I don’t respond.
Instead, I take the unfinished scroll from the table and shove it into my pocket.
I’ll burn it later.
Or throw it into the lava pit beneath the city.
Chapter 10
VANN
Hours of moving, lifting, and manual work have made my body tired, but my mind is more alive than ever.
When I’d broken into the kitchens, I found one of the human men cleaning up—Luiz—who handed me a bottle of mead. It felt wrong to drink in front of a man still working, so I left, mead in hand, wandering home.
The lights in Arlet’s dwelling are off.
Good. She needs rest after what she’s been through. She better have gone to see Ulla.
Pushing open the door to my own house, I look around, seeing it as if for the first time. The inside of my house is simple, functional. A circular space with smooth stone walls, reinforced with the golden-toned enduar metal that lines much of the council district. No unnecessary decorations, no flourishes—just what I need.
I recognize the easels lining one wall, and the row of paints and brushes stored in baskets. But then I look at the large, sturdy wooden desk, which takes up one side of the room, a place for maps, reports, and the occasional untouched letter from Teo. Above it, shelves hold weapons and tools, a mix of old and new—blades honed from ancient obsidian, a hunting spear, a few small mechanical trinketsfrom the city's metal benders that I have yet to throw away. Above all of them rests my cleaver.
I’ve killed so many with that blade. It’s almost an extension of my person. My identity.
Across from the display, a stone hearth keeps the space warm, a low fire still smoldering from the morning. A single chair sits beside it, worn from use, angled just enough to watch the flames. A habit, more than anything.
My sleeping area is upstairs. It’s the most pleasant area to look at, draped with furs and woven blankets. The scent of the mountain lingers here, sharp and mineral-rich, mixed with the faint trace of the oils I use to clean my weapons.
Who the fuck was all this for?
I didn’t need so much space. I was happy in my old house.
My tail jerks to the side, slapping against the wall. I uncork the bottle, throwing my head back as I take a deep drink. The sweet, honeyed liquid burns, trailing fire down my throat, but I welcome it.
A little pain to remind myself that I am alive.
To live without a heart is to have every emotion cut in half—distant, muted, like sound underwater. Still there, but dulled.
I drop into one of the gold-trimmed chairs by the table I never requested, slamming the bottle down before pulling the scroll from my belt and letting it fall beside it.
Then I take another drink.
I stare at the damned parchment before finally, ripping the twine free and unrolling it.
The usual nonsense is there. Name. Pastimes. Preferred scents. Favorite meals.
Then I see the last line.
“Sexual preferences.”
Fuck.
I choke, nearly laughing at its absurdity. But my mind is already there, it has been since I picked up that stupid scroll in Arlet’s room.
“You know Arlet will be there,”Teo had said.
Arlet, with her unwavering dedication, friendliness andgoodness. Arlet with her perfect, pink lips, wild red hair, and intriguing desires.