Chapter Forty #3
“I did not think it was a good idea, no—for I did not think of anything beyond getting paid for an assignment,” Lara responds smoothly. “All assignments are the same to me, no matter who orders it. No matter who loses.”
Daphinia and Caev sit just a fraction behind the High Witch, like sentinels protecting something sacred. But they do not flinch. Do not react at all. Completely unashamed of their stance on this.
“And The Perils are beyond the Known Realms. We are beyond the reaches of your petty wars and politics,” Lara drawls.
Elyssara scoffs. “Right. So far beyond them that you are untouchable but not far enough that you won’t profit off our pain?” Her words are all savagery and sarcasm. “Distance makes cruelty easy to mistake for philosophy.”
Lara shrugs an indifferent shoulder.
Seren throws her arms in the air, and barks a humorless laugh. “You know, Lara, at some point, you’ll have to choose a side. Because right now, you are the High Witch of what? Isolated witches, some sharp rocks, and an ocean with a fucked up attitude?”
She pushes to stand, dusting off her leathers with more force than she needs.
She lifts a vicious finger, stabbing it in Lara’s direction.
“You made me choose Lara—the past or the future. You made me become more than I thought I was. You told me to belong to myself. And you? It looks like you belong to the highest bidder. I wonder what The Widow would think of you now.” The words come out in a spit of venom, but Seren doesn’t back down—she holds Lara’s gaze, sucking in labored breaths through her teeth.
Seren’s voice breaks. “Paid. Sheltered. Untouched by consequence while the rest of us bleed for the world you helped shape.”
Lara blinks.
Once.
Twice.
She does not move, but her demeanor shifts. Not anger. Not hurt. Gods, no. More like… precision. As if Seren has finally spoken to the part of her that coin could never quite silence.
But Seren isn’t done. “You told me it was men who forgot our power… but you know what I think, Lara? I think it is you who has forgotten her own.”
She spins on her heel, boots pounding from the small cavernous room in an angry beat, and the tension thickens in the air.
Elyssara and Lara sit in silence for a long while.
Sipping brask, exchanging too-long glances, waiting the other out. A temporary truce.
So Elyssara breaks it.
“So what are you going to do, High Witch? Disappear like you always do, or turn and face the world you helped destroy?” Elyssara challenges, leaning back and taking a long pull of her brask.
Lara grunts her acknowledgement.
“What would you have me do, Lightborne? If you were in charge?” Lara presses.
And the insinuation is clear—you are not in charge.
“First, I would have your loyalty, or nothing at all.”
Lara smirks.
Elyssara leans in.
“Then, I would have you free the Melders.”
Lara looks away.
“Arrogant bastards,” she mutters under her breath, and it’s the most lively Elyssara has seen her.
“Oooh, the dragons rattle your cage a bit do they, High Witch?” Elyssara taunts. She needs an edge with this woman who gives away nothing, so she pokes and prods any place she can.
Lara slips her unreadable mask back into place.
“They are insufferable. I would’ve bound them for no coin at all just so I could shut them up,” she hisses.
Elyssara scoffs a laugh. “I’d wager you didn’t, though.”
Lara smirks again.
“Then, I’d have you fight by my side to destroy Nyrielle and Maireth, and everything they’ve fucking built.”
Lara raises an eyebrow.
“Is that all?” Lara says drily, the first sign of humor from the witch.
Elyssara’s lip quirks. “For now.”
A pause.
Lara weighs her up.
Assesses her with a keen eye.
“They were not exaggerating about you,” Lara observes. “A taste for war. A mind for politics. The beauty of a woman they will always underestimate.”
Lara’s words hit far too precisely to be anything other than personal. They’re not compliments—they’re calculations.
“Don’t forget I have a penchant for vengeance, too.”
Lara nods, a subtle smile gracing her lips. Not approval. Equality. The kind neither woman offers lightly.
She pushes to stand, her tall, lithe body squaring like a trained warrior.
“I believe Seren is coordinating a conclave for those against the north. I will listen. I will observe. And I will make a choice, Lightborne. But know this: I do not offer allegiance without compensation,” Lara states coolly, all pragmatism.
Elyssara pushes to stand, her eyes level with Lara’s.
“I would expect nothing less.”
Lara, Daphinia, and Caev brush past her, heading back into the main cavern.
And in the silence of their wake, dread pools in her belly. If she cannot find a way to win over the witches at Seren’s conclave, there’s no way they can face Nymeris and Caeloria and win.
Not if the witches remain for sale.
Not if Lara walks into that room still believing neutrality is strength.
But there’s another truth that turns her blood to ice: Nyrielle is alive. She’s the Queen of Nymeris. And she knows everything.
Every weakness.
Every fracture.
Every fear.
Everything.