Chapter 40 Tamsin
Tamsin
Marienne’s breath catches beside me.
She straightens slowly, rising from her knees like she’s always belonged in the middle of the storm. Imara lies still behind her, a fallen bloom.
I rise too, hand on my sword. I sheathed my blade on the way down, and I regret it now.
Lord Viremont steps into the chamber like it’s his parlor. The torchlight finds him—finds the gleam on his sword, the inlaid gold in his collar, the too-clean boots. No dust clings to him. No blood.
He gazes at Marienne with something close to fondness.
“You look tired,” he says gently. “The children must have been quite a burden.”
Marienne doesn’t blink. “What are you doing, Lord Viremont?”
“Rescuing her,” he replies simply.
My hand twitches against my hilt. His gaze flicks to it, then back to Marienne.
“She was given to me,” he continues. “By Lord Halveric himself. I did not take Imara. She was surrendered.”
Marienne stiffens.
“No wonder you’ve been so quick to support him. This was planned,” Marienne’s voice wavers, but her posture never does. “Lord Halveric handing a child to you, like a parcel.”
“She is not a child,” Viremont says softly. “She’s a direct line to Selene.”
I take a step forward. His eyes dart to me again.
“Explain,” I say.
He hums. “You’re the one with the scar,” he murmurs. “From the valley peace talks, yes? The loyal knight who watched a diplomat die. I remember you.”
I grit my teeth. “Explain.”
Viremont sighs, as if we’re being unreasonable.
“All of the Garden’s daughters possess a gift. When nurtured properly, it blooms into something quite rare. I only wish to help her, to train her, as we once did. Before things fell out of fashion.”
He says it like he’s discussing a horse’s lineage.
“She’s a child,” Marienne says. “She is not some relic for you to hoard or use as you see fit.”
“You weren’t meant to see her like this,” he replies. “But I’m glad you came. Now we can have a conversation without the Court breathing down our necks.”
Marienne starts forward, and I throw out an arm to stop her. I move in front of her, slowly, deliberately. My body between hers and his.
“You gave her a sleeping draught,” I accuse.
“She was… agitated,” Viremont says mildly. “It’s better this way.”
“You’re going to let her go,” I say.
He chuckles. “You can’t possibly think you’ll make it out of here with her. Do you know how many guards surround this estate?”
“Then why the welcome speech?” I ask. “You clearly weren’t surprised to find us here.”
“I wanted to give the baroness a chance to see reason,” he says, as if I’m not standing here, blocking the way.
“I know she’s not suited for the work, but she could have been useful.
An ally. She has her aunt’s talent for dramatics, if not her cunning.
With her cooperation, I could’ve secured custody of the others.
The girls need someone who understands their origins. Their purpose.”
He glances over my shoulder to pin Marienne under his sharp gaze next. “You came here dressed for war, Baroness. But your hands are still clean. I respect that. And I don’t blame you for not knowing what to do next.”
I hear Marienne exhale behind me.
But I don’t move.
I let my voice go quiet. Flat. Like steel cooling in a forge.
“Turn around,” I tell him. “And walk out. This is your only chance.”
“You’re threatening a court-sanctioned noble in his own home?” he asks, smiling. “How… charmingly reckless.”
“I’m not threatening,” I say. “I’m warning.”
A silence settles. For one long breath, no one moves.
Then he does.
Fast.
Viremont is faster than I expect. He lunges—not toward me, but toward Marienne.
I meet him mid-step, steel flashing between us.
He’s not armed in the traditional sense, but he’s a vampire of old blood. Strength ripples through his limbs. He grabs my sword arm. Tries to twist. But I’ve been training for decades. I pivot, throw my weight, and drive a knee toward his side.
He grunts. His fingers tighten.
Marienne scrambles backward, dragging Imara out of reach.
My sword clatters to the floor. His hand goes for my throat.
I duck under it, slam my fist into his gut, then elbow his jaw.
He hisses—a low feral sound.
Good.
I kick him into the wall with a thud that shakes dust from the ceiling.
He laughs, and wipes his mouth.
“Impressive,” he says. “But you’re out of your depth.”
I retrieve my sword, and point it at his chest.
“Try me.”
I expect him to laugh. Or sneer. Or call me foolish.
But before he can speak—
“Please,” Marienne cuts in. “There’s no need for this.”
Viremont glances her way.
“I ask you, Lord Viremont… in the name of Selene, let us end this without more harm,” she says with more control than I ever could.
Instead, Viremont exhales—slow, almost sorrowful—and looks to Marienne like I’m not even here.
“These children are not your blood, Baroness,” he says, like he’s trying to be reasonable. “They were never meant for the life you’re trying to give them.”
