The house had rules.
Guests weren't supposed to see the bloodstains in the staff hallways. Servants weren't supposed to speak above whispers. Wives weren't supposed to linger in the east wing past midnight.
And weapons weren't supposed to plot.
But Elma had never cared for rules.
She slipped through the back corridors barefoot, cloak brushing her ankles, shard hidden in her palm. The manor felt different tonight, heavy with expectation, like the walls were waiting to see who bled first. Every corner hummed with faint wards, but the shard pulsed cold each time she crossed one, shattering the spells into nothing. She grinned through the ache in her ribs. So it eats magic too. Good to know.
Halfway to the kitchens, she heard footsteps. Too heavy for staff. Too slow for assassins. She flattened against the wall.
Kade.
Silver eyes glinted in the torchlight as he passed, silent as a knife sliding out of its sheath. He didn't look her way — or maybe he did, and chose to keep walking. With Kade, you could never tell.
When the sound faded, Elma moved again.
The kitchen was empty, ovens banked to embers. She ducked into the cold room, where barrels of wine stood stacked high. At the very back, behind a wall panel only thieves would notice, a trapdoor yawned open.
Calista was already waiting.
Her hood shadowed her face, but her hands betrayed her. They were clenched white around the iron railing, knuckles pale, rings biting into flesh. She exhaled when Elma entered, not relief so much as confirmation.
"You weren't followed?" Calista asked.
Elma held up the shard, smirking. "If I was, they're not breathing anymore."
Calista's lips twitched — not quite a smile. "Down."
They descended the narrow stairs into the cellars, where the air was thick with damp stone and secrets. The chamber at the bottom wasn't on any servant's map. Nitron had used it once for rituals that left the walls scorched and the floor cracked. Now, it belonged to them.
A crude circle of chalk and ash sprawled across the stone, fresh and dangerous. Candles guttered at each point, their flames bowing toward the shard in Elma's hand.
"You drew this?" Elma asked, raising a brow.
Calista pulled back her hood. Her hair spilled free, shadows clinging to the strands. "I've spent years pretending to be porcelain. Did you think I learned nothing from his books?"
Elma's grin sharpened. "I like you better as a liar."
Calista stepped close enough that their shoulders brushed. The leash immediately punished them, pain flaring sharp across Elma's chest, but she grit her teeth and shoved the shard into the circle.
It answered.
The chalk hissed, sizzling like fat in a pan. The candles surged blue. The shard hovered, weightless, as if the air had decided to carry it. Lines of sigils crawled across the floor like veins, burning as they spread outward.
The system stirred.
[Warning: Unauthorized Ritual Detected]
Risk: Termination by Master
Countermeasure: Active leash audit
Elma's vision blurred with pain as the leash tightened, trying to choke her into obedience. Her knees buckled. But Calista caught her, dragging her upright, pressing her palm over the shard.
"Fight it," Calista whispered. "Don't let him win even here."
The leash hissed, cutting into her bones. The shard pulsed back, cold slicing hot, resisting the chain. For one long, impossible moment, Elma felt both forces tearing her apart.
Then—snap.
A single thread broke. The leash recoiled, snarling, but it didn't close fully around her again. Elma gasped, dragging air into lungs that suddenly felt freer.
[System Update: Leash Integrity −7%]
Source: Frostspawn Schema Fragment
Warning: Repairs pending…
Elma laughed, breathless. "You saw that, right?"
Calista's eyes blazed. "I felt it."
They stood there, both shaking, the shard still pulsing faintly in Elma's hand. Calista reached up, fingers brushing her jaw — and this time, the leash burned softer. Not gone. But weaker.
Hope was a dangerous drug.
Elma caught her hand, pressing it harder against her cheek. "We can do this. We can end him."
Calista's voice was low, rough. "Then we start tonight."
"Who first?" Elma asked.
Calista's lips curved into something feral. "The donors he trusts most. The ones who've been whispering about replacing him behind closed doors. You know their beds. Their vices. Use them."
Elma smirked. "Always do."
Calista's gaze flicked down, then back up. Heat threaded the air between them. For once, the leash didn't try to stop it.
Elma leaned close, lips brushing her ear. "When we win, I'm burning this collar off and taking you on his throne."
Calista shuddered — whether from fear or want, Elma couldn't tell.
The shard pulsed, as if agreeing.
By dawn, the plan was in motion.
Elma spent the day weaving through the club's upper lounges, where demons disguised themselves as men in suits and donors nursed liquor worth more than most houses. She smiled, she flirted, she pressed her body close — but this time, the secrets she pulled weren't for Nitron. They were for Calista.
Every whisper, every confession, every sigh of lust — Elma stored them like knives.
By the time she returned to her chamber, she had three names. Donors whose loyalty wavered. Men who wanted Nitron weakened. Men who, given the right push, might side with a queen instead of a master.
She laid the names before Calista that night, the shard glowing between them.
Calista studied each, expression cold. Then she smiled, sharp and terrible.
"Good," she said. "One week from now, they'll kneel to us."
Elma smirked, leaning back on her elbows. "And him?"
Calista's eyes darkened. "Him, we save for last."
The shard pulsed like a heartbeat.
The system quivered, uneasy.
[New Quest: Coup Preparation]
Objective: Subvert 3 Donors
Progress: 0/3
Warning: Master suspicion rising
Elma grinned, blood singing in her veins. "Then let's sharpen the knives."
Outside, the manor still slept. But in the east wing, a throne had already begun to crack.