SILKANDSTEEL
Copyright © 2026
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Vae pulls a long drag off the pipe and lets the razor sharp taste of the leaf burn before he blows a column of smoke into the rafters. The taste of pepper lingers on his tongue.
The buzz hits a few moments later, humming between his ears as he snuffs his pipe under the tips of his fingers. He passes it to his company, some ranking Court official who's smoked enough to reduce to a giggling puddle against his shoulder.
“Ash that for me, love? If you want more, I can pack another bowl in a moment.” He flashes a bit of fang at the sop he's entertaining. A hot blush finds its way across their face and they sit forward to reach the ashtray.
V pops the cork off their nice gin and takes a careful whiff.
The overwhelming cloy of herbal overtones almost covers the eye-watering burn of 110-proof oblivion. He pours two servings, the crystal glasses frosting over as he drops in some Chipped ice and murmurs an incantation under his breath. He keeps the generous pour and slides the much smaller serving to his companion across the mirror-polished obsidian, his chains chiming softly against the stone. His reflection is flattering: arched, elegant lines, his horns draped in jewels and finery like a sacrilegious crown.
Right now, he is V, the Violet Lounge’s Prince of Silk. He isn’t Vaelen, or Vae, or gods forbid, Len.
At the Lounge, he doesn’t have a mother who looks through him like a pane of glass. He’s earned respect here. V doesn’t have a care in the world about sponsorship or trade politics. V serves charm on a tray of silk-wrapped secrets. V has capable hands, curves in all the right places, and a pour that never runs dry. He is unshakable.
…until he sees the next silhouette to darken the entrance.
In the dim purple light, a broad-shouldered, cloaked newcomer strides across the floor and lowers their hood, pausing to adjust their wardrobe for the indoors. They're dense, toned, with brown, sun-darkened skin, scars of varying age crisscrossing their body. A collection of rings adorns their knuckles, but they aren’t wearing much else in the way of jewelry.
But it's the unmistakable, severe stare that makes Vae’s breath hitch.
A sudden splash of cold liquor across his chest jerks an involuntary yelp from his lips. The liquid splatters across his blouse and the floor.
“Oh, my gods—I’m so sorry—”
“It’s quite alright,” V grits out, and tries to ignore the alcohol dripping down his chest.
Before his client can stutter out any more apologies that would only serve to piss him off further, V stands, his stool screeching across the floor and drawing the eye of everyone in earshot.
Including the current object of Vae’s terror, the one and only Beyán Tirra.
To V’s horror, they meet eyes, and Beyán’s flash with undeniable recognition. They sweep him up and down, pausing on the stain soaking across his front.
“Lord Vaelen Siofra?” Their voice is, no doubt, far deeper than it was all those years ago on the docks. But its bold, lilting cadence is unmistakable. The blood rushes from V’s head as the pearls around their neck go cold.
A catlike sneer paints itself across Beyán’s face. “I admit, I didn’t expect to find you in such work.”
I’m wearing five inches of silk and ten pounds of silver, and still you have the nerve to call me Lord?
“Well, love,” Vae’s snarl slashes through his seductive facade, “there seems to have been a change of plans, hasn’t there?”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He scrambles behind the safety of the bar and into the back dressing room, his hooves loud against the floorboards. The girls are bustling around in the back, scrambling to get ready for the evening show, shouting over each other. Nothing is louder than his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He casts his eyes around the room, gulping air into his lungs and willing his hands to stop shaking.
It couldn’t be possible.
—well, it could, actually. Quite possible—likely, even. That doesn’t make the shock subside.
“Not the Beyán?” He hisses, chewing on his lip.
A familiar tousle of dark curls emerges from the mass of lace and frills in the dressing racks, fighting with her bodice.
“—forsaken laces—oh, V, perfect. Lace me up? It’s so much easier when someone else does it.”
“As are most things. You aren’t going to believe who's just walked in.”
“Who?”
“Beyán fucking Tirra.”
“I thought maybe. Only ever seen one person work you up like that,” she drawls and turns around for Vae to begin the tedious process of adjusting her corset.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re acting like they’re back from the dead. Of course they would eventually end up at the most popular club this side of the Egámare.”
“They aren’t even a local! They’re from Salka!”
“Salka, whatever. Didn’t you say you met them on our docks? What’s the big deal?”
“Last time we spoke was a decade ago and they almost put a knife in my throat. Knife in my throat." They made slashing gestures across their neck. "The time before that was during the Accords, what—” they mentally do the math, “—seventeen years ago, Rish. They can’t see me like this!”
“What, working?”
Vae frowns and gestures emphatically at their state of alcohol-soaked undress.
“Oh, gods above, this is a brothel, they can get over a nice body and the smell of a little booze.”
“There’s no way they’re going to understand anything. They’re going to jump to conclusions—”
“Babes, why do you care? I thought you said you were over all of that. They’re probably here because they’re looking for a warm body, not a walk down memory lane. I bet they're as surprised to see you as you are to see them.”
Vae chews on their lip and glances back out at the floor. Beyán has made themself comfortable at the bar. They're fiddling with a coaster and gazing around at the decór with mild interest.
“Just because I’m over it doesn’t mean I want another encounter with their stiletto. Maybe if I stay back here long enough they’ll leave.”
“You have other customers.”
“My latest just wasted an entire bottle of my most expensive gin ruining my most expensive silk. They’d best leave the tip and get the hells out before I return to tear them a new asshole.”
“Maybe Beyán will tip you enough to buy some new silk and gin.” Rishka waggles her eyebrows at V.
“Have you been drinking? What part of stab-happy don’t you understand? I’m hardly about to give them a lap dance.”
“Listen to yourself, V. You sound like a baby escort, not someone who’s been working the bar for over a decade. I think they’ve had plenty of time to cool off. Just go back out and treat them like you would any other client.”
“I’m not taking them to the VIP room either.”
“When did you hear anyone suggest that? For gods’ sake, V, are you goin’ back out there or should I take their money instead?” Vae pulls Rish’s laces tight with a bit more gusto than strictly necessary.
“Fine. I’m going,” Vae snaps, straightening his jewelry and checking his throwing knives. “I want pole dancers at my funeral. Sexy pole dancers. And I expect a long-winded and emotional eulogy from you.”
“You’re such a drama queen.”
“Prince, thank you. You’re sending me to my death. I have a right to be dramatic.”
“If you die, I’ll make sure all the girls are there to entertain the crowd.”
V straightens their jewelry and passes a cursory glance over themself in the mirror. “I am a professional. They’re just another patron. They’re nobody. A ghost.”
“Who are you trying to convince, honey?”
With a scoff, V kicks the door open and marches back to the bar, slapping a condescending smirk across his face. He meets Beyán’s stupid, pretty eyes and begins polishing a tankard with only slightly theatrical violence.
“You’re still here,” V says, inspecting Beyán for weak points.
A woven cape is draped over their shoulders, brushing their calves and dripping all over the floor. Wool has a habit of smelling a bit like a sodden barn animal when it is raining. Beyán’s other scents almost cover it—cedar soap, tea leaves, clean sweat—but the undertone of wet lanolin is still there. V wrinkles their nose. Underneath the cape, they still have that damn stiletto dagger belted to their hip like an extra limb, though it looks less preposterous against their adult proportions. The intricate arm cuffs are new, though. They look expensive.
“I’d have thought a person of your tastes would have moved to an establishment with a less scandalous reputation. There’s a tea tavern just down the road that caters to hired hands.”
“‘Hired hand’ moved up in world, Lord Vaelen.” V flinches and sets the tankard down hard. “I am surprised one with so many…connections…has not heard of my name. Trade Royalty does not move quietly.”
“Must not have been important enough to make it to my ears.” Interesting.
“My turn. I thought someone with pedigree like yours would be employed in a more uptight place. Yet I find you here, half-nude. I did not know they teach the children of Magistrates to polish glass with such angry flair.”
“It’s V now, love,” Vae purrs, leaning into Beyán’s space until he smells their sweat. This close, he can make out the fine freckles scattered like stars across their skin.
“As for the flair—you’re paying for the view, are you not? Or are are you only here to bore me with a lecture on life choices?”
Though he is already preparing a scathing retort, Beyán’s gaze doesn’t drop to V’s silk or his silver. They stay locked on Vae’s eyes.
“I seem to remember, you used to enjoy my lectures.”
“Why are you here?”
“A drink. Perhaps some company. And…maybe to find out why Vaelen who once subjected me to entire first chapter of Divinity of the Learned Magician is wearing more jewelry than shop display and reeking of cheap gin.”
V blinks and an unwelcome flush crawls up their neck and high across their cheekbones.
“A client had a mishap. I like jewelry. People change, Beyán,” He smiles jaggedly. “My mother, yet again, took the political high road.”
Beyán’s expression doesn’t change as V steps back from the bar and plasters a smile back on.
“Now, are you ordering, or am I calling the doorkeep?”
V props their shaking hands on their hips. With a raised eyebrow, Beyán raps their scarred knuckles on the bartop. V wonders how many fights it has taken to bring their fists to such a state.
“I want your best tea. Black leaf, if you have it. And do not dare sweeten. I want to see if you remember how tea is supposed to taste. Not your beloved…sugared abomination.”
V rolls their eyes extra hard to make sure Beyán sees.
“You would walk into a brothel and order tea. It’s only been…what, seventeen years? I remember how you take it.”
“You keep count of time since?”
“What? No. This damn stove. Where did I put the striker—”
“—allow me,” Beyán says, and tosses a runestone in the air. It spins, glowing, for a moment before disappearing in a wink. As V sets the kettle on the stove top, the wood in the stove flickers to life. He flinches back.
“Efficient,” he remarks, keeping his voice level. Beyán has not been idle in their studies.
“You looked like you needed help.”
“I didn’t. Maybe you should get your vision checked.”
“I do not need eye check to see this getup you wear.”
V brushes a hand down his front self-consciously. It doesn’t help that in the short span of time Beyán has been here, he’s managed to lose a layer.
The water is already boiling.
“This getup cost more than the caravan you rode in on. You didn’t get to appreciate the blouse that clumsy ass destroyed. At any rate I think my bare chest is more tasteful than the muddy armor and butcher knife you’re touting. Neither of us is winning any award for best-dressed at the tea ceremony.”
“Is not butcher knife. You think this is formal tea ceremony? I think it is a stretch.”
“I’m not sure what else you’d call it. You’re the one who wanted it right.” V sets down a saucer and teacup. Beyán watches as he pours them a perfectly-brewed cup of Salkan tea. When he's done, they raise an eyebrow and wordlessly lift the tea to their lips.
There's a long drag of quiet from them.
“Admit it. I’ve still got it.”
Beyán doesn’t deign to respond, but within a few sips their cup has been drained. They push it back across the table to be served again.
V smirks. Victory. They pour another long stream of the dark tea into the cup.
“What’s with the new bling? I didn’t think you were one to accessorize.”
“Bling?”
“Your cuffs, idiot.” Vae waves a hand at them. Beyán glances down at finely-tooled metal encircling their bicep.
“Big one came free with name Prince of Steel. Status symbol. Smaller one…” Beyán’s gaze flicks to V’s face, expression unreadable, “…I like jewelry.”
V almost fails to stifle the way their lips want to twitch upwards.
“I’m making myself a drink. Do you want one?”
Beyán raises an eyebrow and looks pointedly at their tea.
“A boozy beverage, Beyán.”
“Tea will suffice.”
Beyán nurses their tea while V flits around behind the bar, mixing their own drink without measuring. They’ve long moved past the need for something so rudimentary as a jigger, so the liquor flows freely.
Beyán tracks their movement as they work, expression unchanging. V doesn’t usually mind being watched by their customers, but Beyán is close to boring a hole through them with the intensity of their focus. Sweat prickles across their brow.
If V is going to survive the night, they need something strong. But where Beyán prefers something unsweetened and punchy, V would rather seek out something that covers the flavor of the alcohol entirely: a Violet Crown. It looks like a summer sunset and tastes like candy, but it packs enough punch to floor a dockworker.
The ingredients go into the shaker one by one: distilled grain alcohol, moonfruit nectar, muddled berries, nundiyara syrup. A healthy amount of ice follows.
Though they know their jewelry casts an alluring aura of grace on their movement, Beyán’s eyes don’t drift for even a moment while V shakes their drink. They have to admit they're surprised; usually a view like this would drive any number of V’s clients to distraction.
As V pours their own drink, Beyán drains the rest of their tea and pushes it back across the bar.
“Actually, I would like drink.”
“I bet you do. What’s your fancy?”
“Something shaken.”
“Naturally.”
“Strong. Not sweet.”
“Big surprise.” V ducks under the bar for a few of their nicer liquors, locked away in their personal cabinet. If Beyán is really a Trade Prince, they can afford to tip quite handsomely. And V does need to replace the blouse that was ruined tonight.
Black-bean distillate, toasted nightweed extract, silver-leaf liqueur…V is about to whip up a diabolical martini that Beyán will, unfortunately, enjoy.
They count their pours generously; after all, if Beyán wants something strong then V isn’t pulling punches. They drop a few carved ice runestones into the shaker and put the top on.
With a wink at Beyán, V murmurs the incantation for cold into the surface with a kiss. Frost crackles across the metal, nipping his fingertips.
Beyán blinks.
“Who taught you this?”
“What, you don’t believe I could have come up with it on my own? It’s not that far removed from rune-throwing.”
“Your kind does not care for our magic. And it was long ago. I am surprised you remember.”
“Maybe you don’t know my kind as well as you think.” They tap their temple. “Mind like a steel trap, love. It pays to remember details in this business.”
“And here I thought you flunked from your schooling.”
“Didn’t make it quite that far,” V says, definitely keeping the venom from their tone. They channel their aggression into Beyán’s concoction, shaking until the rime of frost is a thick blanket.
“This one’s a V Special, called a Black Diamond,” They say as they pour Beyán’s drink into a martini glass. With a flourish of a few toasted black beans and a mottled flower, they slide it into Beyán’s waiting hand.
To their disappointment, Beyán is indeed pleased by the abomination of a cocktail, if their noncommittal hum is any indicator. They pluck the flower off the top and pop it into their mouth. Vaelen knows from experience the blooms are spicy, but Beyán doesn’t seem to mind it.
“Of course you enjoy it, you weirdo,” V mutters, licking the sugar off the rim of their own drink. “I would presume you don’t have the audacity to seek my company this evening, so if you want more intimate services you’ll need to get friendly with one of the other girls on the floor.”
Beyán appears to ignore that information. “Do you tell all customers that drink is ‘V Special’?”
“The nerve—I only get out my expensive liquor for my highest-profile clients. I do have some integrity, you know.”
“Shocker. I would not have guessed, after our last conversation.”
“I would hardly call it a conversation.” V glances down at Beyán’s knife. Beyán rolls their eyes and sips on their drink.
“I am not going to pull knife on you at workplace,” They scoff.
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you. If you want to reminisce, save it until I’m done with my shift, at least.”
“Do not flatter yourself. I am not in Uyarak to dig open old wounds. Do you know your mother is making bid for lifetime seat on Council? Position Kiires vacated.”
“I always thought that was a funny way to describe an assassination. ‘Vacated.’ So passive. Of course I know. Lysander keeps me apprised of her movements. It’s the most insufferable letter I read each week.”
“So you know she is framing Aris.”
Vaelen inhales their drink. Alcohol burns their airways. Aris? His mother?
“Oh. I see you do not.”
While Vaelen tries not to choke up an entire lung up onto the bar, Beyán stands and finishes the last swig of their drink without even a grimace.
“Black Diamond was…not unpleasant. I am leaving. I return here in one week for another. Be here.”
They tuck a sizeable stack of crisp bills underneath the rim of V’s glass and leave the Lounge without even glancing at the stage. Vaelen watches them go, sneering between gasps of air.
Rish materializes behind Vae before he even has a chance to catch his breath.
“So that went well—”
“Oh, shut up, Rish.” Vaelen reaches for the wad of money Beyán has left. It's lucky he's waited for another drink, otherwise he might have choked again. Beyán has tipped him more than he can earn in a week of good work at the Lounge.
