“Which Ystrad faction do you truly serve?”
Fellira met his gaze, the silver point a frigid kiss on her skin. It felt less like a threat and more like an invitation to a particularly morbid parlor game. Her lips twitched. “Faction? Oh, darling, you overestimate my standing.” She tilted her head, a familiar, vacant sweetness smoothing over her features. “I’m hardly a queen in their chess match, more like a particularly robust pawn. And even pawns get sacrificed, don’t they? Especially the ones who outlive their usefulness.”
His eyes narrowed, not quite convinced, not yet disarmed. The blade didn’t waver. “That explains your dismissal, possibly. But not your presence here, listening to my steward’s carefully constructed deceptions. Nor your remarkable calm.”
“Oh, that.” She gave a dismissive flick of her wrist, a gesture utterly absurd with a dagger at her throat. “Well, when one spends their formative years being told they’re going to be sacrificed to an ancient curse, stabbed in a carriage, or simply fall out of a window, one develops a certain… resilience to minor inconveniences. Like a handsome Duke holding a shiny thing against one’s jugular.” A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the hand holding the blade. Had she truly surprised him?
“As for Tavish,” she continued, her voice light, “he’s a dear. So earnest in his efforts. But his intel *is* rather obvious, isn’t it? Only the truly desperate, or truly oblivious, would believe you’re paralyzed. Those hands, Rukhan. So very capable. Not the hands of a man who hasn’t gripped a sword in years, unless he’s been gripping something else instead. Say, a stable boy? Or a particularly robust candlestick?” She tilted her chin innocently, a faint flush rising to her cheeks as if she’d stumbled upon a deliciously scandalous secret. “Unless, of course, you’re faking the faking. Are you? Is that why you asked me which faction?”
A low sound rumbled in his chest, a sound she couldn’t quite decipher. Amusement? Frustration? The blade, to her surprise, pulled back a fraction of an inch, the point no longer digging into her skin, but still close enough to prick. His obsidian gaze remained fixed on her.
“You are not what I expected,” he said, the words a low, gravelly confession.
“Oh, I know.” She winked. “Everyone expects a simpering idiot, don’t they? Easier to ignore. Easier to blame. Easier to sacrifice. But here I am, being rather… inconvenient. It’s a habit, I’m afraid. Hard to break.” She paused, a genuine smile, albeit a small, rueful one, touching her lips. “Though I admit, seeing you stand did make me wonder if the beast that shredded my door last night had decided to take up tailoring. Or… *you* simply enjoy grand entrances.”
His expression remained unreadable, but the dagger lowered completely. He slid it into a sheath she hadn’t noticed tucked against his back. “The beast was a necessary distraction,” he finally said, his voice regaining some of its earlier smooth timbre, though edged with a new, quiet intensity. “As was the warning. I did not wish you harmed.”
“No?” She raised an eyebrow, a hint of genuine curiosity breaking through her practiced flippancy. “Most people wish me a great deal of harm, actually. It’s quite the change of pace.”
Before he could reply, a distant, high-pitched chime echoed through the thick walls of Gylfen Manor, resonating with the deep thrum of iron. The sound of the main gates. Unannounced. Her eyes met his, and the shift in his posture, his mouth setting into a hard line, told her all she needed to know. The game had just intensified.
“Syrena,” he stated, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. “It seems your ‘matron’ has decided to pay an unexpected visit.”
He moved, fluid and silent, back towards the hidden passage, gesturing for her to follow. The library, when they re-entered, was empty. Tavish, ever efficient, had vanished. Rukhan was back in his wheelchair by the time a servant announced Lady Syrena Ystrad’s arrival. He leaned back, his face a mask of weary invalidism. Fellira, in turn, slipped into the role of the blushing, vapid bride, her pulse fluttering against her ribs.
Syrena swept into the salon like a storm front, her gown of deep amaranthine velvet seeming to absorb all light, her coiffure a towering edifice of dark, coiled braids secured with obsidian pins. Her eyes, sharp and predatory, immediately fixated on Fellira, then flickered to Rukhan. “My dear Fellira,” she purred, the sweetness in her voice curdled with an underlying venom. “You look… well. A little pale, it seems, but quite untouched by the rigors of your new life.” She glanced around the opulent, yet chillingly sparse, salon. “And Gylfen Manor. So… *quaint*.”
