Tea and War Plans
Daphne
Camille poured more steaming jasmine tea into the delicate cups, the floral scent curling through the air. I wrapped my hands around the porcelain, letting its warmth seep into my fingers.
She was opening drawer after drawer. “There must be some biscuits somewhere.” She paused mid-rummage, head tilted like a hound catching a distant scent.
Without a word, she ran her fingers through her dark hair, adjusted her corset to scandalous perfection, and turned toward the door just as it burst open.
A massive man strode in. He wore a finely tailored suit, but no amount of skilled stitching could tame the wild energy that clung to him. The scent of pine needles and damp earth followed in his wake.
The stern line of his mouth cracked into a wide grin as soon as he saw Camille. In two long strides, he crossed the room, swept her off the ground, and spun her in a joyful arc, her delighted laughter echoing against the stone walls.
“I was gone for an hour,” she murmured into his shoulder as he set her down, “and you look like you’ve been lost in the desert for a year.”
“You were gone for an hour too long,” he growled, his forehead resting against hers. “Don’t make a habit of it.”
Her fingers brushed his jaw. “Still the poet.”
“Still the heart thief,” he said.
She gave him a sultry little smile. “You’re not even pretending to play it cool anymore.”
“I haven’t since you left my sight.”
She laughed. “You’re lucky I like my men big, brooding, and hopelessly obsessed.”
A soft thump beside me made me jump.
“Daphne.”
I turned sharply—too sharply—and nearly gave myself whiplash.
Emrys stood a few steps away. Blood streaked across his collar and smeared like war paint down his neck. His hands clenched, trembling slightly as if he didn’t trust himself to reach for me. His eyes burned like storm light, flicking over me as if confirming I was real.
Alive.
“Emrys,” I breathed, the name catching in my throat. My feet moved before I could think.
His jaw twitched, his chest rising rapidly—but still, he didn’t move. He just stood there, staring, like if he touched me, I might vanish.
So I closed the space between us. I grabbed him by the collar, felt the tremor in his body, and pulled him into a kiss—hard and clumsy and desperate. Not the kind of kiss meant to seduce, but the kind meant to say I’m here, I’m here, you’re not alone.
His arms wrapped around me so tightly I almost couldn’t breathe. I didn’t care. I buried my face against his chest, where I could hear the frantic beat of his heart. He smelled like battle and blood and something deep and ancient.
He didn’t speak, just held me as if letting go might kill him.
“I thought—” I whispered against his shoulder. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
His hands cradled my face, his thumbs trembling as they brushed the corners of my eyes. “I would have burned the world to find you.”
That was when I realized he wasn’t just shaking from battle. He was shaking from fear. From almost losing me.
We stood like that for a while. No words. Simply breathing the same air.
A polite cough cracked the moment.
Camille was watching us with a feline smile, amusement glinting in her eyes. “You look like a ghost that’s been chewed on, Emrys.”
He turned with a half-smile, his arm still firmly around my shoulders. “Nice to see you too, Camille. I’d offer a hug, but I’m a bit... punctured.”
“Only a bit?” she said, taking a sip of tea. “You’re improving.”
Orren moved toward us and peered at the wound on Emrys’s neck. It was worse than I thought—raw, deep, still weeping something dark. My stomach twisted.
Emrys winked at me. “It was far worse an hour ago. It’s healing already.”
“Let me take care of that, old friend,” Orren said. He pressed two thick fingers to the wound, green sparks immediately dancing beneath his touch.
I winced. “Emrys!”
He gave me a reassuring look. “Don’t worry, Miss Daphne. You’re witnessing a druid’s magic. Not the leaf-rustling kind. The real thing.”
As we watched, the gash began to close, sinew knitting and skin smoothing over until not even a scar remained. My heart was still racing.
“Impressive,” I murmured.
“Of course it is,” Orren said with a grin. “I know what I’m doing.”
He turned, all height and earth-warmth and faintly glowing tattoos beneath his cuffs.
“And you,” he said, “you’re the girl who kissed our favorite corpse to bring him back from the Dusk Roads and blew up a ley line. Daphne? I’m impressed.”
