The holding chamber was carved from old fortress stone, damp and chill with the breath of iron. There were no windows. Only a single oil lamp flickering above the doorway, casting long, unkind shadows against the curved walls. The air smelled of sweat, mildew, and dust ground into the mortar by time and secrets.
Veyra stepped inside without ceremony.
She wore no armor now—just her dark uniform and travel cloak still bearing ash from the road south. Her gloves were fastened tight at the wrist, and her hair, freshly bound, showed only the faintest loosened strands where Liora had run her fingers hours before. The weight of the morning still clung to her skin—but the sharpness in her expression had returned in full.
Two figures sat tied to heavy chairs in the center of the room.
Alric Serren looked up first.
Dark-haired and stone-featured, he was pale in the lamp's low light. His bruises were faint—likely inflicted during detainment, not interrogation. Still, he met her with quiet confidence. Composure. The kind of stillness that came not from fearlessness, but entitlement.
Castian Thorne slouched beside him. Younger, broader-shouldered, hair damp at the temples. He had a split lip and a thread of dried blood at his collar. Unlike Alric, Castian didn't attempt control. He just watched her with something close to disinterest. Like a boy caught out too late.
Veyra said nothing at first.
She circled them once, her boots soft but deliberate on the flagstones. She let the silence stretch thin. Tension became a noose. Then she stopped before them—hands clasped behind her back, the cold draft stirring the hem of her cloak.
"You're still breathing," she said. "That means I'm in a generous mood."
Neither of them spoke.
Veyra turned her gaze on Alric first.
"I told your father," she said quietly. "On the Circle floor. I warned him if you or yours ever laid a hand on someone under my protection, I wouldn't just raise complaint—I'd raise consequence."
She stepped closer, gaze flat and unblinking.
"And what did you do, Alric?"
Veyra stepped in close to Alric now. Her shadow cut hard across his bound form.
"You laid a collar on her neck," she said flatly. "In the gardens of Fort Dalen. Without consent. That alone would let me tie you to a post and leave you for the Circle's judgment. Do you understand what that means?"
Alric's jaw clenched. But he didn't answer.
Then Veyra turned to Castian.
"And you," she said coldly. "Marked my door. Spread scent through the eastern hall. You knew exactly what you were doing. You wanted her scent to rise. You wanted a reaction."
Castian's grin faltered—but didn't vanish entirely. "Wasn't personal."
"Good," Veyra said. "Then you won't mind what happens next."
She stepped back, her boots echoing in the stone chamber.
"My father commands the Southern Gate. I command the loyalty of every soldier who's bled for this fortress. Your fathers may hold seats—but mine carved his out of war. So did I."
She leaned just slightly toward them, gaze sharp enough to draw blood.
She let the silence drag again.
Alric's shoulders had stiffened, but only slightly. Castian looked less sure now. His gaze didn't meet hers anymore.
"Stillwater Pier," Veyra said. "It starts there, doesn't it?"
No answer.
"Unmarked caravans rerouted south. Supplies traded off the books. Smuggled through Ember Hollow. Then up through Karsen Vale."
She stepped back. Her voice was colder now.
"Councilor Tareth promised Eldranis passage through our lands. And you—both of you—played your part in the distraction. The violence. The cover-up."
Nothing.
Not yet.
She gave them one last look—sharp, steel-quiet.
"I want names. Manifest records. Routes. I want to know who made the deal, who transported the goods, and who sent the order to recall the soldiers at the Vale."
She turned to Castian.
Castian's lips parted—but no words came.
Then Veyra stepped in close to Alric.
"Your father holds the third high seat. I hold the Southern Gate. I've bled for it. Led armies for it. My claim isn't made of titles. It's made of sword and stone. And if you think his seat will protect you…"
She leaned in, voice low and dangerous.
"…then you've never seen what I'll do for this kingdom."
Alric's mouth twitched. "Empty threats."
Veyra's eyes glinted. She smiled—but it never reached her voice.
"You think your birthrights protect you? I have proof of smuggling. Dead soldiers in Karsen Vale. And a courier's seal with Tareth's mark tied to Eldranis."
She let the words hang.
"Lie to me again. And I'll make you watch each other break."
Then, softer—deadly:
"You have until midday."
She turned without waiting for their answer.
And the chamber, behind her, went silent but for the scrape of breath and the distant sound of her heels fading into the stone.
The heavy door groaned shut behind her, the iron latch clanking into place.
Veyra exhaled once—sharply—and turned to where Ryven waited outside the chamber, arms folded, helm tucked under one arm. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to her.
"Well?"
"They'll fold," Veyra said. "But not yet."
Kellen emerged from the stairwell a beat later, brows raised. He looked between her and Ryven, already sensing what she was about to ask.
Veyra didn't make them wait.
