25. Naera
Naera
The door isn’t locked.
It gives under my weight too easily, and I stumble into the chamber, half off-balance, hair in my face, breath catching.
“Selis!”
She’s already on her feet. Blade drawn. Red wine spatters the table between her and Veyra, blooming across linen like blood from a slit throat.
Veyra turns slowly, seated, a serene smile glued to her face. But her eyes—they narrow the moment she sees me.
Selis doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything.
So I do.
“The wine—don’t drink it.” My voice breaks, high and raw. “It’s poisoned.”
I cross the room in a rush, dress tangling around my legs, feet bare and stinging against the cold stone. The air here is different. Too warm, too still. Like velvet soaked in ash.
Veyra laughs, soft and cutting. “Poisoned? My dear, how dramatic.” She lifts her goblet with exaggerated grace and takes a long sip. “See? Perfectly safe. You’re quite rude, you know. Interrupting a business meeting uninvited.”
I ignore her. My eyes are only on Selis. She hasn’t sheathed her knife. But she hasn’t said anything either .
“Selis,” I whisper, heart pounding. “Please. Tell me you didn’t drink it.”
Her eyes flick to mine—and in that moment, she looks like she’s still deciding. Still unsure. I step closer, but she holds up one hand. Stops me.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she turns her gaze back to Veyra.
“Drink mine, then.”
Veyra’s smile falters. Just for a breath.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Selis rounds the table, blade catching the light in slashes. Her voice is a smooth purr of sound, though there’s something icy beneath it. “If it’s safe, humor me and drink from my cup.”
“Selis.” Veyra laughs. “You’re being paranoid.”
“No.” Selis smiles without humor. “I’m being me.”
And I feel it again—that pull in my chest, like a thread yanked tight. Because whatever happens next—
It’s already begun.
Veyra’s fingers twitch as she sets her own goblet down, the clink of silver on wood far too gentle for the violence humming in the air.
“We don’t have to do this—”
Selis moves. Fast. A flash of steel, a hiss of air—
And then Veyra is gasping, one hand slapping the table as Selis buries her blade into her thigh, splitting the flesh clean through muscle. Not enough to kill. But it’s messy. Personal.
I flinch, and take a step back. The smell of blood hits me like heat, sharp and metallic, and for a moment the whole room seems to pause around it .
Crimson wells up, trailing down the dark fabric of Veyra’s trousers. She inhales through her teeth, lips still curled in that maddening smile, even as the blood runs warm and real.
“Godsdamn it, Selis.” Her voice comes strained now, wrapped in pain. “It’s not poison .”
“Then what is it?” Selis hums sweetly, voice light as silk. “Tell me, or I’ll twist the blade.”
Veyra exhales hard through her nose. Aggrieved. Like someone annoyed at a dinner guest for breaking a plate, not stabbing her.
“A paralytic,” she mutters, like it’s an inconvenience to even admit it. “Fine. There. You win. It wouldn’t have killed you. Just kept you still for the handoff.”
“You wouldn’t have been hurt,” she tacks on, voice thinned of all meaning. Like a line she’s recited before. Too many times.
Selis smiles. It’s slow. Sharp. A wolf baring its teeth.
“No,” she purrs, and even her rage sounds like flirtation, “just compliant.”
Veyra’s expression twitches. Her smile falters, just barely. Her eyes narrow, flickering with something colder now. Calculating.
“You don’t want to burn this bridge, Selis.”
“Then you shouldn’t have struck the match,” she says.
And Selene, help us… Selis already has one foot in the fire.
The air crackles with energy, like the second before a storm splits the sky. My pulse thuds in my throat. This isn’t posturing anymore. This is real. Blood-on-the-floor real. And I’m afraid of what happens next, not just to Selis, but to both of us, if we step too far past this line.
“Naera,” she calls—low, steady—without taking her eyes off Veyra.
I don’t hesitate .
My feet move before thought catches up, dress whispering around my ankles as I cross the distance. The air between us hums with tension, thick with the scent of blood and smoke and something older beneath it.
She reaches back, arm sweeping behind her, and her hand finds my wrist like it always knew where I’d be. Her grip is sure. Possessive. A claim, not a question.
My breath catches as she pulls me behind her, like I’m something worth shielding.