I head downstairs.
The kitchen smells of this morning's ash and stale bread. Vaelra stands beside the table, dressed and composed despite the evening hour. She doesn't look up when I enter, just gestures sharply toward the tea kettle.
"Water. Fire. Dinner."
I move to obey, reaching for the kettle.
"The wedding date cannot be delayed further."
My hand freezes on the iron handle.
Vaelra continues as if discussing weather patterns. "Settlement leaders have already confirmed attendance. Bram's family arrives in three days." She finally meets my eyes, expression smooth and immovable. "You'll be married before the week ends."
The kettle's weight suddenly feels immense.
"That's not enough time?—"
"Time for what?" Her voice sharpens. "More dramatics? More excuses?" She crosses her arms. "This is happening, Ilyra. Make peace with it. The missing shipment is no longer an issue, and Bram is eager enough to get this over with. You should hope he doesn't change his mind."
I fill the kettle in silence.
But my fingers find the pendant at my throat.
And I think of shadow coalescing in moonlight.
Three days.
Mariselle drifts into the kitchen wearing a new silk dressing gown—another purchase made with funds my father left behind.
"Three days," she echoes, sliding onto the bench with exaggerated leisure. "Barely time to teach you proper obedience."
I measure tea leaves carefully, keeping my movements controlled.
"Though I suppose dark elves prefer breaking in their pets personally." She examines her nails. "Bram certainly seems eager to start training."
The kettle trembles in my grip.
Vaelra sets down her cup with deliberate precision. "Mariselle raises a valid point. You've developed unfortunate habits recently." Her gaze rakes over me. "Speaking out of turn. Questioning authority. Where exactly did this defiance come from?"
I pour hot water over leaves, watching them steep.
"Perhaps she thinks someone will rescue her," Mariselle suggests sweetly. "Some fantasy she's built in that simple head." She leans forward. "But Father's gone. No one's coming to save you now."
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. My father. Mine, not hers.
"The dress will need a few final alterations," Vaelra continues, ignoring the tension coiling through my shoulders. "And you'll practice the ceremonial phrases tonight. In Undercommon, so you don't embarrass us fumbling through vows."
"She'll embarrass us regardless." Mariselle picks at the bread I haven't yet sliced. "Have you seen how she walks? Like a field worker. Bram will have to break her posture first."
"Mariselle."
"What? It's true." She shrugs. "Though I suppose once he relocates her to his estate, it won't reflect on us anymore."
The pendant burns against my throat.
Vaelra rises, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirts. "Three days, Ilyra. Use them wisely. Learn compliance, or learn it the harder way." She pauses in the doorway. "Bram visits this afternoon to finalize arrangements. Wear something presentable. Not that." She gestures dismissively at the wine-red dress.
Mariselle giggles. "Where did you even get that? It's far too fine for?—"