“Fuck. That asshole.” They've left before Vae can even get the last word in.
One week later.
Il Nulerán 10, 3903 A.D.E.
Attn: Tiarnan Lysander Siofra, High Chancellor of House Siofra, The Siofra Estate (East Wing), High District
Hello Lysander.
I hope the trumpets this morning gave you a migraine, dear brother.
I hope the sound of the High District celebrating its own decadence reminded you of exactly whose blood is currently still being scrubbed out of the courtyard stones to make room for festivities. I’ll give you a hint: you share half of it.
We have an arrangement. I assumed, perhaps too boldly, that you understood a simple, transactional exchange. I provide you with the whispers from the Lounge, and you provide me with the whole truth of our mother’s movements. Not the curated fragments you think I can handle. Not the table scraps of her political feast.
I had to read about the High Legate’s disappearance in a tabloid. I had to hear about the alleged Dhal-gura Smuggling Ring from a Salkan trader at my bar. You must take me for a fool. You’ve been quiet for weeks. You knew she was moving goods through the Lower District. You knew she was setting the stage to secure her lifetime appointment, and you chose to keep me in the dark.
What did she promise you for that? Do you think it will be worth it? Do you enjoy watching me scramble from the shadows?
Be careful, brother. You might be the one wearing the signet, but I know where the Lioness keeps her teeth. You aren’t safe from her, either. And if you stop being useful, she will decide you’re more valuable as a target, too.
Send me the full audit for the Goldentide election within two weeks’ time. I won’t ask again.
If I find out you’ve held back so much as a single figure, I will ensure the next secret leaked from the Lounge is one that involves your arrangements with the Ministry. Consider this your one and only warning: don’t test me again.
— Vaelen.
After waking to the sound of trumpets from the High District, Vaelen spends his morning drifting listlessly around the VIP suite, staring at his collection of silver chains and debating whether to make an appearance in the Lounge that evening. The knowledge that Beyán will inevitably show face is almost enough to make him sick.
He knows he should clean; since Beyán’s visit, the suite has become less and less tidy, dirty clothing and empty glasses strewn about. His bedding needs washed—it smells like stress sweat and the spilled booze he’d been too tired to wash off before collapsing onto the mattress a week ago. The beaded curtain across the window fell sometime overnight, and the strings of purple glass lie in a tangled heap on the floor. That absolutely has to be fixed before the evening, or anyone could walk by and see inside.
There’s too much to do and it’s starting to feel like there are bees buzzing around inside his head.
Worse yet, he hasn’t been able to make heads or tails of his mother’s latest game.
After she’d caught Vaelen throwing runes red-handed, Laeren Siofra had made it her personal mission to ensure that Vaelen’s connections were reduced to ash. But she’d succeeded; she couldn’t possibly want more blood after this much time, right? He’s sure—or had been, at least, that she’s satisfied with her revenge. It’s impossible to fathom that she might still be nursing a grudge involving him.
Yet, as he kicks a stray blouse across the floor, chewing on his fingernails, an idea begins to tickle at him. The Lioness is a perfectionist. Of course she would resent the ones who caused her iron grip to slip; they represent weakness and failure. And Vaelen has been more than happy to keep the wound fresh by existing as a thorn in her side from the shadows of the Lounge.
What could she possibly gain by—
Of course. It isn’t really Aris she’s after. It’s the Dhal-Gurashi, and Beyán. And, ultimately, Vae.
He pauses in his pacing, glancing at the street outside. There’s the timing to consider, too. He’s had Rishka pick up a few newspapers this week. He doesn’t usually stay apprised of current events, but Beyán’s sudden appearance has piqued his interest.
And interesting the news has been. The High Legate of the Dhal-Gurashi—the only Salkan with enough history to navigate the minefield of his mother’s political scheming—disappeared longmoons ago, with no evidence of attack. The Salkan courts have been slow to decide their next move; in the meantime, and no interim has been appointed. Coincidentally, the Second Accords has opened today, and half the Salkan caravans are without a representative High Legate. Just in time for negotiations to begin. Even the tabloid journalists have drawn the connection: foul play.
There are the other headlines plastering the papers, too. News of Aris’s arrest two weeks ago, still emblazoned in tabloids. The charges aren’t being made public yet, but his hearing has already been elevated to the Uyarakian High Courts. He’s to be sentenced on the day of Goldentide.
How has Vae missed this for so long, wrapped up in the microcosm of the Lounge’s technicolor oblivion? He tries to remember the last time he left his workplace and comes up blank.
How to explain Beyán’s sudden appearance? That part’s easy. Vaelen understands intimately how chains of command work—and the papers have done half the work for him. The scrambling Salkan Court sends in backup in the form of a Prince, only—who is this? No one seems to know exactly how Beyán Tirra earned their place, only that they were hastily elevated to the status of Trade Prince following the disappearance of the High Legate of the Dhal-Gurashi. There’s rumors abound—infidelity, hush money, blackmail—no shortage of theories. But no one can deny the new Prince’s charisma and authority in the Courts. There has to be some substance behind that, right?
Around and around and around the rumor mill grinds. Vae has his own suspicions, but they’re all half-formed hogwash. Instead, he focuses on the facts. He knows where to look and who to ask to find out what Beyán has been up to over the last decade.
Turns out, Beyán is good at the political game—at least according to Vae’s connections. Apparently far more charismatic than the scruffy child Vaelen remembers. But they’re still an outsider to the Uyarak High Courts. Laeren knows Beyán’s face, but certainly not their name. It’s unlikely she knows the Prince of Steel is the same Dhal-Gura child she turned into a messenger of stricken permits.
That she’s still interfering with the Dhal-Gurashi is actually starting to get under his skin. The thought of Aris in a cell under the Uyarak High Court boils his blood. He hasn't slept right since Beyán's appearance. He's hardly been able to eat all week, a problem he hasn't dealt with since the last time he'd encountered the Salkan dockrat a decade ago. At every turn, it seems they come back to haunt Vaelen like a ghost that hasn't died yet. He is starting to resent the sound of the word Accords almost as much as the nickname Len.
He'd never gone by anything else until he met Aris. Like everything else in his life, Vaelen's acquaintance with him started at the First Accords. The older teen offered Vaelen a hunk of bread first, asked questions second.
"What do I call you, kiddo?"
"Mother calls me Len, but I hate it."
"Okay. What do you want to be called?"
"I don't know. My brothers call me Vaelen."
"Ah. My cousin has a friend called Vaelen. Anyone ever call you 'Vae'?"
"No."
"Ever heard of the Dhal-Gurashi?"
Gods, it’s the best bread he’s had to this day. It had still been warm. The things Vae would do for some of it now are probably unholy.
Aris is the only one who has ever offered Vaelen a way out. Vae just hadn't been fast enough to take it before his windows were screwed shut. Then the whole ordeal became infinitely worse when he dug in his heels that night in the courtyard. He'd never seen Beyán so angry. His shoulder aches at the thought of it.
So why is Beyán bothering to return? Why have they told V about the false charges? They couldn't possibly expect that Vaelen would walk back into the Lioness's den, even for Aris.
Vaelen has heard the fanfare from the Courts. He knows Beyán is in town for the Opening Ceremony of the New Salkarak Accords. The "Prince of Steel"—Vaelen rolls his eyes—will be milling about the Courtroom floor right about now. The whole place will be a spectacle of white silk and polished brass. Had his mother not erased his future, Vaelen would be up there.
He tries to picture Beyán, draped in a formal cape, shaking hands with people who want them dead. His mother will be there, representing House Siofra. She will be a loud voice in the negotiating room, Vaelen is certain. She has even more to prove this time than the last time, if she wants the life appointment. She'll certainly want to blow a fuse when she lays eyes on Beyán, especially dressed in Salkan finery—the image is enough to savor.
But why would Beyán engage Laeren Siofra on purpose? Could it be the same reason they're returning to the brothel? Maybe they're just coming back to twist the knife. They'll finish the job, if Vaelen is lucky.
Gods damn it all. Curiosity is a dangerous magic. It's going to get him killed, probably. But it's been a long time since anything has overtaken the endless tide of anger and fear.
At least Rishka will be pleased. She's always wanted to plan Vae's funeral.
* * *
When V pushes the door between the Lounge and the VIP Room open, the air is thick with expensive incense. The Opening Speech has only concluded a few hours ago, but the bar is alive with the lingering ozone of the post-ceremony celebrations and already crowded with people.
Vae squeezes through the crowd, making his way across the floor to the dressing room behind the bar. Rishka is already inside, sitting at her vanity and putting the finishing touches on her makeup.
"What do you think, pink or gold?"
"May as well rise to the occasion. I'd go with gold. Personally, I'll be wearing black, since I'm probably going to die tonight."
"You said that last time, but you still look mostly alive from where I'm sitting."
Vaelen drops his own bag of supplies on his bench. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror—the circles under his eyes are dark enough to pass for eyeliner.
Dressing is an easy ritual to sink into. He fumbles with his powder, dusts it over sharp cheekbones and hopes it covers up the flush of anxiety crawling up his neck. A bit of contouring here, highlight there—a sprinkle of sparkle, for good luck. Details sharp enough to draw blood. A few minor adjustments, and then the endless array of jewelry required for any good night as the City's favorite escort. Hoops and chains are his favorite, tried-and-tested for looks, performance, comfort. An assortment of metals and different-colored jewels, collected over years of perfecting his wardrobe.
His silks, he's picked out ahead of time. The night air is stifling, so the sheer top is a must. He debates between a skirt or trousers, and eventually decides the skirt is a bit better at covering up his weapons. All black, like he told her.
Finally, his throwing knives find their places tucked in the various nooks and crannies of his clothing.
Rishka passes behind him as he wraps up his routine. She leans against the doorway, snack tray in hand. V's stomach growls.
“You were serious. All black.” She lets out a low whistle.
“Did you not believe me?”
"Lighten up, V. You look like you're preparing for your own wake."
"I am," V snaps.
"No, no. You're not doing black eyeshadow, too. I'm making an executive decision. You need some color." V glares at Rishka.
"Fine. Red." V's stomach announces itself again.
"Gods above. Have a grape. Or a cracker. Better yet, a proper meal. You're pissy because you're hungry. I already know how this is going to go: You're going to have one single drink, you're going to faint on them, and then I'll have to explain that I can't even drag your sorry ass back home because you live in the VIP suite."
His stomach turns over at the thought of trying to eat. He takes a handful of cheese and crackers anyway, if only to make Rishka drop it.
"I hate grapes. You know I hate grapes."
"The streets are a circus. I would be amazed if your Salkan Prince even managed to find their way from the High Court to here."
"They aren't mine. Maybe I'll get lucky and they'll never show up."
"You would hate that."
"Shut up."
"I bet they'll come. Don't let them see you looking like a wilted lily. If you're going to play the villain, at least look the part."
“You’re telling me to look the part but you won’t let me embrace my inner dark side. Conflicting messages here, Rish.”
She bares her teeth at him in the mirror. He bares his fangs back.
"Come on. Whether or not they make an appearance, there are plenty of people out there who will be pleased to see you."
"If that fucker who spilled my gin is back, I'm leaving," V warns. Rishka blows him a kiss and shoves the door open with a pop of her hip. V follows close behind her, praying that his carefully-applied armor will get him through the night.
Whether the time passes quickly because they are so busy, or the Trade Prince arrives sooner than Vae truly expects them to, he isn't sure.
Regardless, V feels it when Beyán enters the Lounge, like static crawling across his skin.
"My 'guest' has arrived," He says to Rishka before hurdling the barrier between the bar and the floor.
"The gate is there for a reason, V!" Rish calls. V raises his hand in a rude gesture as he squeezes his way through the crowd. Vae hasn't seen the Lounge this busy since Kiires was murdered in broad daylight. For some reason, political drama makes people horny.
Beyán is between the entrance and the stage, adjusting their cloak the same way they had the last time.
"I see you survived the pomp," V sidles up to Beyán's side, a bit closer than he really wants to be. The bar is packed full.
"I think Magistrate of Logistics remembered me. She has very firm hand," Beyán throws their hood back and buckles their cape to the side.
"I know. My mother is many things, but 'gentle' isn't on that list. And she never forgets a face. Who do you think I got it from?"
"I need drink," Beyán says, preparing to shove through the crowd.
"Wait—" V says, snatching their elbow before he loses them to the throng and the music. He drops the touch quickly. "—we should go to the VIP Room. It's quieter there."
"Is not in use? Busy night."
"No, its—don't worry about it, I have it reserved. It's more private."
"You have ingredients to make Black Diamond in VIP Room?"
V has to fight off a grimace. "Yes, I can make your disgusting cocktail."
"You said it was V Special!"
"It was. I made it up on the spot, that's what a V Special is. I was hoping you would hate it."
"Oh. I want more."
"I gathered that."
V leads Beyán through the crowd and across the back of the stage, between the window and the beaded curtain that gives the Violet Lounge its name.
Beyán prowls after V at a respectful three paces, acting by all rights like they've learned to walk from one of Salka's big striped mangrove kyoti.
V pushes the door to the VIP room open. It’s still how they left it earlier. They hurry in, bring a few lamps to life and kick their dirty laundry into the corner. They draw the curtains around their bed so the mess of untidy sheets isn’t so obvious, like they actually care if Beyán has an opinion. Their jewelry displays are sparse, since they’re wearing most of what they own. It’s not the best the room has looked, but it will serve their needs. The light in here is dimmer, the noise of the crowd is muffled, and V can hear themself think.
Beyán looks around as V gets to work pulling out cocktail supplies from their personal stash.
“It’s not usually this messy in here. The room is closed for the evening,” V says, not sure why they’re bothering to explain. Beyán has certainly seen worse, and it’s not as if they’re going to get up to anything frisky. Not with that knife still strapped to Beyán’s hip.
Beyán takes a seat at the table next to the window and doesn’t say anything. V lets the silence fill the room, broken only by the clink of glasses and the pour of liquor. Their heart calms a bit with the familiar motions of bartending, and it’s only a minute before they’re placing the Black Diamond in front of Beyán. V crosses to the other side of the table and pours himself a gin he knows he shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.
But the burn feels good, anchors him.
Beyán still doesn’t say anything. Emboldened by his drink, V speaks.
“I’m surprised you didn’t stay for the gala. I heard the wine is excellent this year, even if it does leave an aftertaste of backstabbing. One has to wonder whether Kiires would have enjoyed it.”
Beyán stands, still holding their own beverage. “I have had enough of your City’s wine, Vaelen. It tastes like lies.”
“The Prince of Steel is a connoisseur, how quaint.” V leans back in their seat and takes another sip. “Is that what you learned when you left the Dhal-Gurashi? How to brood in an expensive cape?”
“What about you? Students in High Towers learn to look pretty and make drink? Anything useful? Feed family, run City, stop impending war?”
V feels their face shutter. They cast their arms in a grand gesture at the room around them. “Look around, Beyán. See any family for me to feed? War for me to stop? I don’t hear you complaining about your drink.”
“There is still City.”
V slams the last of their gin and pours another. “That path was barred to me long ago, Beyán. You aren’t the only one who felt the impact of what happened at the First Accords. Tell me, has your armor protected you from any more knives in your back?”
It’s the first either of them has dared to touch the subject so openly. A spike of anxiety spears V’s stomach as soon as the words leave their mouth.
“I would rather have knives in my back than collar around my neck,” Beyán counters, their voice dropping dangerously. V’s stomach flips. “You sit on throne of silk, playing at power. But you are still just ornament in different shop.”
“At least I’m an ornament people actually want to pay for.”
Beyán takes a measured breath, their fingers tight around their glass. They turn to face the window. “Enough, Vaelen. I did not come here to trade insults. Aris is in Black Glass cell.”
Fuck. The reminder is a bit of a gut punch. Guilt, hot and prickly, wraps around his spine. He sighs.
“What do you want, Beyán? Why are we even talking?”
“I am sure you have seen charges by now. Smuggling. Bribery. Heavy ordinance. Enough for execution sentence.”
