CALDRITH VALE - DUSKWOOD
The blood hadn't even dried.
It soaked into the cracks of the stone floor, thick and black beneath the flickering torchlight. Kara didn't move. She didn't speak. She just stared at what was left of Ser Tannon.
He'd once stood so tall in his polished breastplate, quiet and smug, with strong hands and the kind of smile that asked nothing. He never whispered promises.
He simply arrived when summoned, left when dismissed, and touched her the way her husband never could — without cruelty, without a name on his lips that wasn't hers.
Now, his eyes stared sightless up at the painted ceiling, a thin line of red leaking from the corner of his mouth.
Cederic hadn't even used a sword. Just a dagger.
Quick. Efficient.
"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" he asked, voice low and close.
Kara didn't answer.
Her fingers curled tight around the edge of the table, white-knuckled and trembling. But her face — her face stayed cold. Still. If she blinked, it was slow. If she breathed, it was quiet. She wouldn't give him the pleasure.
Cederic watched her a moment longer, then stepped around the body. His boots squelched faintly in the blood.
He stopped in front of her.
"You look pale," he said. "Was he worth it? Hm? This pitiful scrap of a man?"
Kara looked up at him, face blank. "He was better than you."
His hand cracked across her face.
She staggered back — just once — but she didn't fall. She never did.
Cederic's breathing deepened. His jaw twitched. For a heartbeat, she thought he might strike again. She was almost hoping he would. But instead, he stepped closer, and his voice dropped.
"You forget your place."
He grabbed her.
Fingers like iron dug into her arm, yanking her forward. Her body collided with his, and the smell of sweat and wine and death smothered her. She struggled, but he forced her against the wall, breath hot at her ear.
"I can have a thousand women," he hissed. "But you? You belong to me."
His hand slid up her skirt.
She bit her lip — hard — until the blood came, until the pain was something she could hold on to. She didn't scream. She didn't sob. She just let her eyes roll toward the ceiling beams above them and waited for it to be over.
Afterward, he pulled away and straightened his tunic like nothing had happened. Like she was nothing more than a basin he'd washed his filth into.
The door slammed when he left.
The silence after was worse.
Kara stood there for a long time.
Her legs trembled. Her hands shook. Her lip bled freely now, a steady trail down her chin.
But her eyes…
Her eyes stayed dry.
She sank slowly to the floor beside Ser Tannon's body, curling her arms around her knees. Her gown was torn. Her mouth tasted of copper and bile.
She stared into the fire.
No prayers came. No fury. Just the aching hollow where something used to live inside her.
She was tired.
So gods-damned tired.
And for the first time since arriving in Duskwood, Kara wanted to die.
***************
The eastern garden of Arkenfall's castle was a sanctuary — far from courtly noise, from bustling guards and whispering maids, tucked beyond the maze of hedgerows and quiet stone paths. The sun had begun its lazy descent, casting golden light across marbled benches and clusters of wild violet bloom.
Neriah sat on a carved stone chaise, a thick book of testing principles open on her lap. She was deep into its pages, brows slightly furrowed in concentration, lips occasionally moving with silent reading. The breeze teased strands of her red hair across her cheek, and she absently tucked them back, not once lifting her gaze.
Damon stood for a long moment in the archway, watching her.
He should have gone to rest. Gods knew it had been a long day — council matters, border letters, a poorly-aged wine tasting that Vael Corrin insisted was "urgent," and two broken pens later, he still hadn't recovered from that painfully tedious meeting with Edravon emissaries.
But there she was.
And suddenly, nothing else mattered.
He stepped forward quietly, gravel crunching faintly beneath his boots. The closer he came, the more the world quieted. When he reached her, he leaned down over the back of the bench and gently covered her eyes with his hands.
Neriah startled. "What—?"
Then she inhaled.
A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips.
"I know it's you, Damon."
He gasped, mock-wounded, pulling his hands away. "You wound me, my lady. How ever did you guess?"
She turned, her grin blooming as she looked up at him. "Your scent. You always smell like steel and something... warm. Like the woods after rain."
He smirked, circling to sit beside her. "That's highly improper, Riah. You shouldn't go around memorizing how I smell."
