Natalia perched at the door, as deadly as always, a shadow in neat black slacks and a pressed blouse, tied in a knot to show her lean stomach. Cyra had called for her just moments before. Clara thought that she always looked so put-together, like she could blend into a boardroom or an interrogation room without changing expression.
"Natalia dear, I need the stone," Cyra said simply.
She leaned against the doorway with her foot propped up behind her. "You have legs. I'm not your servant. You should really hire one already."
Cyra sighed. "Yes my deadly weapon of fury, you are not a servant and I would never dare to insult your talents by treating you as such. But if you recall, you— my trusted black widow, you are the only one who knows where it is. That's why I gave it to you, remember? Because you are the only one I trust with the entirety of my life."
She smirked. "That's more like it—", then vanished down the hall.
The moon gem. Clara hadn't seen it since the warehouse, since the chaos of lightning and Cyra being nearly murdered. For weeks it had lived in her memory like a phantom, the mystery of the universe that had changed her life forever.
When Natalia returned, she carried it in both hands wrapped in a towel as though it were alive. The moonstone was larger than Clara remembered. In the bedroom's morning light, it looked different—almost unearthly. Its outer shell was pocked and porous, like cooled lava, black as charcoal in some places, grey in others. But between those holes, colors shimmered. Not bright like jewels, but subtle, purple melting into green, green giving way to indigo, a whisper of gold at the edges.
It was ugly. It was beautiful. It was dangerous.
Her breath caught. "It's… different," she murmured, unable to tear her eyes away.
"Everything looks different when you bring it into the light," Cyra said softly.
Natalia handed it to him, then disappeared again, leaving them alone. The moon gem creeped her out and she wanted nothing more to do with it.
Cyra balanced the weight of the stone in his hands, his lips curling faintly. "And you wanted to hang this—" he gestured at the jagged lump "—from your neck with a shoelace?"
"It's practical," Clara shot back. "I don't need jewelry. I just need it to work."
He gave her a look of pure offense. "Clara, you are too pretty for a rock that looks like it fell off a set from a sci-fi movie."
She snorted. "God forbid something that keeps me alive clashes with my eyes." She rolled her eyes.
He ignored her, already walking toward the door. "Stay put. I'll need to… persuade it."
He disappeared into one of his endless rooms. The sound of drills and metal tools echoed faintly down the hall.
Cyra rolled his sleeves baring his lean biceps. The moonstone sat on the workbench under the stark light, dark as wet ash, its oil-slick shimmer catching fire whenever he turned it. Like it was mocking him—like it knew it was the reason his dearest Clara was in pain.
He tried a chisel first, the tap of metal against stone rang sharp in the cavernous room. Too shallow. The second strike bit deeper, sending a tremor through his wrist. Hairline cracks webbed across the surface. He smiled. Always the stubborn ones that split the prettiest.
Another blow and the stone birthed, two jagged fragments. They were warm in his palm, as though they still held the charge of that first night under the warehouse lights. He turned them, letting the sheen ripple. Red and green, violet and gold, flashes of color skating beneath the black skin like secrets trying to surface.
Perfect. More than perfect.
He set one shard in the tray for Clara, brushed the dust from it with his thumb. The other he let rest a moment longer in his hand, feeling it pulse faintly against his skin. His smile lingered—sharp, private. Then, in a motion so practiced it felt like breathing, he slipped the second piece into his pocket.
By the time he walked back toward the bedroom, only one glittering shard lay in plain sight, gleaming innocently in the tray.
It was no larger than a coin, its surface rough and uneven. Even so, when he held it between his fingers, it pulsed faintly with a reddish glow.
"Finally gave in," Clara teased.
Cyra ignored her jab, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he let the stone rest in his hand. The glow deepened, red threading through the oil-slick surface until it resembled the last spark of embers in a dying fire.
"Here." He set it gently against her palm.
The effect was immediate. The dull throb in her skull, the constant reminder of her dependency, evaporated as if someone had lifted a weight off her spine. She blinked, almost dizzy with relief.
"It… it worked," she whispered.
"Of course it worked," he said, smug but softer this time.
"I have a theory." She nicked her finger lightly on the edge of his watchband, then pressed the shard to the cut. The glow pulsed once, and before her eyes, the skin knit back together in a seamless line. No scar. No sting.
She gasped, wide-eyed. "It heals me."
They exchanged a glance—equal parts wonder and unease.
"Let's try something bigger," Cyra said, his tone shifting toward curiosity. He lifted the shard and set it carefully against her ribs, over the hidden fracture.
For a moment, she felt it—the warmth, the humming, the promise of relief. But then, the glow sputtered. The stone dimmed. And the pain remained.
"Drained," Cyra muttered, pulling it away disappointedly.
"So it needs a full charge for something that big," Clara concluded, still catching her breath.
"Or several charges." He flicked the shard between his fingers, then curled it into his palm.
"For now, my hands will do."
Before she could argue, he stood once more. "Natalia will have it sent to someone discreet. He'll craft something worthy of you."
Clara frowned. "It doesn't need to be worthy. It just needs to work."
"Ugly things don't belong near you," he said simply, and for once, there was no teasing in his voice.
Her throat tightened. She didn't answer.
"Natalia my most trusted and devoted creature, I ask of another favor!" He half teased.
He slipped the shard back into Natalia's hands when she returned, giving her instructions under his breath. Clara tried not to scowl. Natalia held it like it was the most disgusting thing she ever seen and disappeared.
When the door shut again, Cyra turned back, his expression lighter. "Speaking of visitors—Emily is coming today, isn't she? We'd better keep up appearances. No panicked best friends storming the mansion."
Clara groaned. "Emily worries too much."
"She loves you."
"Exactly the problem."
Cyra chuckled, then sat by the bed, one hand finding its way back to her side. She leaned against the pillows, eyes half-lidded as the familiar hum spread through her ribcage, soothing the sharp ache.
Minutes passed like that—his hand steady, hers curled loosely on the blanket. He didn't complain, but Clara noticed the way his shoulders hunched, how he braced himself against the mattress to stay close enough.
Finally, she sighed. "You're going to hurt yourself hunching over like that."
"I'm fine."
"You're stubborn."
"And you're bossy."
She rolled her eyes, then shifted slightly. The words came out before she could stop them. "Just—get in. It's easier."
His eyes flashed up, surprise flickering across his face. For once, Cyra didn't have a clever quip ready.
"Don't make it weird," she muttered, already regretting it.
But then he smirked—slow, wolfish, entirely too pleased. "Oh, Clara," he said, slipping onto the mattress beside her with disarming ease, "I wouldn't dream of it."
His hand found its place again, resting gently over her rib. The ache ebbed. The silence stretched. And though she wanted to blame exhaustion, Clara didn't stop herself from leaning just slightly closer.