“I’ve read the papers.”
“Is murder. Aris is innocent.”
“The Lioness birthed me and, unfortunately, raised me. I know what she’s capable of, so if you’re worried I believe you’re lying—don’t.”
There’s a breath.
“She is framing him to bring suspicion on Dhal-Gurashi—”
“—and by extension, you.”
Beyán nods. “She is trying to collapse Accords again. They are going to execute him, Vaelen. They are using trial to destroy Dhal-Gurashi and anyone attached to them. Is play for absolute power over trade agreements.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve gathered all this. I still don’t understand. Why are you talking to me? You wish I was dead.” Beyán fixes V with such a disgusted look the feeling curdles in his stomach.
“Need you to stop thinking like V and start thinking like Siofra, Vaelen.” Beyán growls, clenching their fist on the obsidian table. “Salkans are paralyzed. The High Legate is gone, and while Court scrambles, your mother sews shroud for Dhal-gura funerals. Need evidence to present in Trial and clear Aris’s name.”
“So hire a thief.”
Beyán shakes their head like they, too, have thought of this. “Only you understand how Lioness thinks. How she layers defenses. Only you know catacombs, traps, patrols. You are only choice.”
“It’s been years since I set foot in that deathtrap, Beyán. You might as well ask me to skip backward into the heart of a star. The Sentinels alone would have my head before I cleared the first ward.”
“I do not have time to find thief, Vaelen.”
“The catacombs are sealed.”
“Not secret entrance from Siofra estate.”
V’s fingernails dig crescents into their thigh. “You want me to go back to that place? I’d be walking into my own grave. She’s been looking for an excuse to off me since she decided I wasn’t useful anymore.”
“You are only person who can predict her. You know this City, Uyarak Courts. My hands are tied; Salka must appear in High Court or Accords fail anyway. And trial is rigged. She does not need proof, just for accusation to stick long enough to finalize life appointment. You know this. She is burning Aris to spite memory of you.”
This is your fault.
Vae’s mind races through the gears of his mother’s logic, following Beyán’s explanation with a sinking feeling. It’s sick. It’s exactly something Laeren would do. She’s using a geopolitical crisis to finish a domestic punishment she started seventeen years ago. Amazing how long mistakes seem to haunt Vae.
“What if I say no? What will you do?”
“There is nothing I can do without your help. Aris dies on Goldentide. Accords fail. I go back to Salka in chains, and your mother spends rest of her long, cold life knowing she snuffed spark of son who dared defy her.”
Beyán reaches into their cloak and V scrambles back, cringing at the memory of steel buried in their shoulder. Beyán rolls their eyes and drops a paper-wrapped bundle onto the table.
“I pay you half now, half when this is finished. Is plenty there to do laundry and pay for your lodgings. And…while we work together, there is truce. I will not pull knife on you.”
Heat darkens V’s face instantly. They gape, grasping at the right words to retort with.
“I don’t pay for my lodgings,” V snaps after too long. The weight of the bundle on the table makes the half-lie feel thin. “The suite is a perk of the position. Absolute domain over the whole thing. I have the only key.” He didn’t try to defend the laundry. Everything that came to mind felt brittle and a bit pathetic.
“Perk of position,” Beyán repeats, their voice flat as they lean against the window frame. “Is what you call living in box behind beaded curtain? You say you were born to sit in High District, but you hide in shadows and hiss like stray kyot when someone offers hand.”
“I don’t hiss. And I’m not your charity case,” V retorts, though they can’t keep their gaze from returning to the bundle. It had sounded heavy when Beyán had dropped it—at least enough to buy a ship. Or a ticket to a life far away from the Lioness. “Besides, you’re missing something. You think she’s just framing Aris for the sake of a grudge against me? That’s too small for Laeren Siofra.”
Beyán’s eyes narrow. “Small? She is dismantling my people’s trade rights.”
“That’s not what I—it’s more than that. There’s something else going on. She’s running a mirror play.” He feels himself settle into analytics mode. It was a tactic he’d used often to survive his mother’s dinner parties. “She owns warehouses, Beyán. What you’re suggesting she did isn’t easy. It’s risky. But changing the information on existing documents is easy. Her specialty is red ink. You think she fabricated the documents that are being used to frame Aris from scratch?”
“What do you think?”
“It’s a one-to-one swap. It explains why she’s bothering with framing him in the first place. He’s a scapegoat. It just happens to be convenient that she can also use this to get back at the Dhal-Gurashi. She moves the contraband under Aris’s name, then ‘discovers’ the crimes just in time to look like a savior for Goldentide and the election.”
“You think she is moving the goods she accuses Aris of smuggling?” The static returns.
“Of course she is. She wants Aris gone, yes, but what she really wants are his profit margins. It makes her numbers look better for the audit—she needs a clean record to be eligible for candidacy.”
Beyán, for once, doesn’t have a response.
“She’ll still have her private archive. I’ve seen it. It’s where she keeps all of her records. If she is the real criminal, then we’ll find the trade permits self-approved and sealed by her stamp. She’s always been meticulous and too proud—we might get lucky and find a list of the people she’s been bribing and blackmailing into clearing her path.”
“Why would she do this?”
“She’s obsessed with perfection. She also doesn’t think anyone is clever enough to catch her.”
“Still sounds too good to be true. But…evidence like that cannot be refuted. If we have real permits, we do not just save Aris. We break her.”
V stares out the window at the shadow of the Siofra estate’s sister towers, silhouetted against the setting daystar. His heart hammers against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He can picture it. He wants it. Badly. “She thinks she’s already broken her ornament.”
“Are you? Broken?” The suggestion alone makes something animal rear up inside of Vaelen.
“No.” Cold and flat as a blade. “I’ll do it. We’ll get your records. But if this kills me, I expect you to hand-deliver the message I died laughing. I want that to be the last thing she hears about me.”
Beyán nods. “I will tell her. But do not die. I want to be one to end you.”
V pulls the bundle towards them, their chains whispering across the obsidian table. “And if I get to look my mother in the eyes when we ruin her, you can take my life however you want.”
Il Nulerán 12, 3903 A.D.E.
Attn: V., The Violet Lounge, Lower District.
My dearest Vaelen,
Do try to keep your voice down. I could almost hear your screeching through the vellum. It is actually impressive how you manage to sound like both a child throwing a fit and a jaded martyr in the same breath. A gift, truly. Maybe it’s all that incense you live in; from here it seems to have rotted your sense of decorum along with your temper. Not that you ever possessed much of either to begin with.
You mentioned the courtyard stones. How poetic. While you were busy reminiscing about stains that faded five years ago (Gods above Vaelen, it was blood, not paint. Do you understand anything?), I was actually sitting at the table where the history of this City is written, reading books you could only dream of touching.
Mother asked about you this morning, by the way. Or rather, she asked if the problem in the Lower District had been managed. I told her you were where you always are: surrounded by glass and gin. She seemed satisfied. I hope that stings.
As for your accusations. Do you think you are the only one who knows where she keeps her teeth? I’m the one who has to hand-feed her every day without somehow losing a limb. While you lounge in luxury and hide, I have the delightful burden of being her masterpiece.
If I seemed…selective with the details of the Legate’s disappearance, perhaps it is because even a masterpiece is not kept privy to every stroke of the Master’s brush. She is moving faster than usual, V. Her shadows grow longer. I find myself checking the seals on my own desk more often than I’d care to admit.
Unfortunately, your point about the mirror-play was astute. I am willing to admit that not even I had traced the red ink all the way back to the Lower District warehouses. Living in the Slip has clearly been a bad influence; you’re starting to think like a dockrat.
Enclosed are the audits you barked for. Every comma, bribe, and permit. I’ve even included the logistics manifests for the Goldentide shipments. Consider it an early birthday present.
Seriously, V—be careful with these. If you get caught with this kind of classified information, even I won’t be able to stop her from turning you into a permanent smudge of red across the stones, and they’ll want to know where you got them. Burn the documents or seal them somewhere safe, Vaelen.
Do not write back to this address for a few days unless you want the Sentinels to break your door down. They have been re-adjusting the mail filters, and have no desire to explain your colorful vocabulary to the High Court. Enclosed is the key to the new cipher. Burn it once you memorize it.
— L.
The air outside the Lounge is thick enough to chew, choked with sweat and adrenaline, street food and piss. It’s loud, too; the roads are clogged with people celebrating the approaching Silvering late into the night. The forecast says it won’t be here for another few days, but the festivities obviously can’t be bothered to care. Bards wail and drum up more noise on and between every corner. Most of the musicians are tolerable; a few are less gifted. Someone vomits very close to Beyán’s boots. They sidestep the pile to a chorus of jeers and disgusted grumbles.
Beyán shoulders their way through the throng, keeping to the side alleys to avoid the worst of it. The Violet Lounge sits in the heart of the Slip, the City’s melting pot. It’s the only place in the entire Capitol that the weight of one’s purse outpaces a name and title, sitting on the edge between the Spires and everything else. It’s also party central, where most of the crowd has gathered.
The sheer number of people rapidly falls off as they exit the Slip. The further Beyán gets into the Lower District, the grimier it becomes, the lewder the overtures get. The architecture begins to droop and the white coral facades of the Irilume give way to the Sinks.
It's the Sinks that Beyán remembers the most, from the First Accords. The Salkans had been stationed by the harbor the last time, too. In that sense, it feels solid, familiar. The roads and alleys they remember have all moved and changed faces—nothing stays the same here for long, this close to the sea and its whims. But the soul of the place is still the same: repeating lines of salt-stained timber and porous stone that seems to weep in the humidity.
Yet some parts of the Sinks have changed quite a bit for Beyán. They’re not a child anymore. The lowlight workers are out in force to catch the first wave of foreign gold brought in by the Silvering and the New Accords. Seventeen years ago, that hadn’t given them much pause—merely more adults to dodge and annoy. But without youth to shield them from propositions, every street corner has become a gauntlet to run. This is the first time they've set foot in Zelythra as an adult, and a Trade Prince, at that. With their chiseled features and the unmistakable cut of their Trade Royalty-issued travel leathers, they stand out like a polished coin in the mud.
"Oh, look at this one," a voice rasps from a shadowed alcove draped in cheap, neon-dyed lace. A woman leans out, her eyes rimmed with kohl and exhaustion. "Hey, pretty boy. You look like you've got a lot of tension in that back. Why don't you let me work it out? Half price for a Trade Prince."
"No thank you," Beyán says, channeling all the passion of a grinding stone.
"I've got a bed with dry sheets, Salkan!" a man shouts from across the way, his chest bare and glistening with rain. "Better than walking all the way to the harbor. I'll show you things that will make you forget the High Court ever existed."
He follows it with a wet, graphic description of exactly what he wants to do to Beyán's noble rear, punctuated by a sharp whistle from his companions. Beyán doesn't break stride, but their jaw tightens enough to creak. It's a waste of breath to respond.
The catcalls follow them like a swarm of biting flies.
"Hey, Salkan! I've never had a Prince before! Do you taste like copper?"
"I'll be your little servant for a night, khadyan! Just one coin!"
A door opens in front of them and someone stumbles into the street, shoved out. They flounder before spotting Beyán and sweeping them with a hungry look, licking their lips. They reach out a hand, fingers grasping, aiming for the fine threadwork on Beyán's cape.
"Oh, hello pretty boy. You look lonely. Why don't you—"
Beyán doesn't wait for whatever suggestion is on their tongue. They pull their cape aside with a snap, and the firelight catches the glint of their stiletto hilt and the heavy gutting knife at their hip. They don't draw—don't intend to—but their meaning is clear.
"No. Move out of my way," Beyán snarls, their accent thickening as their patience finally evaporates. They're tired, and they want to be dry and warm, to kick their feet up by the fire. It's been a long time since they've gone an entire day without hearing their mother tongue.
The drunk lifts their hands, lust replaced by the realization they're making a pass at an angry tiger. "Hey, sorry. My bad, pal. My bad."
Beyán glares and shoves past, boots splashing through a puddle of mud. The harbor smells like rot and fish. Their legs ache. Their feet throb. Their whole lower body feels a bit like a bruise.
By the time the sagging silhouette of their inn appears through the mist, Beyán wants a change of clothes so badly they think they might hit the next person who stops them.
The inn the Salkans have been provided for the Accords is nothing short of an insult. It's deep in the Lower District, so close to the harbor that the ground outside stays muddy regardless of the weather. The whole building is drafty and damp, and the main floor seems to have shifted an entire stone's throw off its foundations. The proprietor insists it's been around for several centuries, but Beyán isn't confident it will stand for much longer. A strong wind might blow it over.
But their room has a fireplace, and the company of friends. And right now, Beyán wants those two things more than anything else.
They bypass the ruckus of the dining room, audible from outside, and cut around the back of the building. The alley is muddy and they spend a few minutes unlacing their boots in lieu of tracking clay through the halls. The service stairs are almost too narrow for Beyán to use, but they're better than the main hall.
Up the stairs and onto the second floor, treading lightly in their socks; as soon as their feet hit the landing, they're greeted with the smell of scorched herbs and sea salt. Beyán takes a deep breath. This whole level has been filled in with Salkan caravans traveling for the Accords. Beyán is sharing a room with their personal company of fighters, all hand-picked from the Dhal-Gurashi they were raised with.
They drop their boots by the door. The low rumble of Salkan quiets within and they enter, greeted by a familiar sight.
The others are still awake, lounging and pretending they aren't waiting up for Beyán. Jera is sharpening her curved gutting knife near the fire, the schik-schik of the whetstone the only sound in the small room. Carrov leans against the headboard of the bed she's sharing with Bukomi, dozing over a book while the latter scratches across a ledger. The lamps are turned down low but the fire is stoked, thank Dhoru.
Beyán begins to strip off their outerwear, sighing in relief.
Buko finishes their scribbling and closes their work. "Welcome back, da khadyan. We were beginning to wonder if you would return before dawn. How did it go?" Beyán had split with the group following the opening of the New Accords to handle Vaelen alone.
"We have secured our insider." Jera's whetstone quiets and her hand reaches to grip the armrest of her chair.
"The port reports came in," she says. "The ambergrain is rotting on Salkan docks. If we don't move the caravans, we lose the winter stores and a chance at Uyarakian gold. The High Court is already sending korpí asking why the Steel Khadyan hasn't opened the gates yet."
There's a cold spike in Beyán's gut. They've been here only a week, and the Court already expects the solution?
"The gates stay shut until Aris is freed. If we move now, the Lioness will win. We stick to the plan. We wait."
Jera stands up and crosses the room to stand toe-to-toe with Beyán. Her eyes are hard. Beyán pauses their undressing, one sock off.
"You choose to place all of our cards on the Siofra exile? You're betting our people's winter on a person who drinks gin for a living." Beyán can't help but think of earlier, when they'd been certain Vaelen was going to need to vomit.
"He knows that estate better than anyone else. It's our best chance to get at the records."
Jera's hand moves to rest on the hilt of her blade.
"There are people saying you're stalling because you can't bear to leave his shadow, Beyán. They fear you are playing dress-up as a Prince at the fringes of war to settle a personal score."
The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. Carrov and Bukomi go rigid and still in the peripheral. It's a challenge they've all heard before; Jera's nerves must truly be frayed.
“You suggest Aris is disposable, then?” Beyán keeps their voice even. She winces.
“You know that’s not—”
"Enough, Jera," Carrov says, standing. "Beyán took the cuff when no one else would. If you want the weight of the caravans on your back, take it. Otherwise, sit down."
They all understand how heavy a weight the crown of a Trade Prince is; it's why none of them stepped forward to volunteer. Not even Beyán had wanted it, but no one else was going to take up the mantle when the last Dhal-Gura Prince was so obviously assassinated.
Jera lingers, her breath hot and angry on Beyán's face. There's something else bothering her, it's obvious—but she returns to her seat. Beyán sits heavily on the edge of their bed and resumes the arduous process of stripping their soaked clothes. Everything is saturated through from the never-ending steamy rain. Beyán misses the daystar and its dry warmth.