His eyes flicker to Imara. “They were made for more.”
I step forward, blade catching the light. “You’ll never have them.”
Viremont’s smile is slow and indulgent as his gaze turns to me.
“You don’t understand. You couldn’t. Do you know what happens when something sacred is left in unworthy hands?
It withers. It dies. We gave them purpose.
We gave them structure. And you let them bite nobles and hiss at ministers.
You let the younger one claw her way toward chaos at the ball.
” He tilts his head. “Weren’t you meant to prevent that?
Just as you were meant to protect that diplomat? ”
The air stills.
A muscle ticks in my jaw. “You don’t get to use my past to justify this.”
“Oh?” His voice softens, coaxing. “How many died under your watch, Ser Tamsin? Do you even remember their names? Or have you buried them under enough duty and denial to keep breathing?”
I almost flinch.
Almost.
“I remember every one,” I grit out. “I don’t care what I was. I care who I am with them.”
Behind me, I feel Marienne step closer. Her fingers graze my back, grounding me. I breathe.
“And I will not let Imara join them.”
Viremont’s eyes sharpen.
He moves without warning, drawing a sword, and I lunge forward.
Our swords clash with a jolt that shoots up my arms. He’s faster than he looks—elegant, practiced, brutal. My breath is already ragged, but I don’t let up. I can’t.
Because behind me, Imara is not ready to run yet. And I won’t leave them unshielded.
He slices toward my ribs—I block, just barely. He kicks—connects. Pain blooms down my side.
I stumble, then right myself.
I swing. He dodges.
He’s talking the whole time, low and calm like a sermon. “They were born for this. Born to ascend. To serve. You think you’re saving them, but you’re just delaying what’s written in their blood.”
“You’re wrong,” I snarl. “You’re not talking about fate. You’re talking about control.”
He shifts, fast.
And as he lunges for Imara again, I don’t think. I throw myself in the way.
Our swords meet. The blow lands hard—wrong angle, too fast. I go off balance. His sword slices across my arm.
The wall catches me like a fist.
Crack.
Pain lights through my spine like a split flame. My knees give. I hit the floor—hard. The sword clatters from my grip, useless now. Out of reach.
He’s already moving to finish it.
He raises his sword again.
And then—
“Tamsin!”
Marienne’s voice. Sharp. Afraid.
A heartbeat later, she’s there between us.
She’s fast too.
She grips her sword in both hands—arms trembling, shoulders squared. The blade lifts, too heavy, too awkward, and still—she holds it level.
Metal screams.
Viremont’s sword comes down like judgment, but she doesn’t flinch. Their blades lock, grinding between them.
Her stance is clumsy, rushed, but I recognize it.
The weight shift. The set of her feet.
One of mine. From Bloomhill. From those lesson trades I’d pretended not to enjoy.
She remembered.
Her face is pale fury, and beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful just before it breaks.
“Stop this!” she snarls, fangs exposed.
Steel scrapes. Then breaks apart.
Viremont steps back, surprise flickering behind his eyes. Just a flicker, but I see it. She doesn’t lower her sword. She doesn’t move at all.
Marienne’s voice is fury incarnate. “You were going to kill her.”
He searches her face, looking for something he can twist.
“And what will you do now, Baroness?” he says softly. “Try to strike me down?”
Her hands tighten around the hilt. She doesn’t move.
I press my palm to the floor. Try to push myself up. My breath hurts.
Marienne’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“No,” she says. “Not for you.”
She lowers the blade, tilting her head, as if listening to something.
“I won’t kill a man already rotting.”
Viremont stills.
“You’ll answer to the Court. To the children. And to the goddess, if she still listens to men like you at all.”
He takes a step forward—
And the cellar door bursts open.
Cloaks. Boots. The silver gleam of authority stamped on lapels. The glint of the Eldermire Court’s seal catches the light like a drawn blade as people descend the stairs.
The Eldermire Court has arrived…
Viremont goes very, very still.
In the echoing silence, one voice rings out. Lady Elsin, sharp-eyed and steel-voiced:
“Lord Viremont. Step away from the child.”
He turns slowly. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“We received a message,” Lady Elsin says. “Marienne Solmere’s housekeeper contacted the Court. Said her lady had vanished under suspicious circumstances. We followed.”
Oh, thank the gods for Margot.
Elsin’s gaze sweeps the room. It lands first on Imara, limp and pale where she lays curled on the floor. Then on me—bloodied, braced against the wall, still breathing. And finally on Marienne.
Shining with fury. Shaking with adrenaline. Still holding the sword.
Her mouth tightens. “So it’s true.”