I blinked. “That’s... not an entirely inaccurate summary.”
He offered a hand the size of a dinner plate. “Orren. Druid, plant-wrangler, ex-hermit. And Camille’s much better half, though she’ll deny it.”
“I will,” Camille chimed in cheerfully. “But only because it annoys you.”
“She’s very committed to keeping me humble.”
Emrys was massaging his neck with a grin. “Well, someone has to.”
“I like her,” Orren added, nodding at me. “She looks like she bites.”
I opened my mouth, unsure whether to thank him or deny it—when a familiar voice cut through the air like a squeaky violin string.
“No, no, no!”
We all turned as a tiny, winged figure flopped dramatically onto the back of a chair.
“I’ve been flying the Dusk Roads for hours, dodging death and pigeons, and this is what greets me? Dry ginger biscuits?” Nibble scowled, his wings puffed out, and his fur windswept.
“Nibble,” Orren growled. “You traitorous rodent. You’ve got nerve showing your whiskers after abandoning me.”
“Orren, you locked up your cheese,” Nibble shot back, already nibbling on a biscuit. “That’s not abandonment. That’s self-preservation.”
He licked crumbs from his tiny claws. “These taste like regret and mildew. Are these from the last century?”
“They’re vintage,” Camille scoffed. “Like good wine. Or Emrys’s humor.”
“I heard that,” Emrys said.
“Good,” Camille replied. “Now sit. We’ve got tea, questionable biscuits, and a Surge to keep safe. I’ve already sent a word to Maerya.”
I sipped my tea to wash down the biscuit. It was, undeniably, terrible. Emrys leaned back, crossing his arms over the back of his neck. “Maerya el-Khaottun? Good to hear that the old witch is still around.”
“Who is she?” I asked.
“A Keeper of the Tombs and everything that lingers there. She comes from a long line, appointed by the first pharaoh. Nobody knows more about the pyramids,” Camille explained, chewing on a biscuit thoughtfully.
“She has to! She was practically raised in those catacombs!” Orren added, collecting crumbs and throwing them to Nibble.
The bat scowled at them but relented and picked them one by one.
“The ghosts of builders, guards, and forgotten scribes still linger there. She gives them offerings, and they speak to her. Together, they watch over the buried treasures of the pharaohs. And help us, occasionally.”
Maerya sounded thrilling. Dangerous but fascinating. “Is she… like you?”
Emrys chuckled. “No, Miss Daphne. She doesn’t share our burden. Yet she’s one of those which Death had forgotten about.”
“Did you hear that she was betrothed to some old god once?” Orren said.
“She refused it,” Camille said, pride sparking in her voice. “The shrine opened, and instead of kneeling, she sealed it. Stone and salt and sacred oil. Walked out into the desert with nothing but a bone dagger and her grandmother’s ring.”
I stared. “And that god didn’t punish her?”
“No.” Orren’s voice was quiet now. “He whispered to her instead. Truths older than the desert. Older than death.”
The silence that followed was heavy and reverent. Even Nibble stirred slightly, one eye cracking open as if to make sure no one said anything too dramatic without his approval.
The shadows near the doorway thickened, cooled, and shifted.
“She’s here,” Camille said and smiled into her cup.
The door opened, and the most unusual woman I’d ever seen stood before us. “I heard all of this. I’m not that old at all!” she said.
She had rich bronze skin, weathered by sun and sand, bone jewelry clinked on her wrists.
Her long braids nearly brushed the floor, threaded with copper wire, dried herbs, and beads shaped like scarabs, ankhs, and crescent moons.
She pulled a chair to join us. Then she hissed like a cat, her tattooed finger pointing at Nibble.
“You brought that rat?” she said flatly and straightened the skirts of her layered tunic colored in bright ochre and indigo.
“Excuse you,” Nibble huffed from his perch on the bookshelf, grooming a wing with excessive precision. “I’m a highly valued member of this operation.”