They hang their heavy formal cloak and armor in front of the hearth and hope it will be enough to dry everything out overnight. The more layers they strip, they more they realize everything just needs to be draped in front of the flames. Not even their smallclothes have been spared from the incessant spluttering of mist.
Across most of Salka, long, light layers are the best protection from the sandstorms and burning light of the daystar. But here the layers are starting to prove cumbersome, forever wet and chafing. Beyán begins to fear they brought a wardrobe ill-suited to the tropical maritime rainforest.
As if reading their mind, Carrov pipes up. "Dhoru, you are soaked. Did you take a stroll through the monsoon?" She taunts, her eyes half-shut.
"What other option did I have?"
"You could have hailed a wheel taxi. They have those here, you know." Beyán has seen the little carts teetering around the city, rattling across the cobblestones and taking the sheer cliff corners at high speeds.
"My own feet work just fine. I am not above walking. It was not that far."
The Violet Lounge is in the heart of the Slip, on the opposite side of the Lower District. It is that far. The ache radiating through their calves and thighs is ensuring they know it. Khashe-al-Dhor doesn't have as many stairs in its entire sprawling expanse as Lysirion has in a single block.
"Boku says everyone's baryeshi should be rested by tomorrow. So we won't need to worry about transportation." Beyán breathes a sigh of relief. They'll always prefer the company of Ardun to a walk or Zelythra's wheel-taxi death traps. Let the locals have their high speed transit.
Beyán strips their smallclothes and tosses them on the floor close to the fireplace.
"I think the High Court would frown upon the Khadyan da Tekhon displaying their naked rear so unabashedly to subordinates," says Carrov. Boku snickers and throws a towel at Beyán.
"Yes, well, the High Court cannot erase a lifetime of close quarters. They would frown upon many things they do not know about. Is my ass so unsightly you would file a formal complaint?"
"The Court would definitely frown upon us all sharing two beds in the same room." Jera grouches from her chair of brooding.
"I am afraid making a formal complaint to the Uyarakians is not quite as simple."
"I can think of a few ways to make my grievances known," Jera says, twirling her knife between her fingers.
"You're only upset because you're choosing to sleep on the floor," Boku says.
"I can't sleep in the same bed as the khadyan."
"Again, who is filing a formal complaint?" Says Carrov.
"Jera, the Court is not here to tell us where to sleep. I will repeat: there is no problem with sharing. I do not find it troublesome. It is a large bed." It is true. The bed is large.
"Would everyone please lay off. I am fine on the floor."
"Oh my fucking gods—Jera, I'm not listening to you complain about your joints tomorrow. The rain is already making you too grouchy. What's your hangup? Beyán is hardly going to make a move on you."
"Oh, gross!" Jera shouts and throws her pillow at Boku. Beyán's face flushes flaming hot. They're suddenly very aware of their nakedness.
"See? It'll be fine." Boku rises and puts Jera’s pillow on the other side of the bed Beyán is using.
Beyán rushes to pull on their sleep clothes and dispel the nauseating notion of getting with Jera while the others bicker. The harbor is right outside, water inky black. They can still remember the glow of their first Goldentide.
So much is riding on Beyán getting this right. The expectations of their people sit on their neck like a yoke. With the Uyarak ports choked shut by the First Accords and the caravans stalled without a representative Legate, the Salkan economy is bleeding like a stuck hog. Every day the Legate remains missing is another day Salka's markets curdle.
Beyán cannot pick up everyone else's slack forever, no matter how much iron courses through their veins, no matter how much tempering they subject their blood to. The Magistrate's latest move might be enough to run their well dry. The pressure of Aris's arrest on top of everything else has been immense. The duties of a Prince, Legate, and Driver will be enough to drive Beyán into the ground.
They hardly feel ready for the duties of Prince alone, even without all the other interim titles. The High Court had agreed, but they'd been left no choice; Beyán had been handed the title of Khadyan-Tekhon out of sheer necessity. The Courts are desperate. Beyan just happens to be the only one left standing with enough iron and foolhardy ambition in their blood to do the job.
False Prince.
Beyán crushes the idea. They don't have time for doubt.
"You're thinking too loudly." Boku says in their ear, and before Beyán can protest they're pulled down onto a cushion near the fire with everyone else. Someone's uncorked the jug of ara and the smell is sharp—fermented dates and a kick of spice that burns the whole way down. It's Beyán's favorite. It's the only thing that comes close to warming like the daystar in Salka.
Carrov takes a swig and passes it to Beyán. They take a long, slow pull from the jug and relish the fire that lands and crackles in their stomach. The heat of the liquor starts to thaw the cold knots in their muscles. They roll their neck.
Jera snatches the jug from Beyán's hands and takes a few gulps, glaring at them the whole time. There's still something unspoken lingering, but she shoves Beyán and the contact isn't as rough as they know it could be.
"So," Boku says, leaning against the wall. Their eyes sparkle in the low amber light and Beyán knows they're in for it. "Tell us, da khadyan. Was he as majestic as the songs say, or has the gin turned his blood to swamp water?"
Jera snorts. Beyán steals the jug back and drinks to buy time. Carrov takes it from them mid-gulp and a splash spills down Beyán's chin.
"I bet he's living off the scraps of the Magistrate like a pampered house-kyot."
Beyán wipes the ara from their lips and stares into the fire. Carrov's basalt runestones are still sitting at the base of the hearth, magic undulating with the same frequency as the coals.
Vaelen flickers to their mind's eye unbidden—sharp-spoken, armored in silk and chains, arranging their words to cut with a razor's edge. The way they wielded their flash of skin and expensive vice like a weapon, the fractures in their jagged pride under the neon lights.
"He remains a splinter in my side." Beyán growls, their jaw tight enough to ache. "He is an arrogant prick, under the delusion he is a luxury I cannot afford." Vaelen is right, but not in the way he thinks. Beyán cannot afford distractions.
"Did you break his nose for old times' sake?"
"And cause a scene while wearing the cuff of a khadyan? No." Beyán accepts the jug that's made its way back around to Boku. The weight of the ceramic is cool against their fingers. "It would be unbecoming. He is pathetic—withered away into shadows. He dresses like a peacock and thinks like someone who is already dead."
Beyán leaves out the details: exactly how drunk Vaelen had gotten, the poorly-disguised fact that he lives in the brothel's private lounge, the loud implications of that fact. There's something brittle and charged about him, like he's one bad night away from self-destructing in grand fashion.
It feels like a cheap shot to reveal Vaelen's dirty laundry to the Dhal-Gurashi. If they're going to tear him limb-from-limb so savagely, let them do it facing the light, where the blows can be felt. To do it behind his back feels like a coward's errand.
"He is a means to an end." Beyán says as they hand the jug to Boku. "He gets us Aris, he helps us open the ports, and then he can return to his bottle and silk birdcage. So long as he is useful, that is all I care about."
"A pretty bird that can swing a blade, hopefully," Carrov grunts, leaning forward to poke at the fire with a blackened iron rod. "I don't want to be the one carrying his dead weight through an alpine rainforest when the Magistrate sends her hounds sniffing after us."
"He won't be dead weight," Beyán says, recalling the precision of Vae's pours even half a bottle deep. "He's too spiteful to die before he has his say. His mother denies it, but he is undeniably a Siofra: the whole line would claw their way out of an open grave to get the last word in."
The VIP room of the Violet Lounge is certainly a grave for something.
Carrov begins to pour smaller measures into tin cups. "Speaking of pretty birds, I want more details."
Nods all around. Boku leans forward, eyes glinting, teeth sharp. They point a long finger. "Beyán, you've seen the monster in the flesh now. Give us the verdict."
"Does he look the same?"
"Tell me he's gotten ugly."
Beyán sets their cup down on the hearth with a bit more force than they mean to. The ara sloshes over the rim and lands on the chipped stones.
No, and…no.
"He grew." They say simply, finishing their drink and gesturing for a refill.
"Well, naturally," Boku waves and fills their cup. "It's been years. Even you hadn't reached full height by the courtyard. I still think the High Court padded your boots for your crowning ceremony, by the way."
"No," Beyán corrects, rubbing the back of their neck. The fire is making them sweat, the alcohol bringing heat to their cheeks. "He…seems to have had a late growth spurt. A significant one. I stand level with his shoulders." It's maddening they have to crane their neck to see higher than the apple of Vaelen's throat.
The room hushes. Carrov, who stands a respectable few measures taller than Beyán and has remained the tallest of the group since she outpaced Beyán, blinks slowly.
"Wait, stand up," she says. Beyán complies, raising an eyebrow. Carrov stands, too, and Boku arranges them so they're back to back. Beyán reaches the base of her skull.
"You're sure it was his shoulders?" Jera's voice is laced with disbelief. Beyán is sure. They wish they weren't.
"That's ridiculous. He probably looks like a pointy heron."
"It's annoying." Beyán grouches, slouching back down to the cushion. "It's hard to intimidate them when I'm staring at their collarbones. But I suppose it serves their current profession."
"Which is…?"
"You still haven't told us—"
Beyán clears their throat. "He's—he's an…escort. A well-known one. In high demand, if his monologues are to be believed." There’s a pause as the room calculates the implications of that revelation.
Carrov's eye's go wide and delighted. "Wait, how did you say you found him?"
“Do not make me state the obvious.”
"You went to a brothel? Are you really telling us that you, Beyán Tirra, walked into a callhouse?" Boku's voice is rising. Beyán's face flares hot and bright at the accusation. This is exactly why they hadn't told them.
"I'm twenty-seven revolutions old, I'm allowed to seek out certain services! Dhoru's sake, it isn't just any old kyothouse, it's the Violet Lounge."
Carrov spits their drink into the fire and it flares hot.
"You can't be serious." Boku says. Jera grumbles darkly into her drink.
"I have a reputation to uphold. The Violet Lounge was a safe choice. I didn't expect to run into Vaelen fucking Siofra."
"Fine, okay, we'll—we'll return to this. You're not off the hook, Beyán Tirra. But—Vaelen. He's tall, but that's the whole appeal, surely. He's hideous, right? Please don't debunk my ugly theory."
"He is successful. I think one has to be pretty, to survive in a place like that. He is…very symmetrical. And he has mastered the tragic poet performance. It's effective—clearly people pay a lot for his services. His wardrobe is not cheap."
Beyán tries for impersonal. But Carrov and Boku exchange a sharp glance over their drinks and Beyán knows their detachment is cracking under the weight of the liquor.
"Pretty?" Jera spits it like rotten fruit. "I remember him looking like he'd snap in a high wind. There's no meat on his bones. He's fragile."
"There’s a bit more meat on his bones now." Beyán says quickly, doing a lot of labor to keep their expression flat. "It's not my opinion that matters. To the Uyarakian elites, he's irresistible. His looks are just another weapon in his arsenal."
"Right. Tactical advantage." Boku murmurs into their drink. "Very strategic of him to be pretty." Jera breaks out in harsh cackling. Carrov smacks Boku's shoulder, but she's failing to hide her own smile.
Beyán coughs. "Regardless, his height is a nuisance. It was much easier when we were younger. At least I could reach his ears to box them when he was being insufferable."
"Now you'll just have to kick him in the shins."
"Oh, how the tables turn."
"Eight longmoons, we suffered his presence." Carrov sighs, tipping her head back. "He followed us around like a damn stray, only Dhoru knows why."
"I remember him trying to explain the difference between sorcery and witchcraft while we were figuring out how to bypass the harbor tax," Jera snickers.
"Does he still think he's the smartest person in the room?" Carrov grunts.
Beyán hesitates. Vaelen's barbed smile returns to them, the way the whole elaborate charade had felt sticky and sour like spoiled wine. Vaelen had been hedging around something, hinting here and there.
Didn't make it quite that far. Beyán hadn't missed the bite.
"He knows he's the smartest person in the room. The room is a gutter. He's pretty, but he's miserable."
"As if he didn't dig the gutter himself," Jera scoffs.
"Does he hide it?" Carrov motions at her shoulder.
Beyán takes a long drink of ara. If anything, Vaelen seemed to enjoy flaunting it. Both times Beyán had visited the Lounge, he'd been essentially topless.
It's the first thing Beyán noticed. It's how they'd recognized Vaelen, the scar bright and wide against ash-purple skin. Beyán's knife had been sharp—it always was—but the cut hadn't been clean. It had healed surprisingly well, raised and silvery and jagged.
"I didn't pay attention," Beyán says, and takes a very long, very deliberate swallow of their ara. Boku smacks Carrov in the leg and mouths something. Beyán pretends not to see.
Carrov mumbles, "I overstepped. I apologize."
"It's fine." Beyán says. She didn't overstep, not really. They stand to dispel the tension. "I'm going to wash up. Get some sleep. We rise before the daystar tomorrow."
They duck out of the room while the others arrange themselves. They'll all be pretending to sleep by the time Beyán returns.
* * *
Bukomi has always snored loudly, and Carrov has always talked in her sleep—even walked and drawn weapons, on one memorable occasion. Even in her restless dreams, Jera is doing her best to take up all of a hair's breadth of the mattress. Somehow despite this, she's kicked Beyán at least a dozen times.
None of these are what's preventing Beyán from sleeping.
They want to sleep. Their eyes feel puffy and gritty. They toss and turn. Blanket on, blanket off. Left side. Right side. Back. Stomach. There's a stabbing throb lancing through their head, a mere precursor for what's to come if they can't find rest.
Still, it eludes them.
The fire has settled into a pulsating orange glow. It casts long, dancing shadows across the room. If they close their eyes, they can almost pretend it's another night under the Salkan stars guarding the Dhal-Gura caravan.
But the mattress is lumpy under their shoulders, and the air is too fucking wet and still here, and instead of the howling wind it's insects and frogs outside. Their mind is a hornet's nest.
Attractive. Beyán hadn't been lying. Against all of their wishes, Vaelen is…pleasing to the eye. But even admitting that much leaves a bitter taste on their tongue, like they're chewing on a citrus peel. Height doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, but the way Vaelen stares down the length of his nose at them with that apathetic grace is infuriating.
Beyán hates him. They've kept it and nurtured it, their hatred. Spent years cultivating it like a prized bloom, tending to its whims and watering it with every slight and every memory of that aristocratic condescension. His imperious snobbery is still there, whether it's draped in Siofra silks or violet ones. At some point, Vaelen and Lysirion's elites began to overlap until they occupied the same space in Beyán's mind. For a long time, they haven't bothered distinguishing between any of the other high-society assholes they meet and the vision of Vaelen they hold in their head. Everything is filed indiscriminately under the same category: reasons to hate Vaelen.
They roll over to face the fire and their shoulder twinges with the ghost of a memory. Of a younger Vaelen's skin and sinew and ligament under the razor's edge of their anger and grief.
That night in the courtyard should have been an execution. Beyán had meant for their stiletto to slide between Vaelen's ribs, rupture something important. Pierce a lung, or if Beyán was feeling merciful, the heart. It should have been quick, and silent, and clean. Only one of them should have walked away.
I should have let the blade go true. Beyán's jaw tightens in the dark.
But Beyán hadn't been able to bring themself to finish it. They hadn't been strong enough to drive the blow home. Something about Vaelen's cold acceptance—goading, even—had made Beyán falter, and their hand had betrayed them.
So instead of a killing blow, the blade had jerked upward. They hadn't really thought about where to redirect it to. There had just been the sudden, clear realization that they couldn't kill Vaelen.
So it had ended sunk into the meat of his shoulder, glancing off bone and lodging deep into the muscle clear through to the other side.
Worst of all, Vaelen hadn't made a sound. Hadn't even flinched. Just watched with impassive eyes as it happened.
Feel better?
And then Beyán had twisted the knife, and Vaelen hadn't been able to hold up the mask any longer. Only when they lost their grip on their composure did Beyán wrench the steel from the wound, ignoring Vaelen's choked-off hiss and the gush of dark blood.
They hadn’t stayed to survey the damage.
Beyán had spent years comforting themself with the idea that death would have been too merciful for Vaelen. The sorry state of Vaelen's life now goes to prove that.
