. I don’t answer him, stepping closer instead, letting the faint scent of ink and treated parchment settle in my lungs. It’s different from the garden—less alive, more constructed, like everything in this room exists because someone decided it should and not because it grew that way.
Verr stands opposite him, one hand resting against the edge of the table, his posture still but not idle. There’s focus in the way he looks at me when I lift my gaze, something sharper than before, like he’s no longer just observing but actively measuring where I fit in what’s about to happen.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I’m working.”
“You were.”
I lift a brow slightly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “And now I’m here.”
That earns a brief shift in his expression—acknowledgment more than reaction—before his attention moves back to the table. Skot takes that as his cue to begin, sliding one of the parchments forward with a controlled motion that draws both of our focus down.
“These are the houses most exposed to outer supply disruption,” he says, tapping lightly against the surface. “Keshivar, Drenhal, Voroith. All heavily invested in agricultural intake.”
The names mean more than they should to me now, not because I’ve known them long, but because I understand what they represent. Influence. Control. The kind of power thatdecides whether places like my home exist or disappear without anyone noticing.
“They won’t care about villages,” I say, my voice steady as I look over the parchment.
“They don’t need to,” Verr replies without hesitation.
I glance up at him, catching the way his focus sharpens slightly as he continues. “They need to care about loss,” he says, “and they need to believe that loss is something they could have prevented.”
The distinction settles quickly, reshaping the way I look at the names in front of me. Skot shifts slightly, his hands moving behind his back again as he watches me think.
“Not fear,” he adds, anticipating where the thought would go next. “Offense.”
I frown, glancing between them. “That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” he says. “It’s stronger.”
I lean forward, resting my fingertips lightly against the edge of the table, letting the cold surface anchor me as I work through it. “Fear makes people hesitate,” I say slowly. “Offense makes them react.”
“Exactly,” Verr says.
My attention drops back to the parchment, but I’m not reading anymore. I’m mapping connections, not routes this time, but relationships, priorities, pressure points that aren’t written down but still shape everything.
“If you want them to move,” I say, tracing one of the names lightly with my finger, “it can’t just look like they’re losing something. It has to look like someone is taking it from them.”