She rolled her kohl-lined eyes. “You’re a flying pest.” I blinked. The one favored by the old gods seemed surprisingly down-to-earth.
“And you’re a sack of sunbaked bones with a superiority complex,” Nibble declared.
Maerya arched a brow. “Still stealing figs from my offerings, I see?”
“I was redistributing them, thank you very much. Besides, who leaves perfectly ripe fruit in front of a statue and expects it to go untouched?”
Emrys coughed into his hand, clearly trying not to laugh.
Camille, utterly unfazed, poured the tea. “Maerya, Nibble. Play nice. We need both of you intact for what’s coming.”
“I won’t bite,” Nibble said, fluttering down and landing—deliberately—too close to Maerya.
She didn’t flinch. “Do, and I’ll hex your wings into celery stalks.”
They stared at each other, the air cracking with tension.
And then Maerya smirked.
“Fine,” she said. “Don’t steal my offerings again.”
“Only the useful ones,” Nibble replied and tucked himself into a nearby shelf.
Camille handed Orren a cup of tea and winked at him. “Told you they’d get along.”
The kettle was empty and cold when Emrys finished telling our story. Silence covered the room, disturbed only by the crackling of the fire and Nibble’s soft snoring.
All eyes rested on me. Camille was tapping her lip with a finger, and Maerya was twisting one of her many rings.
“So Daphne somehow captured Clio, kept her for years, then used her to break the wards keeping Emrys in?” Orren asked, rubbing his beard.
Emrys shrugged. “That’s it in a nutshell. Clio is after her now. She seems to be obsessed with her.”
“She got Arthur,” I said. Emrys covered my hand with his and squeezed. I closed my eyes for a moment, grateful for his touch. “I’ll grieve later. Let’s finish what we started in Paris.”
Maerya slurped her lukewarm tea and hooked a braid behind her ear, revealing a crescent moon tattoo.
“So you want us to protect you and Daphne while you tap into the ley line and get your power back? While the Renegade throws all his forces at us?” she asked, her tone even.
It was really hard to read that woman. Was she sarcastic?
Emrys crossed his arms. “That’s the plan, yes. He’ll do anything to get to me in my” — he coughed as if to hide his embarrassment — “weakened state. I’ll reclaim the ley line’s power. Cut the Renegade off to restore balance. No more Hollowborn. No more Twisted Ones. Just quiet again.”
“That’s where you come in, Maerya,” Camille said, her voice firm.
Her joking, flirtatious demeanor was suddenly gone, as if the bright paint of the opera singer had peeled, and something sharp, calloused by centuries of life, peeked from beneath.
“You know those chambers and traps better than anyone. Help us slow them down until Emrys and Daphne complete the ritual.”
The desert woman grinned morbidly. “You know how I hate intruders in the sacred halls. I’ll take you to your Surge and prepare a nice, juicy surprise for that filth.”
“Glad you agreed to help us,” Emrys said.
“If we fail, these sands won’t just whisper anymore,” Maerya murmured, playing with a snake bracelet high on her arm. “They’ll scream. I know your Renegade and what he’s capable of.”
Silence settled in the room, everyone lost in their thoughts. I glanced around—so many kinds of power gathered in one place.
Camille, with her velvet voice and devil-may-care smirk; Orren, whose bones carried the strength of ancient forests; Maerya, who’d refused a god’s hand and lived to tell the tale.
And Emrys—wounded, raw, barely holding himself together—still felt like the center of gravity.
And me? A girl who’d fallen into a story far older than herself.
Who once thought survival was enough. But now they looked at me like I was more than just a survivor.
Like I mattered. Power wasn’t what you were born with.
It was what you refused. What you endured. What you chose.
Emrys shuffled in his chair. “The Surge is in two days. We have some time to prepare and go over the details. Stay alert. The Renegade spies had probably picked up our trail. Miss Daphne. Why don’t you change into something more… adequate for this city and join me?”
“Join you where?”
“Exploring the city of the pharaohs, of course.”
My stomach fluttered with excitement. To see the lands Grandfather told me magical stories about?
“Readier than ever,” I said.