"Keep them separated from now on. No further interaction. No whispering, no shared glances. I want one in the cellar and the other in the old records vault. Post Beta guards only."
Kellen gave a sharp nod. "Understood."
"Start pushing," she added, voice low and cold. "No physical harm—yet—but make it clear we're not waiting much longer. Remind them what it means to lose the Circle's protection. Let them stew."
Ryven's mouth twitched into something colder than a smile. "We'll make them sweat."
"If either of them speaks, I want it recorded and brought to me directly. No scribes. Just you."
"Yes, Commander."
Veyra adjusted the collar of her coat, her jaw tense.
"I'm going to find my father," she said. "He needs to know what I found at Karsen Vale. And I need to know if he suspects how far Tareth's hand has reached."
Kellen gave her a longer look—less soldier, more friend beneath the surface.
"Do you want me to escort you?"
"No," she said. "Stay with her."
He didn't need to ask who.
Veyra turned again, cloak flaring behind her as she strode down the corridor—her boots echoing off the stone. She didn't look back.
This wasn't over.
But by the time she reached the outer stairs of the east wing, the Lion's Heir was fully awake—and hungry for answers.
——
The quiet had returned after Veyra's departure, but it was a different kind of silence than before.
This one wasn't wrapped in heat or breathless stillness.
It was softer. Thoughtful.
Liora sat at the edge of the bed, moving slowly as she adjusted the bandage around her ribs. The long ends of the cloth wrapped snug, but not painfully. She'd loosened it slightly with practiced fingers, the way Healer Malen had shown her days before, just enough to breathe easier.
The room still smelled faintly of pine and smoke—of Veyra. A worn tunic, hastily folded, sat beside her, dark blue and soft to the touch. She hadn't put it on yet. Her hair was still mussed, curling at the edges, her legs bare beneath the edge of the woolen blanket.
She stood carefully and walked to the bench beneath the window, where Veyra's comb lay nestled between two folded linen cloths. She ran it slowly through her hair—fingers catching in a few stubborn knots—and paused when she heard it.
Footsteps.
Not heavy. But familiar.
Boots. Well-worn, measured in stride. Not a servant, not a stranger.
Kellen.
Liora turned slightly, brushing the last curl behind her ear. She grabbed the tunic, slipped it over her head, and fastened the clasp at her collarbone just as a low knock came at the door.
"Morning," came Kellen's voice—roughened by early light but polite. "Not opening unless you say."
Liora blinked once.
A moment passed before she answered.
"You can… come in. If you're not going to faint."
The door creaked open. Kellen stepped just barely inside, one shoulder leaning against the frame, arms crossed.
His eyes swept the room quickly—not lingering, just checking. Protective instinct, not curiosity.
"I've been stationed outside," he said. "Veyra's orders. She'll return before midday."
"I know," Liora said softly. "She told me."
Kellen nodded once, then added, voice lower, "You look better."
She shrugged, careful of her ribs. "I feel… awake."
"You also look like you're walking like a soldier who lost a bet."
Liora blinked—and then laughed, startled. "Kellen."
He smiled faintly, then lifted a small cloth-wrapped bundle from his side.
"She said to make sure you had something decent to eat. I argued for a flask of wine, but was outvoted."
He set the bundle on the table and moved back toward the door. "I'll be just outside if you need anything. And if anyone so much as breathes wrong in this corridor…"
"I'll let you maul them," she said dryly.
"Good girl."
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. And when the door shut gently again, Liora let out a slow breath.
The warmth lingered longer this time.
She unwrapped the bundle—still warm bread, a slice of soft white cheese, and a dried apricot tucked between the folds. A soldier's breakfast. Simple. Efficient. But somehow it still made her eyes sting for a moment.
She sat at the desk, legs folded beneath her, and began to eat slowly.
The bread was warm against her fingers, slightly crisp at the edges. The cheese was soft, the apricot sweet enough to make her pause.
Small things. Quiet things. But they steadied her in a way she hadn't expected.
The room felt different now. Less like a chamber she'd been placed in for safety, more like a space that had been lived in—shared. Her gaze lingered on the corner cot where she'd once nested. On the tunic that hung half-folded. On the faint, crumpled edge of the pillow still bearing the shape of a second head beside hers.
Veyra's head.
She set the last bite of bread down and wiped her hands.
Then, without fully thinking, she stood.
The air shifted as she moved. Not a breeze—just that subtle pressure of choice. Of gravity.
Liora crossed to the door, resting her hand on the latch. She hesitated for a moment, not out of fear, but memory. For so long, stepping into the halls of Fort Dalen had meant tension. Exposure. Eyes. Risk. Every corridor had felt like a cage disguised as a corridor.
But something had changed.
She had changed.
With a steadying breath, she opened the door.
Kellen straightened from where he stood a few paces off, leaning casually against the wall with a carved wooden toothpick in his mouth and one hand on the pommel of his blade.