Even now, with the weight of Salka's expectations on their back, Beyán still hasn't killed. They've wounded plenty. Maimed, yes. Punched, beaten, stabbed, gored, disfigured. Surely, they've effectively ended lives.
But they've never delivered a killing blow. Never watched the life leave another by their own hand. Every time they try, Vaelen's apathetic gold stare prevents them from finishing the job.
It's with good reason the Salkan Courts are less than confident in Beyán's qualifications. After all, a Prince who can't kill, who hasn't tasted blood? It's unheard of. To kill is a test of one's tempering. But even as a guard of the Dhal-Gura, they hadn't allowed themself to butcher their enemies.
The hypocrisy of it makes their skin itch. Or maybe that's the rough bedding.
Giving up on sleep, they silently slide out from under the sheets. Years of tracking flighty Salkan game and working various positions around the caravan have taught them to move with the grace and quiet of a hunter. The others don't stir. Out of their bag comes the small, heavily-embellished wooden kit. They sit in the wingbacked chair near the hearth, basking in the heat.
They crack open the box and they're immediately smacked with the pungent smell of dried nightweed flower. They're sure the smell alone will wake the others, but not even Jera moves so they pick out a few clusters of the dense red buds and seal the jar up again.
The process of preparing to smoke is tedious but meditative. They pinch a small amount of dried herbs in and mix it with the flower as they pick it into smaller pieces. It crumbles apart easily in their hands, almost to powder.
They've done this part so many times they could probably do it blindfolded; rolling is always their responsibility. It only takes a couple of minutes to assemble the whole thing, down to the twist at the end. They lean forward and use a stray ember from the grate to light the end of the joint.
The first real draw is harsh and tastes like dirt and spice and resin. Beyán holds it in their lungs until it burns, then exhales a slow, thick plume of smoke. It dances towards the chimney.
The tight, shivering feeling in their chest starts to loosen.
Goldentide is half a year away. Its only the second one in their life; the first was seventeen years ago, and the Magistrate's son hasn't left their orbit since.
The Silvering will start any day now, setting the clock ticking. Already ambergrain rots on the Salkan docks, waiting for permits so it can be sold for the gold their people need so badly. The Opening of the New Accords is only the beginning of a long, slow process of negotiation that isn't guaranteed to end well. The odds are heavily stacked against them.
Not for the first time, Beyán finds themself appreciating the challenges the Dhal-Gurashi had faced during the First Accords. They'd been too busy goofing off on the docks to pay attention, a fact they continue to regret.
The Opening ceremony had been all fluff; a long speech from the High Magistrate of the Courts, a feast, interrupted by a longer toast to continued Uyarakian and Salkan prosperity, most of which was bullshit. The dancing portion had been nearly unbearable. They'd tried gluing themself to the wall, but it isn't a good look for Salka's most talked-about Prince to lurk in the corner.
They'd milled about and made small talk. They'd tried to avoid the politicians, but they'd failed spectacularly. The Magistrate of Trade Logistics had recognized Beyán immediately.
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure of an introduction."
"I am Beyán Tirra, Khadyan da Tekhon, Shieldmaster and Voice of the Dhal-Gurashi." With each title listed, the half-moons she dug into the back of his hand had deepened.
"I'm certain you don't need an introduction to me—I am the Magistrate of Trade Logistics, Laeren Thae, Lioness of House Siofra." As the sized each other up, Beyán had suddenly understood where Vaelen learned his disdain from.
"I am sure this will not be the last time we speak, Magister Siofra."
"I am sure it will not."
Beyán had eagerly skipped out on the optional afterparty, wine be damned.
They're halfway through the joint when the smoke and the ara begin to mingle in their blood, blunting the sharp edges of their thoughts. The endless barrage doesn't stop, but it becomes distant and muted like the Uyarakian surf outside.
Beyán doesn't make it back to the bed with its itchy covers. The joint smolders out, half-smoked, in the tray next to their hand and their head slumps against the chair's high back.
They fall asleep in the dying light of the fire feeling every bit the overwhelmed dockrat they fear they still are.
Beyán wakes to the tempered rhythm of their internal clock, well before the rise of the daystar. The fire hasn’t completely died, but the embers are low and the hearth is cool under their feet. There’s a blanket across their lap and the joint has been neatly ashed in its tray, not even half-finished.
Beyán stands, wincing at the tight stretch of their calves and thighs. Their feet are still tender. It’s a good thing the baryeshi will be ready today.
Behind them, the door to the room opens. Carrov enters carrying a kettleful of water. She doesn’t say anything, but nods a hello; she rarely speaks before a cup of tea and the rise of the daystar.
It’s a familiar ritual, one borne of a lifetime in the caravans. She sets the pot on the hook and rolls a few runestones at the hearth, their etchings sparking orange. The coals brighten, and a bloom of warmth radiates outward.
Beyán sighs into the routine of their morning forms and Carrov mirrors them across the rug. Beyán is stiff; their lower body still feels like a collective bruise. With each pose, the fire and the stretch work the cold knots of the previous night from their muscles. As they move into a deep lunge, their joints pop like dry kindling, and Carrov cracks an eye open to make a face at them. She moves through her own forms with a weighty grace.
By the time the water is hot, Beyán’s blood has started to warm and they’re feeling more limber. Some life has returned to their sore muscles, and the tea will finish the job.
Carrov pours the boiling water over the leaves she’s already spooned out into cups and strainers. Beyán watches the steam rise as it steeps and completes their final form.
“Dining porch?” Beyán mouths at Carrov. She nods, and they leave Jera and Boku to rest in the room while they have their tea elsewhere.
The dining porch is already busy even though it’s still before starrise. A lot of the Salkan caravans only arrived by ship a few days ago; they’re probably still feeling the effects of the travel lag. Hushed morning conversation carries across the timber deck of the second-floor balcony. They aren’t the only caravan leadership out here; Beyán recognizes several Muraqalbi faces and a few more from the Kham-Valshi, the Serati, the Oghal-Sori.
Scrap Binder
Documents that have not found their place yet.
The Salkan may have their winds and the Aetian their stars, but the Uyarakian has the tide. Once every seventeen years, the life cycle of the Egámare’s deep-sea trench-dwelling siphonophores pulls the gold of the deep to our shores. The Goldentide is nothing short of a biological marvel—a swarm of Chaos-reactive, bioluminescent life that knows nothing of governance, yet has dictated the cycles of our leaders. They say no lie can survive the Goldentide; the light is too pure for shadows to hide in.
But the Goldentide does not arrive unnanounced; before the gold comes the silvering.
Weeks before the swarm reaches the surface, the chemistry of the bay begins to shift. At night, the water transitions from ink-black to a vibrant, shimmering silver-blue.
"I want to know the truth."
"What truth is there that hasn't been told? What, are you still hoping the Accords were an accident? I struck those permits because I learned the truth about common magic. I couldn’t continue to play with a hired hand while my future waited in the High Towers."
"You are lying. I remember your face. Scared."
"That I couldn't rid myself of you fast enough. You won't get the answers you're looking for from me. Look at me. I am a Siofra. I am meant for the Archives and the stars. You were a curiosity that kept me entertained longer than I should have allowed it. Do you really believe that some stolen sweets and dirt magic made us equals? You were a pet."
Do you really believe it? Snatched moments, shared laughter, the same zealous lust for life that rang between us as we ran through the alleys? That it meant something? Foolish. Naive. Weak.
"I revoked the permits because someone needed to remind you of your place. I wanted my Vouchsafe more than a passing interest who plays with rocks. You want me to tell you I had no choice, but I did it. It was my hand on the seal. And I'd do it again. Face it, Beyán, I'm not what you want me to be, and we're too different to have ever been friends. I'm not one of you. I'm a Siofra, and I'm the reason your people are starving. And I've never slept better."
Vaelen's words rang in the damp night air and bounced off the stones of the courtyard walls, hanging longer than they really had any right to do. Beyán's jaw locked. Their eyes flashed. Vaelen remained perfectly still atop the bench.
Vaelen didn't have the biology to track the movement as fast as it happened. In a breath, Beyán surged across the courtyard. The space between them vanished. The scent of lilies and damp earth made way to cedar and salt.
Beyán was so close Vaelen could feel the hot exhale of their breath against his lips. He met their eyes and watched as the irises contracted in the low moonlight.
"Do it then," Vae hissed, his own heart hammering out a staccato rhythm against his Siofra silks. He tilted his chin up and leaned into it, taunting. His throat bobbed against the blade and a tickle of blood pooled in the cradle of his collarbones.
End this ridiculous charade.
Beyán's stiletto moved like a streak of flame. Their hand blurred.
Vae closed their eyes and didn't flinch.
The blade doesn’t find their throat. The stiletto slams into the ancient tree trunk under Vae's ear, the force of the strike enough to reverberate in his skull.
It takes a moment for the rest of their senses to catch up. The fiery bite of steel only comes seconds after Beyan has driven it home. It’s sliced through the thin silk of his tunic and deep into the meat of his shoulder. He tries not to think too hard about the feeling of the blade glancing off his collarbone; bile is rising in his throat.
He'd expected the sharp sting of a papercut, but this is a heavy, thudding sort of pain that radiates and rips the air from his lungs. Something about the way it doesn’t budge around his trembling makes him realize the knife has pierced cleanly through him, pinning him to the tree.
The world darkens violently and Vaelen’s stomach threatens to empty itself. Somehow, they manage to stay upright and unflinching. Perhaps it’s the sheer disbelief; it’s like all of their senses have been overclocked, but none of this feels real.
For an agonizing eternity neither of them move. Sweat drips between Vaelen’s brows. Beyán's eyes flicker back and forth across Vae's face. Reading, searching. Finally, Vaelen sucks in a breath and releases a choked-off whimper, and gets a sneer for it.
"You are a liar," Beyán hisses, their voice a mere rasp, so close Vaelen's skin tingles. "You are a liar, and your mother’s puppet. I should have let the blade go true."
Vae looked at them, his half-noble blood blooming dark and crimson across his silk. Something primal and angry reared up inside of him, barreling past the sick feeling caught in his throat.
"Then why didn't you?" Finish the job, coward.
Beyán doesn’t answer. They rip the stiletto from the tree with a decisive twist, yanking the metal free from his muscle. Vae’s vision goes white and they sink silently to the grass, ears ringing. Heat spills over his chest and he wraps his good hand over the slick mess, stomach flipping.
By the time the fog of agony wanes, Beyán has vanished into the shadows of the garden.
The Council Chamber of Uyarak was a masterpiece of cold, white stone and soaring arches—a place designed to make anyone without a thousand years of pedigree feel small.
Vae smiled. They felt like a predator in a tailor-made suit.
He adjusted the heavy Salkan silver cuff on his wrist, the metal cool against his dark skin. Beside him, Beyán looked remarkably dashing as a Salkan Trade Prince. The wiry merchant had been scrubbed clean by the girls at the Lounge, his braids tight and shot through with actual gold thread. They stood close—close enough that the loose lips of the Council members were doing most of the work for them.
"Stop touching your collar," Vae murmured out of the side of his mouth, flashing a brilliant, fake smile at a passing Countess. "You look like you're being strangled."
"I am being strangled," Beyán replied, his voice a low rumble. "This cravat is tighter than a collapsed boat-hitch. And your mother is staring at us from the balcony. If looks could incinerate, we'd be ash."
Vae didn't look up. He didn't need to. He could feel Laeren’s gaze like a needle between his shoulder blades. "Let her stare. She can't say a word. She hasn’t been seen with me publicly in nearly fifteen years. To the room, I am nobody but your mysterious, high-born consultant. If she claims me as her son now, she has to explain why I've been living in a brothel for a decade. It would ruin her chances at the seat appointment before it even begins."
"And if the Sentinels find us in the gardens tonight?" Beyán asked, his hand drifting toward the heavy staff hidden in his formal robes.
"Then we make sure no one finds the bodies," Vae said, his voice dropping into a jagged, mean edge. "Remember, the Council’s attention is on Mikael. While they're busy vetting her impeccable record, we find the archive."
The political theater ended abruptly four hours later. The Sentinels had found them.
Now, Vae and Beyán were a league outside the city walls, sprinting through the rainforest bordering the Capitol.
"Behind the ridge!" Vae pointed, ducking as a bolt of black energy shattered the tree next to him.
They scrambled behind a granite outcropping. Beyán was breathing hard, a dark smear of blood across their cheek. "So much for the 'nobody knows they exist' theory. Those glass-bolts are very real, Vaelen."
"They're a personal company," Vae panted, pulling a set of heavy, stacked runes from his pocket. "Laeren must be desperate. She’s bypassed the Council and sent the Sentinels to end this quietly."
He looked at Beyán. The merchant looked ragged, dangerous, and—infuriatingly—undeterred. Despite the terror, a spark of jagged adrenaline passed between them.
"You want to show them how well two Princes hold up in a fight?" Vae asked, his fingers dancing over his runestones.
"Purely transactional," Beyán reminded him, though their grip on Vae's shoulder was warm and steady. "But let's make it expensive for them."
They moved as one. Vae surged upward, a blur of silver and shadow, his knives whistling through the air to intercept the glass-bolts. Behind him, Beyán slammed their staff into the earth, a massive shockwave of Salkan heat-magic erupting to blinding the hunters in the mist.
For a moment, amidst the blood and the freezing rain, Vae didn't want the vouchsafe. He didn't want the seat. He just wanted to keep running with the only person who had ever bothered to see the man behind the mask.
"I still hate you," Vae hissed as they broke into a dead sprint toward the dark treeline.
"I know," Beyán grunted. "Try not to trip on your expensive boots."
Vaelen had always liked the nightlife of Uyarak's docks. It was liberating to disappear into the crowd and dance the night away in a blur of neon labyrinths and questionable decisions.
If they were lucky, tonight would be one of those nights. Though the market district around them was alight with activity and Vaelen was dressed to the nines, the energy in the group wasn't quite where he wanted it. And he hadn't gotten out his favorite silk trousers and chains for nothing.
"I'm just saying," Mikael said, waving a manicured hand towards a street vendor selling some sort of heavenly smelling fried slop, "if you haven't raided a street cart as the sun rises, you haven't lived."
Vae was a half-step ahead of Beyán and Mikael as they entered one of his favorite bars to disappear to: the Gilded Hook. It was an outdoor mezzanine bar that overlooked the harbor. The air inside was thick with the smell of roasting meat, sea salt, and the tang of pipe leaf.
But the best part was the massive dancefloor cantilevered over the pier. There was something transcendent about shaking one's ass with a view of the sunset over the ocean.
Beyán steered them all towards the bar.
"Drinks, now."
"Beyán's right—something strong. If I hear another word about the Council or the Accords, I think my head will explode. We're getting drunk, and we're dancing. Everything else can wait until the light of day."
"I like your speed, Vaelen." Vae wasn't sure if they imagined Beyán's hand tense at the base of their spine.
"Right, what does everyone want?"
"The more booze, the better. And sweet."
"White wine for me."
Boku opens their mouth, but Beyán speaks first. "—I know the rest of you. I'll be back. Stay out of trouble. Find us a table."
"Yes sir." Vaelen stood straight and aimed a flamboyant salute at Beyán, who immediately departed for the bar in an attempt to avoid association. The Dhal-Gurashi don’t say anything, just make a beeline for the dance floor.
"They won't avoid dancing forever. I will drag their ass onto the dance floor if necessary."
"I like you more and more, Miss Thorne."
"Mika, please. We aren't in the court right now."
[TIMESKIP]
One moment, the asshole had been flapping his gums, showering him with compliments. Vae isn’t ashamed to admit that they had been enjoying the attention.
But then the attention had turned from Vae’s assets to Mika’s, and Vae had seen her face flare bright with each passing comment. And, well—Mika isn’t a fucking escort. That’s V’s job. And Thal isn’t here to put this guy in his place, so apparently that’s also V’s job.
“Okay, pal, I think you’ve got the wrong idea. My friend here isn’t interested.” Mika nods profusely behind her drink.
