Chapter 13 Ilyra
ILYRA
The seamstress arrives with Vaelra at mid-morning, her arms laden with bolts of fabric that whisper against each other like secrets.
She's a thin woman with prematurely gray hair and fingers stained permanently with dye, the kind of tradesperson who makes her living serving those with more coin than she'll ever see.
"Stand here," Vaelra directs, positioning me in the center of the main room where light streams through the single window. "Arms out."
I comply, but when the seamstress approaches with her measuring tape, I shift my weight just as she reaches for my waist. The movement forces her to start again.
"Hold still, dear." Her voice carries the practiced patience of someone accustomed to difficult clients. "This will go much faster if you cooperate."
I nod and remain motionless until she begins measuring my bust line, then I adjust my posture slightly—not enough to be openly defiant, but sufficient to force her to remeasure. Twice.
"Perhaps she could remove her outer dress?" the seamstress suggests to Vaelra, frustration creeping into her tone. "The extra fabric makes accurate measurements challenging."
"Of course." Vaelra's smile sharpens. "Ilyra, help Mistress Cordwin with whatever she requires."
I unlace my worn brown dress with deliberate slowness, each eyelet taking longer than necessary. When the seamstress moves to measure my shoulders, I turn slightly to examine something fascinating on the wall behind her.
"My apologies." I return to position. "I thought I heard something."
Mistress Cordwin's mouth presses into a thin line. She wraps the tape around my waist again, and I inhale deeply just as she's recording the measurement.
"Dark elves prefer compliant brides," she mutters, rewinding her tape with sharp movements. "Obedience is considered the highest virtue in their marriage contracts."
"How fortunate that Ilyra possesses such natural grace," Vaelra replies, though her eyes narrow as I shift again when the seamstress attempts to measure my hip circumference.
The front door opens without ceremony. Bram steps inside as if he owns the threshold, his violet gaze taking in the scene with predatory interest. He wears midnight blue silk today, the fabric so fine it seems impossible.
"Lord Hethryn." Vaelra dips into a curtsy. "We weren't expecting—"
"I thought to observe the preparations." His attention fixes on me standing in my chemise while the seamstress fumbles with her measuring tape. "Please, continue."
The air in the room grows thick with tension.
Mistress Cordwin's hands tremble slightly as she attempts to complete her work under Bram's scrutiny.
I remain perfectly still now, no longer needing to feign cooperation.
His presence accomplishes what my small rebellions could not—it makes everyone uncomfortable.
Bram circles me slowly, his movements fluid as water. Each step deliberate, calculated to remind everyone present exactly who holds power in this room. The seamstress freezes when he passes behind her, tape measure forgotten in her grip.
"Excellent bone structure," he murmurs, as if discussing livestock at market. "Good proportions. Decent features to pass to our children."
He completes his circuit and stops directly in front of me. Without warning, his pale fingers lift my chin, tilting my face toward the light. His touch carries the chill of deep caves, and I catch the scent of expensive oils and something darker beneath—like copper pennies left in rain.
I don't flinch. Don't pull away or lower my eyes in submission. I meet his violet gaze directly, letting him see whatever he wishes to find there. His fingers remain beneath my chin for several heartbeats longer than necessary, testing my composure.
"Remarkable," he says finally, releasing me. "Most humans cannot maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds. Survival instinct, I'm told."
"Perhaps I lack proper survival instincts," I reply evenly.
His smile spreads slowly across his aristocratic features, revealing teeth too sharp for human comfort.
"How refreshing."
The door closes behind Bram with a soft click that sounds unnaturally final. Mistress Cordwin hastily packs her measuring tape and fabric samples, her movements sharp with barely contained nervousness.
"He never should have come in." I pull my dress back over my head, fingers working the laces with controlled precision. "And you never should have let him see me without my outer dress."
Vaelra's composure cracks like thin ice. "It doesn't matter what he sees now. You'll belong to him soon enough."
The words linger in the air between us, brutal in their simplicity. Mistress Cordwin pauses in her packing, clearly uncomfortable witnessing this family discord.
"The fitting is done." I smooth my skirts and walk toward the stairs without another glance at either woman.
Behind me, Vaelra's voice rises. "Ilyra, we're not finished discussing—"
I climb the steps two at a time, leaving her words to echo in the empty space below.
Darkness settles over the settlement like a familiar blanket, and with it comes the familiar chill that announces Azrathiel's presence. He materializes from the shadows beside my window, his gold-flecked eyes reflecting the moonlight streaming through the glass.
"You summoned me?"
"Not exactly." I turn from where I've been sitting on my narrow bed. "But I need to tell you something."
His attention sharpens, and I find myself studying the way starlight catches on his obsidian skin. The ember-veins beneath the surface pulse faintly, like a heartbeat made visible.
"Bram came during the dress fitting today. Watched me while I was... barely dressed." The words taste bitter. "Touched my face. Spoke about me like I was livestock he'd already purchased."
Something shifts in Azrathiel's expression. The gold flecks in his eyes dim until they're almost black, and the celestial chain markings across his shoulders begin to glow with a heat I can feel from across the room.
"He touched you."
It's not a question. The temperature around him drops several degrees, and frost begins forming on the window glass behind him.
"Yes." I wrap my arms around myself, though I'm not sure if it's from the cold or from the memory of Bram's fingers beneath my chin. "He was... evaluating his investment."
Azrathiel says nothing for a long moment. The silence is fat, filled with the sound of ice crystallizing on glass and the distant crackle of power barely held in check.
"This displeases me." His voice carries the weight of judicial pronouncement.
"I didn't summon you to retaliate," I say carefully. "I just... needed someone to know what happened. Without my father, I have no one. And I know you're only here out of obligation, but… I suppose that's better than nothing."
He nods once, a sharp movement that somehow conveys both understanding and dismissal. Then he's gone, leaving only the scent of smoke and the slowly melting frost on my window.
Word reaches us by midday. Bram's personal guard—a massive dark elf who's served his house for decades—collapsed during morning patrol. High fever, violent tremors, speaking in tongues that make no linguistic sense.
The settlement's healer can find no cause. No injury, no poison, no disease she recognizes. Just a healthy warrior reduced to babbling incoherence overnight.
I watch Vaelra pace our main room, wringing her hands as she processes this development. Bram's protection depends on his strength, and his strength flows through the loyalty of his guards.
But I know better. I know exactly what happened, and more importantly, I know I never ordered it.
Azrathiel acted without my command. The contract binds him to my will, yet he chose vengeance on my behalf without instruction.
The realization settles in my chest like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples through everything I thought I understood about our arrangement.