The words shattered the fragile sanctuary Veyna had built around her secret. The small cot, the hushed medical wing, the fading scent of antiseptic—all spun into a dizzying vortex of exposure. Every muscle in her body tensed, ready to bolt, to deny, to dissolve into the floor. She could feel Jorja’s frantic gaze on her back, a silent scream of shared panic. Keston, however, showed no trace of aggression, no hint of accusation. His grip on her arm, though firm, was not cruel. He merely watched her, his expression a complex mix of sorrow and something akin to relief. “She wouldn’t have stayed,” he murmured, his voice still low, meant only for her. “She would have found a way out, even if Matriarch Sylis had clawed her way to the gates of Aerin himself. Your twin has no capacity for sacrifice, Veyna. No ability to put another’s well-being above her own immediate comfort.” He paused, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her skin, a feather-light touch that nonetheless grounded her. “I realized it hours after the wedding. After the storm. After you… stayed.” His gaze dropped to their joined hands, then back to her eyes. “I knew she was gone the moment you used your patience to disarm the syndicate envoy. Valerine would have torn him apart with a smile. You… you rebuilt him, then left him to collapse under his own weight. That wasn’t her. And when you held me through the storm, when you didn’t flinch from my terror, didn’t mock it… that was an entirely separate kind of strength. One she simply doesn’t possess.” Veyna felt a tremor run through her. This wasn't the furious unmasking she'd dreaded. This was a quiet, almost tender recognition. “You… you prefer me?” she whispered, the words barely audible. Keston’s lips, usually a thin, hard line, softened almost imperceptibly. “She is a void, Veyna. A beautiful, ruthless void. You are… a constellation. And yes,” he affirmed, his eyes piercing hers, “I prefer the stars.” The air around them shifted, dense and quiet. Keston’s acceptance, his fierce preference, washed over Veyna, a warmth seeping into the cold dread that had gripped her for months. She felt a profound sense of validation, a sudden, unfamiliar strength blossoming in her chest. Later that morning, after Keston had left for a hurried meeting with the medical team, Veyna turned to Jorja. Her friend was bustling around the small room, gathering discarded clothes, her movements too swift, too agitated. “Jorja,” Veyna said, her voice steady, “We need to talk. All of it. Now.” Jorja flinched, dropping a silk scarf. Her shoulders slumped. She turned, her eyes red-rimmed, glistening. “Oh, Veyna. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how else to protect you.” Veyna walked to her, placing a hand on her arm. “Protect me from what? And where is she? Why haven’t you told me?” “Assassins,” Jorja choked out, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. “From the Scylla Syndicate. Valerine owed them a fortune, not just to the debt collectors. She knew they’d come for you if she vanished, if they found out you were here in her place. She made me promise. She said she’d disappear, that she’d send money… but she’s just been bleeding me dry, Veyna. She found a hideaway in the Under-Spire, a forgotten bolthole near the old sewage pumps. But she’s not hiding to protect you. She’s demanding more and more, threatening to expose you herself if I don’t pay her. She’s become a parasite, Veyna. She’s… she’s rotting.” The confession hung heavy in the air, a grotesque echo of the Kallis family’s financial abyss. Nausea churned in Veyna's stomach, but beneath it, a sliver of resolve hardened. She was done being the sacrificial lamb. That afternoon, Keston approached her with sharp purpose. “We need to find a way to sever your parents’ debts,” he stated, bypassing formalities. “Completely. I’ve reviewed the Kallis accounts. The true sum is astronomical, even for me. But I believe there are archaic legal precedents, loopholes in the old corporate codes, that might allow us to void it. It’s a long shot, but your family’s entire existence seems built on them. If we can remove that lever, we remove much of their power over you.” He led her away from the Spire’s upper echelons, down through a labyrinth of service corridors and secure lifts. The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of ozone and aging paper. They emerged into a vast, silent chamber, a corporate archive hidden deep within the Spire’s foundations. Rows upon rows of shimmering data-crystals and ancient paper scrolls stretched into the gloom, illuminated by the soft glow of embedded light strips. This was a quieter realm of authority, one she understood intimately. “The older records are largely uncatalogued in the main system,” Keston explained, gesturing to towering shelves filled with heavy, leather-bound tomes. “Only a handful of long-term archivists even know their full extent. They’re too obscure for standard corporate espionage. But you… you might find what we need here.” They worked in companionable silence, Veyna’s fingers flying across the surface of dust-laden records, Keston watching her with an almost fascinated intensity. He moved a heavy tome for her, his arm brushing her back. The accidental touch drew heat across her shoulder, taut and lingering. Hours bled into one another, until the distant clang of a heavy door echoed through the archive’s stillness. The sound was too loud, too sharp. Keston’s head snapped up. Three hulking figures in dark, utilitarian uniforms emerged from the shadows, their faces grim, their movements practiced. Syndicate agents. The lead operative, a man with a jagged scar bisecting his left eyebrow, grinned, his eyes fixing on Veyna. “Well, well. Look what the board dragged in. The little archivist, pretending to be a Varr wife. Pathetic.” He drew a blade from his hip, its low mechanical hum filling the sudden stillness. Keston moved. Not with the calculated precision of a CEO, but with the raw, untamed force of a predator. He launched himself at the trespasser, a guttural snarl tearing from his throat. The first punch landed with a sickening crack against the man’s jaw. The man stumbled back, disoriented, his vibro-blade clattering to the polished floor. Keston didn’t stop. He slammed the intruder against a stack of data-crystals, showering them both with shimmering shards. He delivered a brutal flurry of blows, his movements devoid of finesse, purely savage. Each punch was fueled by a terrifying, almost irrational fury, shielding her with a violence that warped his features beyond recognition. The enforcer gasped, wheezed, tried to fight back, but Keston was a whirlwind of rage, a force of nature unleashed. He didn’t stop until the man lay crumpled at his feet, bloody and broken. The other two guards, stunned by their leader’s sudden, brutal incapacitation, hesitated. Keston turned, his eyes blazing, a feral light in their depths. They visibly recoiled. The battered agent on the floor let out a ragged cough, then, with a last, defiant sneer, fumbled inside his jacket. He pulled out a slim, data-sealed folder and tossed it onto the ground near Veyna’s feet. “Doesn’t matter, Varr,” he spat, his voice thick with blood. “Photographic proof. Undeniable. The Board’s voting tonight. To void your inheritance.”

Shattered Glass