20. Selis
Selis
I exhale through my nose and lean back in the chair, letting it hold my weight for once. The cushion’s too soft. Everything in this place is too soft. All expensive rot and curated shadow, lacquered over blood and debt.
I know it too well.
The door opens again. Someone else steps in.
Tall. Lean. Grey robes this time—field agent attire. Barely anyone wears that unless they’ve been in the dirt. His face is familiar enough to be irritating. Calder.
“Selis,” he says smoothly. “Good to see you didn’t forget where home is.”
I flick my knife between my fingers, slow and deliberate. A little show of steel. A little reminder.
“I never forget where the rot starts,” I say.
He smiles like I complimented him. “Let’s walk.”
I rise without answering. Following is easier than talking right now.
Behind me, I hear the scrape of movement. Naera.
“Wait—where are you—” she starts.
I wave a hand over my shoulder, casual. “Relax, starlight. I’m not trading you in yet.”
Veyra hums, saying to Naera. “Let’s let the big kids talk, hm?”
Naera stiffens, but I don’t look back. Not yet .
Calder waits just outside the doorway. He's not just watching me. He's watching us . Him and Veyra both. Like we’re part of some equation they’ve already solved.
I feel the itch under my skin, the one that doesn’t like walking away from her. Not after what happened. Not after she gave me her wrist like it meant something. But I keep my face cool as I pause in the doorway.
“I’ll be back,” I say. Then, almost as an afterthought, I fish the key to her cuffs from my cloak and toss them to Veyra. “And maybe uncuff her and get her some blood. She’s starving.”
Veyra’s smile is sugar-laced venom. “Of course.”
I don’t wait for Naera’s reaction. I don’t trust myself to look at her right now.
I step into the hall, blade still tucked in my palm, and let the door close behind me.
And every step away feels like I left something vital inside.
***
The corridor’s different now.
The Black Lantern rearranges itself when you’re not watching—reorients its bones based on intent. You walk through one hallway thinking you know the layout, and next time it’s teeth. It’s always been a predator wearing marble skin.
We stop in a room lit by flickering sigils and the faint, acrid tang of dried magic. No windows. No chairs. Just a single desk and the walls too close for comfort.
This isn’t a negotiation.
Calder turns and leans back against the desk, arms crossed .
“We’re prepared to double the bounty,” he says. “If you agree to hand her over to us instead of The Garden.”
I twirl the knife once, catch it by the tip. “That eager to make enemies with cultists who throw blood at moons and call it devotion?”
He shrugs. “They’ve outlived their usefulness.”
“You say that now.”
He steps closer. His eyes are sharp now—cut-glass intensity. He’s not playing.
“Her blood grants sun immunity,” he says. “Not a tolerance. Not a delay. Full immunity. Like the born ones.”
I raise a brow. So the glow isn’t just a pretty show after all.
“You know what that means?” he presses.
“Of course.” Same thing anything special ever means in this world: money.
“It has incredible healing properties as well,” he adds. “Fast. Clean. Adaptive. We’ve tested what little we’ve gotten.”
I flip the blade again. Catch it by the tip again. “So what—your big plan is to lock her up and tap her like a wine barrel? Sell her blood to the vampires who can't walk in the sun?”
He smiles, sharp and easy. “She’ll be well cared for. We don’t let assets tarnish.”
That word.
Assets.
I want to put a knife in the wall just to hear the wood scream.
He watches me carefully. I see it—the shift in his stance, the slow calculation behind his calm.
“Why does it matter to you?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’re not soft. You’re not stupid. And you’ve never cared about the inventory before.”
Inventory .
That’s all she is to them. Glowing girl. Divine scrap. A tool in a box full of blood-slicked instruments.
I flick the knife again. Faster this time.
“I don’t care now,” I say flatly.
But my hand doesn’t stop moving.
The blade spins and spins—through lantern light, through memory, through the sound of her voice whispering my name like a prayer she didn’t mean to say.
“Good,” he says, stepping back. “Because she won’t last long in The Garden. You’re dragging her to her death anyway. We might as well put her to use.”
He lets that hang there between us, all quiet cruelty.
“Think about it.”
Then he walks out, leaving me in a room that feels too much like the inside of my own mind—old, sharp, and tightening by the second.
I watch the door for a long time.
Then I turn the knife point-down in my palm—
And press until it hurts.
***
I’m still in the room when she appears again.
Veyra doesn’t knock. She never does. She just steps through the door like the house parts for her—and it probably does.
“Finished brooding?” she asks lightly.
I don’t answer. I’m too tired for games.
She gestures down the hall.
“Come on. I’ll take you back to your little moon-bloom.”
I fall in step beside her.
Not because I want to, but because I hate not knowing what she’ll say next.
The Lantern rearranges itself as we walk—rugs appearing under our feet like afterthoughts, sconces blinking to life as we pass. Columns twist in the corners of my vision, freshly cracked where they were whole this morning. I don’t ask. I know better. The Lantern listens.
And it keeps score.
Veyra walks like someone who owns everything. Like someone whose leash is made of silk and secrets.
“You’ve got until dawn,” she says, casually. As if she’s offering me wine.
“To what?”
“Make a decision.”
I snort, dry and sharp. “And if I don’t?”
She shrugs, lips tilting. “I have full faith that you will.”
She stops in front of the moon door. Her hand presses to the center. The symbols hiss once—angry, then quiet.
The door creaks open like something exhaling.
Naera’s inside.
Furthermore, they've put her in a dress. Not the thin cotton or worn cloaks she’s used to—this is something else.
Something meant for show. The fabric clings tight at her waist and bust, like they wanted to sculpt her into something palatable.
Pretty. It spills down in soft folds from her hips, all ivory and blush, delicate as breath.
Frills trace the off-shoulder neckline, and the sleeves are puffed and sheer, cinched above her elbows with tiny pearls.
It’s beautiful, uncomfortably so, but also impractical. She looks like a doll someone dressed up for a display .
And she’s sitting stiffly on the edge of a bed that looks more like a trap than a comfort: sheets tucked too tight, pillows fluffed like offerings. The fire in the hearth crackles too evenly, conjured to impress, not warm. The air buzzes faintly with magic. Old and expensive.
She looks up when I step inside. Not startled. Not relieved. Just… watching.
Like she already knows what kind of chat I’ve had. Like she dreamed it. Maybe she has.
I stay by the door. Veyra stays beside me.
“She’s not hurt,” she says, almost sweet.
“I’d know if she was,” I mutter.
That gets her to grin. Real sharp. All teeth.
“Well then,” she purrs. “I suggest you both get some rest.”
She turns to me, one last tilt of her head like a dagger in slow motion.
“You’ve always been good at surviving, Selis. Try not to let sentiment spoil that now," she says, and her eyes flick to Naera.
The word lands hard. Like a slap in velvet. Naera hears them. I see the way her spine goes rigid, the way her jaw sets like stone. Veyra leans in, and her voice turns into a whisper.
“Remember: one night. Then we’ll see if you’re still who you say you are.”
She leaves without waiting for a response.
The door clicks closed behind her.
Soft. Final.
And I’m left standing in a room with a girl who glows like moonlight set on fire… watching me like I’m the blade she already knows will cut her.
I cross the room and lower myself into the chair across from her. Drop my knife on the table between us .
Let it sit there, gleaming dully in the firelight.
Let the silence speak first.
Because I don’t know what I’m going to say yet.
But I know this:
Whatever I choose—
It won’t feel like winning.