I pour tea into two cups, watching the amber liquid swirl. "Bram does enjoy spectacle."
The words come out flat. Unbothered.
Vaelra's fingers still against the table. "This is important, Ilyra. For all of us."
"I'm sure it is."
Mariselle leans forward, eyes narrowing to slits. "You're hiding something."
I turn slowly, teapot still in hand, and meet her stare head-on. The silence between us stretches taut as a bowstring. Her jaw works like she's chewing on accusations she doesn't dare voice.
I say nothing.
Her hands curl into fists on the tabletop.
I set the teapot down with deliberate care, then wipe my hands on my apron. "I'm going to the market." I untie the strings and drape the fabric over the back of a chair. "We need bread. Cheese. Maybe some vegetables if the traders came through."
Vaelra blinks. "The market?"
"Yes." I retrieve the woven basket from its hook near the door, checking it for loose threads out of habit. "You should try cooking something while I'm gone. It'll be good practice."
Mariselle's chair scrapes again as she half-rises. "Practice for what?"
I don't answer. Just lift the basket onto my arm and pull the door open, letting morning light spill across the threshold.
"Ilyra—"
The door closes behind me before Vaelra can finish.
The dirt path crunches beneath my boots, familiar and grounding. Cool air kisses my face, carrying the scent of wood smoke and damp earth. I breathe it in deep, letting it fill my lungs completely before releasing it in a slow exhale.
My shoulders drop. Tension I hadn't realized I was holding bleeds away with each step.
The pendant shifts against my skin, a gentle reminder.
The sky stretches wide and clear above me, pale blue edging toward gold where the sun climbs higher. Birds call from the scraggly trees lining the settlement's edge. Somewhere nearby, a door slams. Children's laughter echoes from between houses.
Everything feels different now. Sharper. More mine.
Maybe everything will be alright.
22
AZRATHIEL
Iwatch her from the shadows between market stalls, unable to suppress the low chuckle that rumbles through my chest.
The way she walked out of that house—head high, shoulders back, not a backward glance—stirs something primal in me. That defiance. That quiet, devastating strength she's been sharpening like a blade.
Gods below, I want to lift those skirts and bury my face between her thighs until she forgets her own name again.
She's changing. Filling out from the nightly gifts of food I've been bringing. The hollow beneath her cheekbones has softened. Her movements carry weight now, purpose instead of hesitation. Even the way she carries that woven basket speaks of ownership rather than servitude.
I did that. My contract. My protection. My touch.
Mine.
She stops at a cloth merchant's stall, fingers trailing over folded linen. The vendor—an older human woman with kind eyes—smiles and offers her a discount. Ilyra shakes her head politely, counting coins from a small purse.