The guy doesn’t take the hint. Vae isn’t sure if he’s had too much to drink, or if he’s just naturally an asshole. Regardless, Vaelen is hardly about to stand aside.
He draws himself up to his full height, something he doesn’t do often because it tends to make him the most conspicuous thing in the room. Right now, it serves a purpose.
He catches a glimpse of Beyán staring from the bar, five drinks in hand, eyes wide, a helpless look on their face. They’re shaking their head at Vaelen, mouthing DO NOT, but the Dhal-Gurashi have fucked off somewhere on the dance floor, and Vaelen has it handled.
“I’m going to warn you one more time, buddy. Back the fuck off.” He balls his hands into fists at his side, mentally checking for each of his throwing knives. This is stupid; he’s useless at close-range fighting and this guy is built like a brick shithouse.
“Are you going to fight me, shiny whore?” Vaelen’s been called worse.
“If you don’t leave us alone, I might.” He says, bluffing like his life depends on it. His voice doesn’t wobble even a bit, despite the fact that he can’t feel his fingertips.
Vaelen can’t remember what the man says to Mika—it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t really know what happens, it’s all too fast, but his fist is moving and the next thing he knows he’s on the floor of the club, staring up at a circle of half-familiar faces. Something hot and salty is running into his mouth and coating his tongue.
Boku is grinning from ear to ear as they help him sit up. “Holy shit, Vaelen. I did not expect you to actually try to fight him.”
“Must have been insulting his looks or something. Crumpled like a ragdoll,” Jera scoffs.
“I’m not sure which was better, Vaelen trying to deck the guy or Mikael actually decking him.” That’s Carrov speaking, failing to hide the mirth in her voice.
Oh, gods, his fucking head is killing him. His nose—there’s a dull, steady throbbing behind his eyes. Everything is a bit blown out and fuzzy. He raises a hand to his face and for some reason, is shocked to find it come away coated in scarlet.
His vision darkens and tunnels. “Oh my gods—that’s—so much blood…”
A hand at his back prevents him from toppling over and smacking his head against the stone floor again. It’s Mika, looking sheepish.
“Sorry I didn’t punch him first,” she says. Vaelen can’t help the stupid smile he feels crawl across his face. It’s probably not very appealing. His nose is already swelling and his teeth are certainly coated in blood.
So fucking much blood. It’s so red. And so not where it’s supposed to be. And—fuck, how in the hells is he supposed to seduce clients looking like this?
A pair of fingers snaps in front of him.
“Stop staring at damn hands. You will be fine. Is because it is head wound, lots of blood. Very dramatic. Do not pass out again. You are heavy and too big to carry to Ardun.” Beyán’s voice is short, clipped. Angry.
Oops.
The problem with the rain in Uyarak was that it didn’t properly fall; it drifted in cold sheets that clung to stone walls and skin in a film that sapped the warmth from everything. Inside the safehouse, the atmosphere was even colder.
Vae paced the length of the room, his hooves clicking an agitated pattern against the floorboards. He was still wearing his formal waistcoat, though the tie was undone, hanging in a loose violet loop around his neck. On the table between them sat the vouchsafe documents—the ones they’d planned on using to get Vae past the North Wing’s wards.
“It’s a suicide mission without a secondary caster,” Beyán said, keeping their voice low. They sat at the scarred wooden table sharpening their stiletto dagger. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
“The resonance-traps in that wing are tuned to Siofra blood. If you trip one, the whole floor becomes a death machine before you can even reach the library.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m a Siofra, isn’t it?” Vae snapped, turning on a dime. His braids whipped behind him. “I know the rhythm of those wards; my own mother set them, after all. I grew up in those halls. Your trademaster might have negotiated with her for copper, but I’m the one who knows all of her secrets. Don’t forget whose help you sought out, Beyán. I don’t need a ‘secondary’ anything; you do. I need you to stay at the gala and [ESSENTIAL PART OF THE OPERATION THAT HAS TO BE MANAGED BY BEYÁN AT THE GALA—running interference?]”
Beyán’s hands stilled and their grip on the whetstone tightened.
“You’re an amateur, Vaelen. You’re sheltered and you’re weak. You play at being a revolutionary because it’s the only thing that makes you feel like you’re something more than a discarded trophy. You think a few years of throwing runes as a hobby makes you a master? You think because you’ve read the books, you understand the bite of the cold?”
“I’ve learned more from those runes that I ever did from the glorified babysitters my mother assigned me,” Vae retorted, his voice rising. “At least the runes didn’t abandon me when my utility ran out.”
Beyán stood, their chair scraping across the floor with a screech.
“You are a liability. Your pride is going to kill Aris and it’s going to kill us. You’re obsessed with the theater of it. The knives, the masks, the three-point landing. You’re so busy looking for a mirror that you aren’t looking for the traps. You want to be the hero so badly you’re going to end the story prematurely.”
Vae stepped into Beyán’s space, his chest heaving, his violet water perfume mingling with the salt and steel of Beyán.
“And you? What are you? A grunt playing dress-up as a prince? How are you any better than me, threading gold into your coat and pretending to be something you aren’t? You’re terrified if I do this alone and succeed, you won’t be needed anymore. You’re scared I might actually be your equal without your hands on all the cards.”
Beyán’s jaw tightened as their composure began to splinter.
“Needed?” Beyan barked out a laugh. “You think I want you to need me? My Dear Lord Vaelen, nothing would make me happier than if you could function without someone to direct your every move. But you're a wild card. That’s a risk I can’t afford with Aris on the chopping block.”
“You control freak,” Vae spat, his eyes flashing with cold fire. “You only pretend I’m a risk because you won’t admit I can chip a rune with as much finesse as you can throw one. You're terrified of losing your edge and all that control you hold onto so damn tightly. Dress me up, point me at a Magistrate, pretend you’ve conquered a world neither of us were born into. But the moment I step out that door without your hand on my collar, you realize you’re just a spectator caught in the crossfire of another petty blood-feud.”
Beyán stepped closer, their shadow stretching long across the table. “You think I want to own you? Vaelen, I can’t even trust you to breathe without a script to follow. You call me a grunt playing dress-up, but look at you—you’re still a child throwing a tantrum because someone dared to tell the spoiled prince no.”
“I am not a child,” Vae hissed.
“Then stop acting like your life is a tragedy written for an audience! You want to talk about being needed? You need a chauffeur because you’re so shallow you’d drown in a raindrop if it had a mirror at the bottom. You don’t want freedom, Vae. You want a bigger stage. You’re so desperate to prove you’re worthy of their attention. You’d burn Aris for one of those cold-blooded killers to look you in the eye and say you're worth something.”
Beyán snatched the stack of documents from the table, their knuckles paling.
“You don’t deserve the magic I taught you,” Beyán said. “I thought I was giving you a tool to survive. I see now I was just giving an arrogan bastard a more complicated way to destroy himself. You want to go alone? Fine. Go. Prove me right. Go into that wing and trip every ward like the amateur you are.”
Beyán shoved the papers into Vae’s chest, the parchment crinkling against the silk of his blouse.
“But don’t you dare think for a second that I’ll be there to catch you when you fall this time,” Beyán whispered. “I’m done being your safety net. If you want to be a master of your own life so badly, Vaelen Siofra, then go and die like one. See if anyone misses you.”
The silence that followed sucked all of the warmth from the room.
Vae stared at the papers in his hand, then back at Beyán. For a heartbeat, something watery and unstable bubbled dangerously underneath the surface—then it slipped deeper down as Vae hardened.
He’d expected Beyán to be bullish. He hadn’t expected them to be indifferent.
“Fine,” Vae said, his voice razor-sharp. He straightened his tie with trembling fingers and forcefully tightened the knot. “Right. ‘Transactional’, this was supposed to be, yeah? That’s what you said.”
Vae snatched the vouchsafe from Beyán’s hand.
“Fine. I’ll get your resonance archive, Prince Beyán Tirra. I’ll win Aris his freedom. You stay out of my way and stick to the plan. And when I’m done, dead or alive, you can consider our ‘transaction’ complete.”
“Vae—” Beyán started, the anger suddenly curdling into a sharp realization that they had gone too far.
But Vae was already at the door. He didn’t look back, hooves echoing like hammerstrikes on the floor. He stepped out into the misty Uyarak night, his silver braids catching the light of the double moons as he disappeared into the shadows.
The door slammed hard enough to shake dust from the rafters.
Beyán stood in the center of the empty room, the whetstone still heavy in their hand.
“Damn it,” Beyán muttered to the empty room, the bite gone from their voice.
The chandelier light in the Grand Ballroom was too bright. It made Beyán’s head throb terribly. They stood by a buffet of iced shellfish, the collar of their gold-thread tunic itchy against their skin. Around them, Magistrates laughed and glasses clinked merrily.
Everything was going to plan, but the acidic feeling settling in their stomach wouldn’t go away.
He’s fine, Beyán told themself, taking a slow, deliberate sip of whatever pretentious drink had made its way into their hand.
He’s probably already in the vault, preening while he pockets the records.
The argument from the safehouse sat like a stone in their gut. Beyán had meant their words to be a tether—a way to shock Vae into realizing he needed to cool down. But Beyán had let Vae’s hotheadedness get under their skin and their words had a honed edge by the time they left their lips.
Beyán was certain Vae had some Siofra backup plan he hadn't disclosed—some hidden vault-key or a servant in his mother’s pocket. Vae wasn’t foolish enough to go in without a safety net.
"You look like you're planning a siege, Beyán," Mikael murmured, appearing at their elbow. The candidate looked nervous, her hands fidgeting with her cuffs. "Where’s Vaelen? I thought he was joining us for the toast with the High Magistrate."
"Vaelen is busy being a master of his own destiny," Beyán replied, their voice flat. "He decided he didn't need a grunt for the evening's festivities. Focus on your speech, Mikael. Aris’s life depends on you not tripping over your own feet tonight."
Beyán turned away, their eyes tracking the heavy oak doors that led toward the North Wing. They were doing their part. They were being the anchor. They were saving Aris. And yet, the "animal" in their chest wasn't growling anymore—it was pacing.
I wish I had never taught you rune-throwing.
The lie of those words stung. They hadn't wished that. They had loved teaching him; they had loved the way Vae’s focus sharpened, the way the "Prince" mask dropped to reveal a man who was actually trying. Beyán had said it just to hurt him. Just to feel like they still had a hand on the leash.
"A fresh ledger," a voice nearby caught Beyán’s attention.
It was the Head of Records, standing with a group of Councilmen. He was laughing, a thin, oily sound. Beyán shifted deeper into the cover of the shadows.
"Yes, the North Wing archives. A bit of a shame to lose the old scrolls, but the Councilwoman was quite insistent. A total purge, new start, all that. One can never be too cautious of robbers. Or arsonists."
A knowing laugh traveled the length of the circle.
"When did all of this start?"
"A few days ago under the cover of night."
Later, Beyán wouldn’t remember the glass shattering in their hand, only the way their fingers went numb.
The North Wing wasn't a vault Vae could charm his way out of. It wasn't a stage for his theater. It was a furnace. And Vae was in there alone, fueled by a desperate, suicidal need to prove to Beyán that he didn't need a safety net.
He doesn't have a plan B, the realization hit Beyán like a physical blow to the solar plexus. He went in there with nothing but a grudge and the runes I told him he didn't deserve.
"Mikael," Beyán said, their voice no longer flat, but vibrating with a terrifying, low-frequency rage. "Which records did he say? Which wing?"
"The penthouse archives? The ones Vae went to—"
Beyán didn't hear the rest. The guilt they had been suppressing erupted into a singular, animalistic drive. Vae was arrogant, difficult, short-fused, proud—
—Vae was being murdered. In a trap orchestrated by none other than his own mother.
And Beyán had sent him into the fire with a curse for a parting gift.
The door swung open with a creaky sigh. As Vae tucked their lockpciking tools back away, he was greeted with the odor of centuries-old dust and a room full of absolutely empty stacks.
"Oh, gr—"
Thunk.
Vaelen was cut short before they could finish the oath that would have peeled the paint off the walls. Everything lurched in a sharp jerk and a spark of bright stars lanced across their vision. The world tilted sideways.
It wasn't until they were blinking half-aware at the rafters that the pain of the blow began to throb in their skull. It felt like someone had taken a beam of wood to the back of their head.
A trap?
Words floated hazily through the fog. Vae vaguely registered the smooth slide of the floor underneath him; he was being dragged somewhere.
"—easier than I thought it would be. I'm almost disappointed. I was looking forward to a bit of cat-and-mouse."
Vae must have made some noise, because the Councilwoman appeared above him.
"Oh, good! I was worried Garth had hit you a bit too hard. I guess it doesn't matter when you die, but I did want to see your face when you learned you've lost."
Vae leaned to the side to vomit as their head rebelled. A high-pitched laugh escaped the Councilwoman.
"Nasty business, that. Anyhow—Garth, make him comfortable. And see to it that he stays warm this evening. I don't want any loose ends."
Heat and a steady, hard throbbing radiated from the back of his head. The tickle of blood was hot across his scalp. He raised his hand to brush at it, check for the damage—
—no he didn't. He tried, but he must have checked out for longer than he'd realized because his hands had been bound behind his back with thick rope.
The world lurched again. Beyán blinked and they were leaning against the archivist's desk, facing stacks full of paper files. To their left, a fire crackled, freshly stoked and glowing hot.
Vae rolled their head and pretended not to see the smudge of crimson. They didn't have time for that now. They needed the knife strapped to their leg.
Garth prowled to the hearth and dumped a shovel of coals across the floor of the library. Vae grit their teeth as smoke began to rise from the papers scattered across the floor, the coals catching on the books quickly.
“Watch it, mate,” he growled. More than a few of the coals were closer to Vae than he would have preferred.
“I wish I could assure you that your death will be quick, but...I can’t. It will be thorough, though. Did you know that runically-stoked fires can burn at temperatures hot enough to completely denature biological remains? Perhaps that will set your mind at ease; the job will not be left half-finished. You were an entertaining opponent, Vaelen Siofra.”
The door shut with a resounding sense of finality, and Vae heard a heavy bolt slide into place.
Vae could do nothing but watch and rush to free himself as the flames licked higher up the shelf of records. All their evidence, reduced to ashes. Along with him soon, if he didn’t get out of this mess. The damn henchman must have been a sailor, because the knots were solid and unyielding even to his nimble fingers.
It took some doing, but he eventually worked his throwing knife free of its sheath in his garter, fighting down the bile rising in his throat. He’d never been worried about whether he could escape; rather, he’d been more concerned about whether he would be able to do it in time. His vision kept doubling in a concerning dance of streaks of light.
At any rate, he was too late to save any of the records they’d worked so hard to get, even if he had been able to read. By the time he’d sawed his wrists free of the rope, the whole book case was a lost cause along with a quarter of the Councilwoman’s personal library.
He scrambled to the door, the world around him bright and lurching—locked, of course. Even one of his kicks wouldn’t be able to bust a cast iron lock out of a solid hardwood door. The fire was already licking at his heels—hardly enough time to pick it.
The roaring fire had made the whole penthouse suite feel like an oven; with a rush of heat, Vae crashed into the bedroom and slammed the door separating it from the library. The flames left dazzling trails across his sight that pulsed in time with his heart. His head felt too heavy on his shoulders.
He reached back to check the damage and rapidly aborted that idea when his fingertips met the blood clotting and matting his hair. The world pitched and darkened around him in warning.
Head wounds bleed a lot. Nothing to worry about, Beyan had said. That had been a nosebleed, not a plank of wood to the dome, but maybe the same principle still applied.
Right.
His escape routes were rapidly dwindling. Behind him, the only exit from the penthouse suite was locked from the outside and barred by a growing fire. In front of him, an armored window stood between him and the ocean ten stories below.
He’d been certain they were going to try to spin up some tale to get out of the whole gig, but he appeared to have been wrong about the extents to which they were willing to go to rid themselves of a nuisance.
After all, who would suspect the wealthiest family in the city to burn their own home down, especially when they had made so many enemies? Such a shame that the Siofra child was one of the casualties, especially when he was on the up-and-up.
