Edria
Nyrius visits on the fifth day.
I hear the argument before I see him — his voice, low and controlled, and the prison warden's voice, higher and increasingly uncomfortable.
The argument ends. Boots on stone, then the cell block door, then Nyrius at my bars with a guard hovering six feet behind him looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Nyrius looks at me the way he looked at the forge the first night he caught me working — taking full inventory before he says anything.
"You're thinner," he says.
"The food is terrible." I stand up from the stone shelf, moving to the bars. "Did you bribe him or threaten him?"
"Threatened." He glances back at the guard. "He'll give us ten minutes."
I wrap my hands around the bars between us. My wrists are bruised from the restraint cuffs and I don't try to hide it.
"I should have listened to you," I say. "About the smuggling. About Velis's buyers." I bite my lower lip and look down. "I kept telling myself I had it under control."
"You were trying to feed your family."
"I was arrogant about the risk." It matters to me that he hears it said plainly. "You warned me and I argued back because I didn't want to admit I'd walked myself into something I couldn't walk out of."
He's doesn’t speak at first. His hand comes up and covers mine on the bar, warm and steady.
"Malrec set this up. He moved first because he knew I was close to having enough to move against him.
" His voice is flat and emotionless, but there's something running under it that isn't calm.
"You were the fastest way to slow me down. "
"It worked."
"Temporarily." He turns my hand over in his, thumb running carefully over the bruising on my wrist. "I have Velis's testimony. I have financial records linking Malrec's office to the smuggling directly. Cyran is still pulling threads, but what we have now is enough to challenge the charges."
"Enough for a formal challenge in three days?"
He doesn't answer right away, and it tells me all I need to know.
"You're working on it," I say.
"I'm working on it." He doesn't look away from my face. "Edria. I will get you out of this."
I believe him, which surprises me a little. I've spent most of my adult life not believing people who make promises under pressure. But he says it the same way he says everything that matters to him — stripped of performance, no extra weight added. Just the statement and his eyes.
I look at our hands through the bars for a moment.
There's something I've been turning over, running through how to say it, whether to say it, what it means that I want to say it at all.
I've been telling myself I'll wait until after the trial, until the situation is less complicated, until there's a version of this conversation that doesn't happen in a prison cell.
But I've been in a cell for five days and I've learned that waiting for the right moment is a luxury I don't always get.
"There's something I need to tell you." My voice comes out steadier than I expect. "Before you leave."
He stills.
"I think I'm pregnant."
The cell block is very quiet. Down the row, someone shifts on their shelf. The guard down the corridor clears his throat.
Nyrius doesn't move right away. His hand stays on mine. His face holds an expression I can't fully read — not the controlled mask, not the dry wit, not even the anger I've seen him point at Malrec. Something underneath all of those, stripped down to its base.
Then he exhales once, slowly, and something in his face settles into a decision.
"How long?" he asks quietly.
"I don't know exactly. I only started putting it together a few days ago." I press my lips together. "I know the timing is—"
"Come here." His free hand comes through the bar and cups the side of my face. I lean into it despite the cold iron between us. "Listen to me."
I look into his deep eyes.
"I'm going to get Malrec's charges dismissed.
I'm going to walk you out of this building.
" He holds my face carefully, the way he held it the first time he kissed me.
"And this child will not be called illegitimate.
Not in my territory, not in any court I have standing in.
" His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "They are not a scandal.
They are not leverage. They are mine, and yours, and no one gets to use that against either of you. "
My throat closes.
I have spent my whole life managing every risk, every cost, every possible way something good could go wrong before I let myself have it. I have been braced for him to go quiet, to calculate, to weigh what a half-human child costs him politically before he decides what he feels.
He didn't do any of that.
"You don't have to promise things you can't—"
"I know what I'm promising." He pulls my hand through the bar and presses his mouth to my knuckles, bruises and all. "Let me keep this one."
I close my eyes for a moment. Behind them, something I've been holding at arm's length for weeks finally stops fighting and settles.
"Okay," I say.
He leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead through the bars, lingering for a moment.
"Three days," he says against my hair. "Stay in one piece."
"I'll do my best."
He straightens. His hand falls away from mine, slow. He watches me for one more beat, then turns and speaks quietly to the guard, something about conditions and food quality that has the warden's voice rising defensively from the far end of the block.
I watch him go.
I stand at the bars after the cell block door closes and the sound of his voice fades down the corridor, and I press my palm flat against my stomach.
Three days.
For the first time since they put the irons on my wrists, I actually believe I'm going to see the other side of them.