He looked her over once, then arched a brow. "Didn't expect you up so soon."
"I ate," Liora said simply. "And I'm not going to sit in there waiting for someone else to tell me when I'm allowed to leave."
Kellen's mouth twitched. "That so?"
"I want to walk," she said. "Not far. Just…" She glanced down the corridor, then met his eyes again. "I've never seen the rest of it. Only the council chamber. The garden. Veyra's rooms. Her mother's. That's it."
Kellen gave a low, thoughtful hum, then gestured with his chin. "Well then. You've been cheated."
He fell into step beside her without another word.
They walked slowly—partly for her ribs, partly for the hush of early morning still clinging to the stone. The hallways were emptier now, save for the occasional sentry. No one stopped them. No one questioned. It helped that Kellen moved like someone born to these walls. His presence was enough.
He led her first through the east corridor—past high windows still dappled in pale gold, banners bearing old crests, stairwells that disappeared downward into unknown stone.
"That goes to the War Hall," he said, nodding to one. "Not your concern. Yet."
"Yet?"
He smiled faintly. "You keep causing political storms and you'll be sitting at the map table yourself soon."
Liora snorted. "Gods forbid."
Past that, they turned toward the outer ring—through narrow servant arches and past old oil paintings dark with time. She caught a glimpse of what must have been the southern overlook, the scent of forge smoke faint in the breeze.
Finally, they turned a quiet bend and came to a thick wooden door—unmarked, slightly warped with age.
"This," Kellen said, pushing it open, "is the old observatory."
Liora stepped through.
The room opened wide—vaulted stone, slanted with skylight, dust motes drifting through beams of sun. There were old instruments in the corners—tools for wind, for star-measure, for sightlines.
And the far wall?
Glass.
Not fully clear, but wide enough to see past the distant ridges. The mountains in the west glimmered faintly in the haze of morning.
"That…" Liora murmured, breath catching. "That's Stillwater Pier, isn't it?"
Kellen glanced sideways. "Far distance, yeah. You can see the towers on clear days. That's where the overseas ships come in."
She stared, quiet. "I've only ever heard stories. Never thought I'd see it from here."
"Most don't."
Liora pressed her fingers lightly to the glass.
Stillwater Pier. Westernmost point of the kingdom. The first step between Vaereth and the wider world. Her caravan had once passed near its coast, skirting ports to avoid inspection. It had always seemed like a place for someone else.
But not now.
She stood there in silence, shoulder brushing the wall, hair still slightly damp, Veyra's tunic loose on her frame.
And for once, she didn't feel like a shadow in someone else's keep.
She felt real.
"You've got that look," Kellen said, after a long beat.
"What look?"
"The one that says you're thinking too hard."
She didn't answer. Just smiled faintly.
Liora didn't move for a long moment.
The glass was cold beneath her fingertips. The kingdom beyond it shimmered with distance—thin, sea-silver threads of river, the pale shoulders of mountains rising like watchful ghosts. And beyond that, a glint she now knew to be Stillwater Pier.
She'd passed through forests. Scraped along the edges of burned villages. Hidden herself inside barrels of trade linen and crates of brined fruit. She knew the winding paths of Duskwatch. Knew the night-markers along the Ember Hollow trail.
But this? This was a map made visible. A memory made whole.
She turned her head, quietly.
"Has she stood here before?" she asked, her voice barely above a murmur.
Kellen followed her gaze. He didn't pretend to misunderstand.
"More than once."
"And?"
"She used to come here before campaigns. Before council trials. When her mother got sick, too." His jaw flexed. "No one came with her. Not even me. It was the one place she didn't want to be followed."
Liora nodded slowly. "But you came anyway."
"Only once. She didn't speak. Just looked west like you're doing now." He tilted his head. "Except you're softer about it."
Liora gave a crooked smile, small and fleeting. "Because I don't have anything to prove?"
"Because you've already proven what most people spend years trying to." His tone was low, even.
Kellen watched her a moment. "You've changed the way she looks at this place."
"I didn't mean to."
"Doesn't matter. Change sticks."
Silence settled—comfortable, sun-bright. Dust motes drifted like slow sparks. Liora traced the faint outline of distant ships. Possibility tugged at her ribs harder than the bandage ever did.
After a while Kellen asked, "Ready to see the rest?"
"Not yet," she whispered, eyes still on the far-off glimmer. "Just… give me a minute."
He inclined his head and took up a loose-limbed guard's stance by the doorway—watchful, unhurried.
Liora stood at the glass, the world unfolding wide before her: a kingdom of battered forts, silent vales, and one lion-hearted commander fighting to keep it whole. And for the first time she felt the map inside her chest align with what lay beyond the walls.
She wasn't a hidden captive anymore.
She was choosing where to walk next.
And the view from here was only the beginning.