"You're the one sneaking up on people in gardens," she teased. "You could've given me a heart attack."
"A small one, I hope."
She laughed, and he allowed himself to relax beside her, his posture loosening as though the tension had been pulled from his bones the moment he sat down.
"It's good to see you," she said, quieter now.
He looked at her, really looked. "And you. You've hidden yourself away like a scholar."
Neriah tapped the book on her lap. "Lady Vax said I need to understand the theory of royal trade law before the next testing."
He leaned closer, glancing at the text. "Did she also mention that half of this is outdated nonsense and the other half is written to make you fall asleep in protest?"
"She may have skipped that part."
He settled back into the bench, stretching one arm along the back, his gaze still on her. "Well, I'll say this. You're the most enchanting student the garden's ever seen."
Neriah blushed faintly and dropped her eyes to the book, though she wasn't reading now. "You're distracting me."
"I came all this way," he said mildly. "I intend to."
They sat in silence for a moment, the garden humming around them — birdsong weaving through the hedges, distant laughter from the far courtyard, the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.
"Busy day?" she asked.
Damon exhaled. "Let's just say I now know more about Varketh's annual honey surplus than any man should."
She giggled — a soft, genuine sound that made his chest ache a little. He turned slightly toward her, watching as the last of the sunlight caught the strands of her hair.
And then, slowly, the mood shifted.
He saw it in the way her shoulders curled slightly inward, the sudden stillness in her hands.
"I'm worried about my father," she said.
He was quiet. Listening.
"I've written him twice since I arrived here. Nothing. Not a word. I don't even know if the letters are reaching Halemond. I just… I wish I could see him."
Damon leaned forward, his voice low. "Maybe you will."
She looked up, surprised. "What?"
He gave her a soft smile — steady, reassuring. "We can ride for Halemond, first light tomorrow."
"Really?" she asked, still breathless with disbelief.
"Yes. Why not." he said without hesitation.
She looked away for a moment, as if steadying the weight of the hope he'd just handed her.
"Lady Vax said I'm not allowed to leave Arkenfall until the testing is over," she said, brow creasing. "She made it sound like law."
Damon arched a brow. "Lady Vax says many things."
Then he smirked. "Fortunately… I'm the one who writes the laws."
Neriah's laugh warmed the air around them. "So the king breaks his own rules?"
"Bends them," he corrected smoothly. "In favor of his wife."
She turned toward him, gaze resting on the planes of his face — so unreadable at times, yet now so open.
"I've missed your voice," he said softly. "Even after a day."
She raised a brow. "We share the same chamber."
"And still," he murmured, "I missed you."
Neriah reached up without thinking, brushing a loose lock of hair away from his brow. Her fingers lingered a moment too long. Their eyes met.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
His answer was quiet. "You can ask me anything."
She took a breath. "Did you… did you really kill your brothers to take the throne?"
The question hung in the air — delicate and dangerous.
Damon didn't look away. His voice, when it came, was calm. Measured.
"Some truths carry weight," he said.
"That's not a no."
He held her gaze. "No. It's not."
Her breath caught.
"Why?"
His voice dropped lower.
"Because the throne cannot be shared," he said simply. "And they… they weren't the kind of men who knew how to serve it."
A silence passed between them. Neriah didn't speak again. She didn't press him. She simply sat, letting his answer settle...unsure what to do with the answer — unsure if she wanted more of it.
"And your father?" she asked gently.
Damon's jaw tightened, his eyes growing distant. "He was too cruel to care for anyone."
Neriah's chest ached, her fingers tightening at her side. She reached up then — soft, unthinking — and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
It was barely a brush. Gentle. Light. But it stopped the air in Damon's lungs.
He turned to her slowly.
"That's… not how you kiss a king," he said, voice lower now, rougher.
She smiled. "It isn't?"
He leaned in, his hand slipping to her waist.
"No," he whispered, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "Let me show you."
And then — then he kissed her.
It was not rushed. Not desperate.
It was full.
Full of the promises resting beneath the surface. He kissed her like she was real and precious and his. And Neriah — Neriah kissed him back like she'd been waiting.