ILYRA
Iwake before dawn, body aching in places I didn't know could ache. But it's not pain—it's awareness. The ghost of Azrathiel's hands lingers on my skin like a brand.
I sit up slowly, stretching, and catch my reflection in the cracked mirror across the room. My eyes look different. Brighter. The faint silver sheen catches the early light.
I braid my hair tighter than usual, weaving the strands with precision until not a single lock falls loose. The pendant Azrathiel gave me settles cold against my collarbone. I fasten it carefully, letting it rest visible above my neckline.
When I stand, my shoulders pull back on their own.
Downstairs, the air shifts the moment I enter. Vaelra glances up from her seat at the table, her sharp eyes narrowing as she takes me in. She doesn't speak immediately, just watches, studying my silence like it's a puzzle she can't solve.
Mariselle leans back in her chair, arms crossed. "You're smiling to yourself."
I hadn't realized I was.
I don't stop.
Vaelra sets down her cup with a deliberate clink. "You shouldn't have slept so long. We've been waiting for breakfast for an hour."
My gaze drifts to the kitchen, then lands on the table where they sit. The same table where Azrathiel knelt between my legs and unraveled me completely. Heat flushes through me, but I don't look away.
I meet Vaelra's eyes instead.
"You know, I'm not going to be here much longer." My voice comes out calm, steady. "You should really take this time to learn how to cook for yourselves. Or ask for my help."
Vaelra's mouth opens. Closes. Her face goes pale, then red.
Mariselle straightens abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. "What did you just say to us?"
I tilt my head slightly, considering her. "I'm just trying to look out for you."
Vaelra scoffs, but the sound lacks conviction. Her fingers drum against the table, a nervous tell she doesn't seem to realize she has.
"You're being ridiculous."
I shrug, watching the steam begin to curl from the kettle's spout. "Maybe. But you're the ones who wanted to ship me off to Bram's estate, remember? Once I'm gone, you'll have to manage everything yourselves." I glance over my shoulder, letting my gaze settle on Vaelra. "Especially with how you've been upsetting him lately. Asking for too much. Making demands when you should be grateful."
Her jaw tightens. "I'm just asking for what I'm due after putting up with you all this time."
The laugh that escapes me is short, sharp. I turn fully now, leaning against the counter with the pendant catching the light. "Putting up with me doing the chores, the cleaning, and thecooking, all while securing your future with this marriage, you mean?"
Silence.
I let it stretch, watching Vaelra's composure fracture at the edges.
"Without me," I continue, voice soft but precise, "you'd have nothing to offer Bram at all. No clean house. No well-kept household. Just you and your daughter, neither of whom have lifted a finger since you married my father."
Mariselle surges to her feet, chair screeching across the stone floor. "Who do you think you are all of a sudden?"
I turn back to the kettle, rolling my eyes as I pour the water into the teapot. The motion feels almost meditative—controlled, deliberate. Everything I wasn't allowed to be before.
"You ungrateful?—"
"Mariselle," Vaelra snaps.
Mariselle snaps her mouth shut, but her eyes burn with suspicion.
Vaelra straightens in her chair, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. "Bram has requested a larger ceremony than originally planned." Her tone shifts, adopting that carefully modulated register she uses when discussing strategy. "Public. Well-attended. He wants to ensure our standing within the settlement is solidified."