It was a convenient story. No one would question it. Even if someone suspected foul play, it wasn’t uncommon for political rivals to die or disappear under tragic circumstances in the capitol city.
Would Beyán even know what had happened?
“Fuck,” Vae growled, shoving a towel at the smoke leaking underneath the door. Judging by the heat radiating from the door, the fire had spread across the room. Already a ceiling of dark black smoke hovered near the top of the bedroom, thickening like velvet.
He pawed through his pockets and belongings for even a single spare runestone, but the risk of bringing in anything that would set off the arcanic alarms had been too high. If one had made it past his attention, it would have been detected when he entered the castle’s wards.
Smoke continued to rapidly weep through the cracks around the door’s edges. Vae crouched lower and tore part of an undershirt off to tie around his face, but the unpleasant scratching in his throat didn’t cease. The ceiling of soot was pouring into the room and filling from the top, hot smoke floating on air like oil on water. The floor rumbled and shook with the force of the fire.
Vae's only other option was the large picture window next to the bed. He fumbled at the latches—his heart sank.
Fuck!
The window had been screwed shut—not long ago, if the sawdust along the sill was any indicator.
Vae scrambled for his knife and began to chip away at the bedpost, magic sparking around him in reaction to the fire so close.
Who said he couldn’t improvise?
By the time the smoke began to burn his eyes, he’d carved out what he hoped was a workable enough force rune.
With a labored grunt, he kicked the post until the top snapped off like a splintered spear.
Gods, the air was like razor blades in his throat. Tears streamed from his eyes and blurred his vision.
Fumbling for the bedpost through a fit of coughing, Vae crouched to his hands and knees. Once the bedpost was in hand, he crawled toward the window, pulse pounding in his head. His hands were starting to tingle.
Shield. I need a shield.
If he shattered the window without it, the sudden flux of air could roast him like a holiday ham or blast him down the cliffside into the ocean. Both, if his luck held as it was.
The dry heat closed in around him. He could hear it crackling—no, roaring—behind the solid oak door. He guessed he had time before the fire got to him, but the smoke would kill him first.
Right, focus.
Taking his knife in his blurring fist—if he survived this he would be sharpening it for days—he gouged a rough excuse for shield into the fine hardwood, digging deep. Even choking on air like a hot blade, he took some satisfaction in ruining the flawless finish.
As he completed the protective circle’s radius, he slapped a palm down on the symbol and forced the incantation through lips that split and bled as he spoke.
The roar of the fire momentarily dulled as the magic surged through his body. A chill raised on his skin as an icy blue wave of light cascaded over him.
The magic cleared from his eyes and he dragged himself closer to the window. Under his palms, he could feel the cold from the other side of the glass.
The penthouse had become a tiered hell. A churning sea of black soot descended ever lower. Vae crouched, his braids brushing the polished parquet as he tried to find a pocket of air that didn’t taste like burning tapestries. The room had precious little remaining oxygen, and what did remain was greasy and thick with the stench of scorched dust and books.
Focus. The thought felt like a frayed rope.
The incantations slipped around his head like fish in a stream.
The door groaned. A breathy, high-pitched whistle shrieked through the keyhole as the fire on the other side began to drink Vae’s remaining fresh air.
It broke him out of his trance. Cold, sharp panic punched through the lethargy wrapping itself around his head.
One palm firmly anchored on the Salkan shield, Vae lunged towards the window, driving the splintered end into the tempered glass. He gathered every inkling of remaining clarity into the incantation, shoving the magic through the window like a desperate fist.
The spell hit the window with a crystalline crack that rang like a scream, drowning out the fire.
He watched in slow motion as fractures spidered and leapt across the glass. The window shattered, pulverized under the overclocked force spell. It fell around him in a shower of diamond-sharp dust; for a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze around him, the wind rushing past his face in a wet slap as the penthouse gasped for air. Then the gale of the ocean met the boiling vacuum of the fire.
The rush of humid air hit the room like an explosion. The air of the penthouse, dense and thick with smoke and noxious fumes, ignited instantly, rolling out a carpet of fire across the ceiling of smoke. A terrible groan erupted from the castle’s depths as superheated air roared through its halls, having found its escape route. The fire flashed hot and bright, painful to look at, and rolled in a wave across the ceiling. Vae flattened himself against the floor, the heat scorching against his back even with the Salkan shield. The fire exploded in a swirling columnar vortex from the window, the heat sucking the air from his overtaxed lungs and threatening to pull him from the building altogether.
Vae struggled to keep his palm pressed flat against the overclocked shield as it flickered dark and muddy, straining to repel the force of the fire and the storm outside. His limbs were becoming more leaden with each breath, refusing to obey his commands. He forced all his concentration on staying anchored to the shield spell; without it, he would surely perish.
Though he’d harbored hope that the window would provide him some much-needed fresh air, it turned out to be anything but. The hot air rushing out the window was simply too overpowering to allow any of the cool ocean breeze in. He could nearly taste the salt air, but it wasn’t enough.
If he could just make it through the window...
...to what, fall a league to the sea below and drown?
Damn it all. It seemed like Beyán would end up having the last laugh after all.
The tingling had spread from the tips of his fingers to his shoulders, his chest. Even his head felt like there was a line of insects marching through it, looping the same inane thoughts in an unraveling thread.
The windstorm outside carried the flames high like a beacon.
At least the stars are here, he thought, though he couldn’t quite remember why he was looking at them.
He might have heard his name, but then a blurry blanket wrapped itself around the edges of his vision. Slowly it crept inward, warm and dark. The bitter-metal taste of smoke and copper was far away. Distantly, he recognized his shield flicker violet and falter.
The roar of the fire softened, its flickering a hypnotic pulse. The shield felt like a cool stone floor under his fever-hot palms. A heavy weight nearby shook the building—the door finally yielding—but the sound faded away.
The council gala was a sea of shimmering silk and smiles with a million different implications. The air was thick with perfume and the bouquets of imported flowers lining the walls.
Beyán sniffed and suffered another sip of their mimosa.The musicians were terrible; they were certain Vaelen would have commented on it by now, were they here. Beyán had found solace in the company of a single pillar near the edge of the dance hall, where they now lurked in a way they hoped was more alluring than menacing.
A few paces away, Mikael was holding court, navigating a group of magistrates with relative success. She was doing well—smiling when she should, nodding with the solemnity of a woman who cared deeply and passionately about tax codes.
But Beyán’s skin was crawling. The whole reason they’d shown up to this gods-forsaken “charity gala” was to meet with the Council’s Head of Records, and the man had yet to step foot in the ballroom. He was over an hour late, and Beyán didn’t have the same patience for these events as Vaelen did.
The band of Magistrates began to disperse.
“Mikael,” Beyan muttered, catching her arm as he passed towards the terrace. “Have you seen the Council’s Head of Records?”
“Not this evening...oh! Though I did overhear—he sent word to the Magistrates. Something about overseeing an emergency audit in one of the private north wings. They’ve decided to start a fresh ledger tonight. Records in danger of...loss due to fire? That’s what it sounded like. He said it was a safety precaution. He looked quite pleased about it, actually. It’s nice to know some of the magistrates care about the integrity of our records.”
The world tilted. Audit? Fire?
Beyan’s grip on Mikael’s arm tightened until the younger woman winced.
“Which records, Mika? Which wing?”
“The penthouse archives? The ones Vae went to—”
Mikael’s voice died as she made the connection. Her eyes grew wide.
“I—I didn’t know! Beyán, I swear—”
Beyán didn’t stop to listen to the apology. Mikael’s immortal soul would have to wait. They turned and sprinted for the arched doorways marking the gardens, wrapping their wool cloak around their shoulders as they shoved a high-ranking Duke aside into the hors dóeuvres. Behind them, outraged exclamations followed, but they hardly heard them over the single name screaming through their skull.
Through the doors, into the greenhouse past the blur of flowers and vines and neatly pruned shrubbery—without a thought of the expense of their clothes, they ran through the fountain towards the scent of smoke that was only just beginning to drift on the damp night air.
As they burst through the conservatory doors into the night air, heavy with humidity, they looked up. High above them, in the north wing of the castle on the tenth floor, a telltale orange glow radiated from the library tower.
“Vae,” Beyán whispered, the word ragged on their tongue.
Behind them, shouts of alarm began to fill the air. Someone pointed upward at the glow.
“Fire!”
Chaos broke out. A wave of frantic scattering rippled through the courtyard, all the way through the conservatory into the gala ballroom. Folk began to run.
Beyán pushed against the tide, ignoring the way it tore at their fine silks and jostled them around. The plans they’d memorized flickered past their mind’s eye; just past the kitchen, there was a service stairwell used by castle attendants. They rounded the corner and found the door already open, swung wide on its hinges. Several maidservants stood a distance from the structure, bent double coughing and strewn about in a state of disarray.
Without a word, Beyán ran past them, their feet barely touching the ground. The stairs were narrow and claustrophobic; the higher Beyán ascended, the stronger the hot wind was at their back. It was a blur of burning lungs and the rhythmic thud-clack of their boots against the stone risers. By the fifth floor, the air was hot and sharp in their throat. By the ninth, they’d been forced to tear off a part of their soaked shirt to filter the smoke from the air.
The tenth-floor hallway was a pressure cooker of toxic soot and superheated air. Beyán stayed low, trying to stay in the narrow sliver of breathable air that still lingered. They wrapped their sodden wool cloak around their shoulders and face, hoping it would be sufficient to keep most of the heat and smoke out.
Beyán hit the final landing just as the building shivered, its structure compromised for some reason or another. The stone beneath Beyán’s feet hummed with the infrasonic vibrations of the fire.
“Vaelen!” They bellowed, but the shout was swallowed by the hungry whine of the fire whistling through the castle walls.
Through the black soup of the hallway, Beyán laid eyes on the solid wood door marking the penthouse suite. The word door was perhaps somewhat innacurrate now, considering it was just a slab of charcoal embers and iron rippling with heat, creaking under the pressure. Beyán didn’t waste time on the handle; the heat would have fused the striker to the plate by now.
Beyán reached into the loop on their hip and pulled out their telescoping pry-bar, the cold-forged steel menacing in the orange light.
“Vaelen! Get away from door! I am coming in!”
With a grunt of exertion, Beyán jammed the pry-bar into the warped gap between the door and its frame, wedging it under the hingeplates screaming from the thermal stress. With a breath, they threw their entire body weight into the lever.
The wood crumbled. With a loud crack, the entire door gave way and collapsed into the penthouse.
As the door fell forward, Beyán dropped to their stomach as the backdraft roared over their head—a tongue of fire that would have incinerated their lungs if they’d remained standing.
They didn’t flinch. Once the roar of air exchanging subsided, they army-crawled into the room underneith the churning velvet ceiling of smoke.
Through the gloom, Beyán caught sight of a violet-red flickering of magic for a split second before it went dark.
There.
A splash of silken hair and ruined silk lay in a disheveled puddle near the shattered penthouse window. Vaelen’s braids, usually silver, were stained black with soot and blowing about like flags in the fiery wind.
A pair of calloused hands brushed roughly against his face, across his cheek, against the rapid, frantic pulse near his throat.
“—not today, Vae,” came a low timbre. A backlit silhouette loomed between them and the fire, wrapped in an unwieldy bulk of fabric that smelled like a wet barn animal.
You can’t be here.
Their hands certainly felt real.
Vae opened their mouth to speak but got distracted by the sensation of someone shoving a rusted breadknife down their throat. They choked on their words and heaved the meager contents of their stomach onto the floor.
“—fuck—” The swirling vision moved to steady him, then doubled over. The sound of harsh, barking coughs cut through the din of the fire.
There was pressure against Vae’s back, and then they were hauled in a dizzying arc up and over their rescuer's shoulder. Vae found themself grateful they’d already vomited. Their world shrank to the pinpoint of the hands holding him upright in a vice grip.
The air at the window's edge was a whirlwind of elements, the superheated roar of the penthouse fire and the salty gale of the sea combining to make keeping their balance an act of great faith.
There wasn't time to be afraid of the drop to the choppy waves yawning like a great maw underneath them. The flames hadn't made it to them yet, but their vision was beginning to waver and dip from the noxious fumes.
Beyán was no stranger to traversing the rigging of any number of massive Salkan tallships; this wasn't all that different. Except for the dead weight in their arms and the profound lack of anything resembling proper equipment. Sweat dripped down their temples, leaving salt crystals in their wake as it evaporated in the baking heat. Their skin felt tight across their body.
Working quickly, they set Vae down and stripped the bed of its dressings. The fabric was expensive; if it was real silk, it would hold up to the force they were about to put on it. In practiced motions, they tore the sheets into wide strips and fashioned a makeshift rope.
Their sailor's knots came back to them easily and in just a moment they had lashed Vae's ridiculously lanky bulk to their back. They pulled the silk tight and adjusted the lengths of fabric until their weight was as close to centered as possible. Vae was a good deal taller than Beyán, so their hooves were going to drag and dangle no matter what—and their fine, silky tail fur would likely be a complete loss.
Vaelen was going to pitch a fit about that.
Beyán found Vae's tail and tucked it up away from the floor. They were hardly about to suffer the relentless deluge of whining when Vaelen discovered the regrettable state of their meticulously-groomed bits and bobs.
They anchored the main cord of silk to the sturdiest thing in the flaming room: the iron bedframe next to the window. The metal was hot and Beyán burned their hands a few times before they were satisfied with the integrity of the anchor. It would need to support the weight of two fully-grown adults, and Beyán didn't have much faith that the silk would hold up to the rapidly approaching direct flames for long.
They needed to move faster.
The dead weight of a tricorn, even one as lean as Vae, recalled the unwieldiness of a block of lead strapped to one's back. If Vae shifted too much mid-descent, the sea would claim them both.
With a short breath of the thin, smoke-filled air, Beyán wrapped the silk around their arm in an ill-advised friction-brake that would have their instructors frowning in disapproval. They stepped onto the ledge. Below, the sea yawned darkly at them.
"Hold steady if you want to avoid swim," Beyán muttered. They weren't sure if Vaelen heard, or understood for that matter.
They pulled on the anchor once more, silk taut, and tipped back over the edge into the salt spray and the wind.
Like everything else from their tallship days, the motions of rappelling were familiar in their hands, and their muscles remembered what their mind could not. The combined weight of their own body and Vae swinging limply like a ragdoll in the wind had their muscles burning and trembling before they'd made it down a full level. The fresh air had helped to clear their head, but Beyán's endurance was beginning to flag.
Several stories below, the conservatory balcony projected from the building, the stone surface slick in the sea mist. Above, the penthouse belched heat and smoke into the night.
The twisted silk wrapped around their arm was slick, the soot turning to mud in the sea spray. It slipped through their half-numb fingers with a speed that threatened to remove skin from their palms.
A gust of wind pushed Beyán sideways, and their boots skidded across the cobbled surface of the castle's stone exterior as they tried to catch purchase. Vae's head lolled against their back. The cold air clawed at their throat and lungs.
The wind subsided and the pair swung like a pendulum back the other direction. Beyan reached out and caught the edge of a decorative windowsill, jerking them to a stop that nearly wrenched their shoulder out of place.
"—shit—" They choked out, gritting their teeth. Still, they held tight to the ledge and waited for the inertia to calm before continuing on.
Vae's weight was nearly unbearable as Beyán kicked off the wall again. The silk strips had shifted and they were digging deep into Beyán's shoulders. Above, something large collapsed and another pillar of flame flared in a column out of the penthouse roof.
Beyán glanced down—just a short distance left. The balcony was a narrow target, guarded by a row of limestone gargoyles. They kicked off the wall and descended in a tightly-controlled arc.
The ovenlike heat was gone, but Vae wasn't sure that the chill rattling their bones was much of an improvement. They were swaying in great, sickening leaps of movement that made Vae's stomach lurch.
Flashes of fire and rough brown hands and the coil of soot in his chest arced through his mind's eye in a fragmented mosaic. Twisted fabric crisscrossed his back. He couldn't smell much besides ash, but there was salt on his tongue. He was pressed against someone's back, hard and muscled and radiating sweaty heat.
