24. Selis
Selis
The room’s too quiet.
Just me, Veyra, and a table set like we’re nobles instead of monsters.
The chairs are high-backed and deep. The chandelier above us hums faintly, suspended by nothing I can see.
The table’s already laid. Silver trays. Polished forks. A spread of roasted meat, dense dark bread, bitter greens slick with oil. All of it hot. Real. Not conjured from air or illusion.
My stomach tightens at the scent.
I haven’t had a proper meal in weeks, so I dig in. Tear off a hunk of bread. Pile it with salted meat. The first bite burns my tongue, and I welcome it. It keeps me grounded. Focused.
I wonder, just for a second, if they gave Naera enough blood.
The thought makes the meat taste dry.
Veyra watches me eat like she’s studying a painting that moves. She only speaks when I finally lean back, licking grease from my fingers.
“Let’s have a toast, shall we?” she asks.
Then she lifts the bottle—deep green glass, etched with sigils that shimmer faintly when the light hits them right—and begins to pour. Red wine. Dark and smooth. It glugs thick into silver goblets polished so bright I can see my reflection: tired eyes, tight braid, a raised brow.
“A toast,” she says. “To old knives and new doors.”
She slides mine across the table with a finger, like it’s a playing piece.
I don’t pick it up. Not yet.
“You think this’ll make me softer?” I drawl. “Wine and riddles?”
She leans back, graceful as ever. “I don’t want you soft, Selis. I want you paid. Generously.”
She lifts her own glass, takes a sip. Smiles like a cat in a room full of canaries.
“It’s simple,” she continues, setting the glass down. “We’re offering double. You give the girl to us instead of The Garden, and we vanish you for good if you want. New name. New coin. No blood on your hands unless you want it.”
My fingers brush the base of the goblet. I’ve never cared about the jobs before. Not past the weight, the silence, the coin promised at the end.
Still, I ask, “And her?”
I finally lift the cup, considering the wine. Veyra shrugs one elegant shoulder, like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s already decided.
“She’s special. We’d treat her accordingly. We don’t let assets tarnish.”
The same words Calder used. Assets .
I swirl the wine once. It catches the light. Red. Dark. Viscous. It smells like berries and spice and something underneath—something sharp and bitter, like iron.
“Why the sudden generosity?” I ask. “You were fine letting me rot in the margins for months. Now I walk in with a glowing girl and you’re ready to crown me.”
She lifts her glass again, eyes glittering .
“Because you brought back something The Garden was too careless to keep. A sun-proof, moon-kissed, dream-walking miracle. And because,” she tilts her head, voice lowering, “I know I know how much you want more.”
I go still. The kind of still that comes before a kill.
She keeps going, like she can see the fault lines under my ribs and wants to press on every one of them.
“You’ve always played the part,” she murmurs, swirling her wine. “The blade-for-hire, the ghost on the edge of the map. But I know that you won’t be satisfied until you’re swimming in coin.”
She doesn’t look at me when she says it. Just watches the wine tilt in her goblet like she’s divining something in the dark.
“Don’t forget. I found you in that pit outside Velgrave. Thirteen, maybe. Too small for the knife you carried. Too fast for the man who underestimated you.”
Her voice softens, dangerously close to fond.
“I remember the girl who came to me covered in blood, and when I asked if you could do it again…” Her voice turns low, nostalgic. “Do you remember what you said?”
I shrug, feigning disinterest. “Probably something stupid.”
She lifts her eyes then, locking onto mine like a blade sliding into the seam of armor.
“On the contrary, you said, ‘For enough coin, I’d do anything.’ ”
She raises her glass slightly in mock salute.
I say nothing.
She’s not wrong. That’s the worst part.
I lift the cup halfway to my mouth, more out of habit than decision. But just as the rim brushes my lower lip—
A twist.
Low and hard. Not fear. Not magic.
Instinct.
That cold grip that lives in the gut, honed from years of survival. From waking up with steel against your throat and learning what it means to stay alive anyway.
My knuckles tighten around the cup.
Veyra’s eyes are too focused. Too calm.
And then—
BOOM.
The sound cracks through the chamber like a bone breaking. Sharp. Hollow. Too close for comfort.
“Selis!”
Her voice.
Naera.
My hand spasms.
The goblet doesn’t fall. I set it down. Hard . The stem nearly snaps under my grip. Wine splashes across the polished table like blood in a baptismal bowl.
Veyra blinks, more annoyed than alarmed. Her brows twitch together. She mutters something under her breath—“How did she get out…”
I’m already rising.
Chair scraping back. Blade sliding free with a whisper that sounds too much like yes.
And for the first time in years…
I don’t know who I’m about to stab.