“Mother!” Fellira chirped, pitching her voice sharp and bright. She rushed forward, affecting an awkward, stumbling embrace. Syrena stiffened, barely tolerating the contact. “It’s been simply wonderful! The Duke is so kind, and the estate is just… huge! I keep getting lost.” She giggled, a hollow, tuneless sound.
Syrena peeled Fellira off her, her expression one of barely concealed disdain. “Indeed. We must remedy that. A lost bride makes for a tedious alliance. Now, Duke Korvath.” She turned to Rukhan, her smile a brittle thing. “Forgive my intrusion. I merely wished to ensure my daughter was… settling in. And to offer my condolences on your… continued ailments.”
“Lady Syrena,” Rukhan replied, his voice soft, almost painfully weak. He gestured toward a low table laden with a pewter tea service. “It is no intrusion. Please, join us for refreshment. Tavish, if you would pour.”
Tavish, appearing from nowhere, bowed deeply. As he served, Syrena watched him with an unsettling intensity. “Such a loyal steward,” she remarked, her gaze flicking to Rukhan. “A rare commodity these days. Especially in houses touched by… unfortunate legacies.”
Fellira saw the subtle movement. As Tavish presented Rukhan’s cup, Syrena’s hand, seemingly reaching for a sugar cube, brushed against the rim of the delicate porcelain. A flicker, quick as a shadow, a minuscule pinch between her thumb and forefinger, and then a faint, almost invisible dust settled into the dark amber liquid. A poison. Something slow-acting, or formulated to mimic the Vyr-Taint’s effects and reinforce the tale of Rukhan’s decline.
“Oh, Duke!” Fellira exclaimed, far too loudly, as Tavish moved to offer her a cup. Her eyes, wide and seemingly unfocused, landed on Rukhan’s outstretched hand, hovering over his tea. “Are those… new rings? They’re so very… *sparkly*!” She lunged, not for his hand, but for the table, her elbow catching the edge of the polished tray with a theatrical flourish. The tray teetered, then crashed. Rukhan’s poisoned cup, along with two others, arced through the air.
The amber liquid, dark and steaming, cascaded downwards, not towards Rukhan, but directly onto Syrena’s pristine amaranthine velvet gown. A gasp escaped her lips, quickly stifled. The dark tea stained the rich fabric, spreading rapidly, an ugly, splotchy map across her expensive bodice and skirt. The delicate scent of jasmine and something acrid – a faint, chemical tang – filled the air.
“Mother!” Fellira shrieked, slapping her palms to her cheeks in mock terror. “Oh, my stars! I am so, so terribly sorry! What a clumsy oaf I am! My apologies, Duke, Tavish, I’ve ruined everything! Oh, your beautiful velvet, Mother! It’s all my fault!”
Syrena stood frozen, her face a mask of fury struggling against aristocratic composure. Her perfectly coiffed hair seemed to bristle. Tavish, ever the professional, was already dabbing at the gown with a pristine napkin, though it was a lost cause. Rukhan, meanwhile, merely watched, a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips. His eyes, though, held a dangerous spark as they met Fellira’s for a fleeting second.
“It’s quite alright, Fellira,” Syrena managed, her voice tight, a razor’s edge beneath the forced calm. “Accidents happen. Though, yours seem to happen with remarkable frequency, don’t they?” She stared at Fellira, a calculated chill settling in her gaze. “Especially when you’re out from under my… careful guidance.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath, then turned to Rukhan. “Duke. I trust you will forgive my daughter’s… exuberance. I shall take my leave. Perhaps a quiet word with my dear Fellira is in order, before she completely undoes what little decorum she possesses.”
As Syrena swept past Fellira, her eyes, dark and glittering with malice, locked onto hers. Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper, pressing close against Fellira's ear. “Be careful, girl. Your ‘accidents’ are growing tiresome. And you forget,” she hissed, her gaze boring into Fellira’s, “you are not my daughter. An annulment is coming, and when it does, the *true* Morvayn curse will finally claim its due. Unless, of course, *I* decide it’s time to claim you first.”