Whoever he was strapped to smelled of cedar and tea, underneath all the soot and grime.
The swaying stopped with a bone-jarring thud, and they pitched forward onto stones, the roar of the fire loud even so far away. The air left Vae's lungs in a sharp gasp. The soft velvet edges of the world ripped away and threw the rain and the wind into sharp relief.
He could make out a blur of green and white too indistinct to reveal anything meaningful. He closed his eyes again. The dark and the soft had been nice.
A sharp slap across the face an instant later brought him back around.
"You must breathe, you fool," a shadow rasped.
He didn't recall moving to his back. A terrible ache gnawed at his lungs. Gold-threaded, ash-muddied braids brushed his forehead. Someone's face was very close to his, their warm breath against his cheeks.
There was no one else it could possibly be.
"Beyán? What—"
"—will be time for explanations later."
Vae blindly fumbled for the soaked fabric of Beyán's wool cloak. His voice was thick with soot, but he had to know if he'd fucked up.
"Did—did I trip the wards…?" Beyán stilled.
"No." They sliced through the remaining silk tethering them together. "We will have to go through castle. Can you walk?"
Vae attempted to raise an eyebrow. Walk? They could hardly tell up from down.
"Right. Asinine question."
Beyán leaned back, peering through the doors to the interior of the conservatory. Vae could make out panicked voices and shouts echoing from within.
Somehow, Vae was already talking when they came to, their voice sore. It was a strange, dreamy sort of wakefulness. They weren't even sure what they were mumbling about.
Whatever they'd been saying ground to a halt as a fit of coughing overtook them. A firm hand across their back steadied them. Vae spat something that tasted like ash and blood to the side, vaguely hoping it hadn't landed on someone.
"Easy. You really should stop talking."
"I should—?" Gods, their voice sounded like shit, "—what—where are we?"
"You are telling me you do not know?" The person-shaped blur near him gave him a sharp look. A palm passed briefly across his face.
Vae squinted and the vague silhouettes around him coalesced into something more meaningful. A skylight with a film of red dirt allowed a few pillars of light to scatter across the floor. They were wrapped in a chewed-up quilt, but the air was wet and a sick-feeling cold had sunk into their bones. Wind whistled through the bad seals on the windows; rain pattered on the tin roof.
Dhal-Gura safehouse.
To their side, Beyán was hunched against the wall, a sheen of sweat across their forehead. There was a dark stain near their collarbone they were failing to conceal very well.
"I don't remember much."
"I am not surprised. You were not responding by time I found you."
"The archives were missing. The shelves were all empty, Beyán."
"There are rope burns on your wrists."
"Not the fun kind, unfortunately."
"Who found you?"
"The Councilwoman—she was waiting for me. She knew I was coming." Beyán pressed their lips into a thin line.
"I think…I gave you bad information."
"No shit."
"Why does it always have to be performance? Is everything game to you? Like the docks? Like years the Dhal-Gurashi spent eating dirt because you were bored?"
Beyán throws the ledger of papers onto the table in front of Vaelen with a thud. A cloud of dust rises off the old paper. It’s open to a page with dozens of unsteady red lines stricken through the entries. Vaelen doesn’t look at it, but the color drains from their face.
"The First Accords."
"What about the First Accords? I need more specificity than that." Their face gives Beyán the idea they know exactly what they are referring to.
"You were child. You did not have authority to pull trade permit. Was it your idea, Vaelen? Truly?"
"I chose to go to the docks. She told me if I went, the permits would be cut. I went anyway. I knew the consequences."
"Look me in the eye and tell me Laeren Siofra was taking sage advice of her illegitimate child seventeen years ago. If you convince me that, I will believe you asked her to starve us."
"My mother laid out the consequences very clearly. If I hadn't been so obsessed with learning magic—"
"—and who set those consequences, Vaelen?"
Silence. Vaelen purses their lips.
"You want so badly to believe you were in control, you are trying to take credit for starving entire caravan for a month. At…eight years old?"
"Gods above, yes, Beyán! At eight years old, I sat behind my mother's desk while she loomed over me, and I struck out each of the permits myself with that fucking red pen. I remember every single one of those lines."
"…Oh. That is…fucked up."
"You don't have to—"
"—no, I mean your mother is fucked up. Do not be obtuse, and stop avoiding my question. Did you truly want us to starve?"
Something in Vae's resolve cracks. "Gods, Beyán, no. She just...made sure I had a hand in it. I could see the docks from my room. I tore my nails bloody trying to get the screws out of my windowsill."
"It does not sound to me like your hand was very willing."
"You look like you’ve been holding your breath for a decade," Beyán said.
"Twenty-five years, actually," Vae snapped, sliding the tea across the bar. "But who's counting? Certainly not my mother. She’s too busy preparing for Goldentide, nevermind that it’s still six longmoons away. Lysander sends me updates in his weekly letters."
Beyán took a sip and Vae counted the new scars on their knuckles. "The Goldentide is the reason I'm here. Duty of the Trade Prince calls—I'm meant to negotiate the Accords for a fair share to Salka. I already have invitations for myself and a chosen member of my party for the Gala and a summons to the jury on the Summit the following morning. My intel says that's when Councilmember Siofra is presenting the final sentencing documents for Aris."
Vaelen chewed on their lip.
"They’re going to execute him, Vaelen. For crimes he didn't commit."
Aris was Beyán’s closest friend from their Fireblood days. He'd been kind to Vae, too, even though he'd really had no reason to be. The same way Beyán had once been.
"They framed him," Beyán continued, leaning in until Vae could see the flecks of gold in their eyes. "The whole inner circle was involved. They faked his resonance on over a hundred false-title manifests. The charges they're trying him for would see him imprisoned for life or executed. And—your mother was the one who forged the transport permits. The smuggled product sits in her offshore storage warehouses as we speak. She knows he’s innocent because she orchestrated the whole thing."
Vae felt a familiar, cold fury settle in his gut. "She wants the port cleared of Salkan competition. Aris and the Dhal-Gurashi were the loudest voice against the new tariffs. She's trying to send a message—loudly."
"Then help me shut her up," Beyán said. "There's a cinderglass archive of all the forged records in the archives of the Uyarakian High Court. [THERE'S A WAY INTO THE CASTLE THROUGH THE CATACOMBS; IT'S SCARY AS FUCK. THAT'S THE ROUTE THEY HAVE TO TAKE TO SNEAK VAELEN IN, SO BABY CHICKEN SCAREDY CAT VAE HAS TO GO THROUGH THE CATACOMBS ALONE] A forensics team could easily detect the tampering. If we get that glass, Aris goes free, and the inner circle falls into a scandal they can't polish their way out of."
Vae laughed, a jagged, mirthless sound. "You want me to walk into the Siofra estate? Into the Lioness's den? Look at me, Beyán. I’m a ghost in silver chains. I don't even have a vouchsafe."
"That’s why we’re going as partners," Beyán countered, tossing a heavy purse of gold onto the bar. It landed with a dull, authoritative thud. "I’m a Salkan industrialist looking to buy a permanent seat on the council. And you? You are my high-society consultant. My 'refined' liaison. You’re going to teach me how to bow to these vultures, and in return, you’re going to lead me right to that vault."
Vae looked at the gold, then at Beyán. The "V" mask flickered. For the first time, he didn't see the "grunt." He saw a man who was ready to burn the world to save a friend.
"You'll have to wear silk," Vae whispered, a wicked, snarky glint returning to his eyes. "And you’ll have to pretend to like me. Is that too much to handle?"
Beyán didn't blink. "I've tolerated worse. Besides... the pretending might be the easiest part of the job."
Vae flailed, a frantic twitch of his ears betraying him. "Shut up. Drink your tea. We have a Magistrate to ruin."
The buzz between Vae's ears has to be the nightweed. That's why Beyán's neck is so alluring, why their lips look especially soft and lovely to sink his teeth into, why their muscles ripple so nicely under the violet cast of the Lounge's stage lights.
His face feels warm. He throws back the rest of his cocktail and sets the empty glass on the bar.
The whole time, he keeps his gaze carefully riveted on the floor, or the walls, or his hooves, or anything besides Beyán. He's afraid if they meet eyes he won't be able to hide the hunger gnawing at him.
"Okay. Why are you being weird?"
"What do you mean, 'weird'?"
"Do not play me for fool, Vaelen. You have not looked at me for over twenty minutes. Bard has done three different variations on same song since you said anything. Also, you have been holding pipe and light the whole time."
"Oh."
"Do not tell me you smoked too much nightweed?" It's the smile in Beyán's voice that does Vaelen in.
They glance up, a reflexive smile already forming on their own lips, before they realize their mistake.
Beyán only grins wider until a laugh—a real laugh—is spilling from their mouth.
"Oh, you are cooked, yes? I thought you said you smoke this stuff all the time."
"It's, uh—not usually quite so fresh. Preserved stuff tends to be a bit less potent."
"Your eyes are very big. You look ridiculous."
"Oh, gods. I don't feel that high."
"—You do not look that high either. I think I can only tell because I know you."
"Oh." Heat crawls up Vaelen's neck and across his cheeks until he's certain the blush is visible from across the bar. What in the hells is wrong with him? He's never so easily flustered.
"Are you okay? You are turning…pink. Purple."
"I'm fine! I'm fine." Vaelen fills their glass with chilled water and drinks half of it.
Beyán watches with raised eyebrows and a calculating smirk.
"Are you sure? Should we go somewhere quieter?" Beyán brushes the back of their hand across Vae's forehead and he thinks he might lose his balance. He jerks away after hesitating for a moment too long.
“It was easier to stomach the idea of my enemies going hungry than my friends.”
“There is more than you are saying.”
“What else is there to share? I spent the years between the First Accords and the courtyard pretending to be something I’m not. I can never be what she wants me to be—by the gods, my mother made that crystal clear.”
“You never explained. In courtyard, and on docks, you said ‘High Towers’. But Violet Lounge is not High Towers.” Beyán wishes they had the right Uyarakian words to be as poetic as Vaelen always sounds. They know their phrasing is blunt, but their mind is already swimming with the implications of Vaelen’s confession. To focus on that and a rusty language is…a lot. It’s been a long time since they’ve been in Zelythra, and the rapid-fire pace of Uyarakian is hard for their Salkan tongue to keep up with.
Vaelen laughs, the same canned sound Beyán remembers from the bar. “The Violet Lounge is definitely not the High Towers. Funny story, actually.” Beyán frowns.
“My mother dangled that damn vouchsafe over my head for so long, I should have known. But my sixteenth year rolled around, and I learned that even a knife through the shoulder couldn’t prove my worth to her.” Beyán’s eyes flicker to Vaelen’s scar, stretched and knotted. Vaelen follows their gaze and raises an eyebrow. “She was never going to sponsor me. The vouchsafe was nothing but a tool to keep me under her thumb for a while longer. All the while I played the fool. I was stuck on that fucking estate for another year before Lysirian law permitted me to leave.”
Beyán winces and takes a long sip of their black diamond. Vaelen keeps talking, their eyes distant.
“I think I hated her the whole time. I thought I hated you. I had the wrong target.”
The real question is still burning in Beyán’s blood. “Why did you lie? In courtyard?”
“What? Lie about what?”
Beyán remembers Vaelen’s whole monologue; they’ve been replaying it over and over again in their own head for years. They parrot it back at Vaelen, who sits stunned for a moment.
“There was only one lie in there. What do you think it is?”
Beyán narrows their eyes and sets their drink down. Vaelen watches apprehensively from his seat as Beyán approaches, their footsteps silent.
“You are always so careful with words, Vaelen Siofra. You think it makes you hard to read. But you are open book. We are not playing game. I am not here to catch you in act. Stop chopping words.”
“It’s ‘mincing’. The word you’re looking for is ‘mincing’.”
The jab is enough to push Beyán over the edge they’re teetering on.
They lean forward, caging Vaelen between their arms, invading their airspace. The black diamond is a heady rush of caffeine and alcohol. That must be why their blood is thrumming hot through their veins.
They want to make some sort of tangible threat, something that will really scare Vaelen—
“I am going to kiss you,” is what comes out of their mouth.
Well. That isn’t what they were aiming for, but judging by the look on Vaelen’s face, it’s effective—
In a swift movement, Vaelen reaches out, crumples Beyán’s chemise in their fist and yanks them forward.
Beyán crashes into Vaelen. They taste blood as a fang nicks their lower lip, and Vaelen is warm and sweet and sharp under them. All the times they’ve done this, they slot into the space around each other easily. But the taste of Vaelen’s lips, his tongue—this is new.
They’ve never kissed before.
Fuck.
Beyán grabs Vaelen by his shirt, hauling him out of his chair and pushing him up against the wall between the VIP Room and the rest of the Lounge. Vaelen does resist, but it’s halfhearted and lazy, more for show than out of any real attempt to escape. Their lips don’t part as Beyán drags Vaelen to the corner.
Beyán pins Vaelen against the wall and wraps their fingers around the pulse points in his throat, just enough to feel his rabbiting heartbeat underneath their touch. Vaelen swallows as Beyán pushes him back; Beyán wants to get a good look at him.
His pupils are blown wide, his chest rising and falling rapidly. It’s hot, so neither of them are wearing much clothing, but Vaelen is wearing decidedly less. The top he’s wearing should hardly count as clothing, it’s so sheer and lacy.
Keeping one hand pressed lightly around Vaelen’s throat, they drag a fingertip up his torso, catching the hem of the shirt. It slides up, revealing the thin sheen of sweat glistening on Vaelen’s skin.
“This is pretty. Would hate for it to be ruined.”
Vaelen says nothing, holds their breath.
“Take it off.” Vaelen’s pupils blow impossibly wider and they take the shirt off in a single, decisive movement, throwing it to the floor.
“Is not very polite way to treat expensive clothes, no?” Vaelen’s cheeks flush dark and his gaze flicks from the shirt on the floor to Beyán.
“Pick it up. Put it away.”
“Only because it’s hot.” Vaelen says, after too long. It’s a weak defense; they both know it.
Beyán retrieves their drink and has a bit more while they indulge in the view. Vaelen folds his shirt and puts it back in the closet, seeming more flustered than Beyán has ever seen him. He keeps biting his lip, a habit Beyán has learned indicates he’s nervous.
* * *
When he’s done, he stands in the middle of the room, shirtless and fidgeting. This is new territory, for them. He can still taste the black diamond on Beyán’s lips. It isn’t so terrible, that way. Vae wouldn’t even mind another taste.
His heart still flutters traitorously in his chest. Beyán is staring him down like a tiger deciding which part of him to eat first.
The kiss has set off some kind of spark in the air. All Vaelen had needed was the words from Beyán—it hardly counted as permission, but Beyán hadn’t pulled away and they certainly didn’t seem keen to put a stop to things. He’d never felt so reckless, even facing the fire in the castle.
They were no strangers to each others’ bodies. The years between the First Accords and their reunion in the Violet Lounge had been littered with encounters here and there—rarely ever words exchanged, always rough and bruising and heady.
This felt heady, too, but different. More intoxicating, somehow. Vaelen had never yielded any sort of power in those exchanges—they were always rushed. Yet he’d folded like a tower of cards without even a fight when Beyán had ordered him to remove his shirt. Never had he so easily handed it over like that.
Beyán finishes their drink and their eyes scrape up and down Vaelen’s body, heating his skin with the scrutiny.
“Are you just going to stare all night?”
“View is nice. Be patient.” For some reason, the words send a rush of blood to a lot of confused places in Vaelen’s body.
“Usually I make people pay for something like this,” Vaelen protests.
“I have plenty of money, if is what you want.” Beyán raises an eyebrow. Vaelen tries to hold firm, but he breaks all too easily under the platinum stare.
“I don’t want your damn money. I want to smoke. Let me move.”
“I am not stopping you.” Vaelen thinks his head might explode. He stomps to his chair and sits down to pack a bowl of nightweed. Beyán watches, one corner of their mouth quirked up.