The lounge reeked of smoke and wealth, perfume clinging to the velvet curtains like grease. Crystal glasses clinked. Laughter dripped sharp enough to cut. Donors leaned close over low tables, trading secrets, favors, debts.
Elma felt every stare on her like a hand. The leash throbbed against her collarbone, reminding her that every victory was claimed in his name, not hers. Still—tonight, with three donors bent in less than a week, she felt untouchable.
She stood near the center of the lounge, white silk draping her bruised ribs, smile lazy as a cat stretched on knives. She didn't need to shout to be heard. She only had to exist.
Lord Feyn was the first to bite. He lifted his glass, rings flashing, arrogance heavier than his cologne. "Three donors swayed in seven days. Even House Thorn begins to cough on their own pride." He tilted his head, gaze sliding toward her. "Perhaps… the leash-witch isn't merely a weapon. Perhaps she is wasted on a collar."
The words landed like blood in water.
The room went silent, brittle as glass. Heads turned. Fans paused mid-flutter. Even the musicians stuttered a note. Every eye flicked—not to Elma—but to Nitron.
Nitron didn't rage. Didn't speak. He let silence work like a knife. Firelight painted his face in shadow and geometry, his hands relaxed on the arm of his chair. But the weight of him filled every corner.
When he finally spoke, his voice was silk stretched over iron. "A bold observation, Lord Feyn. But boldness burns the fastest."
Some laughed too loudly, relief spilling out like cheap wine. But the poison was planted.
Elma tilted her head, grin curling wider. "Careful, Lord. If you keep flattering me, I might start believing you."
The leash punished her instantly. A spike of heat lanced her throat, searing like iron. She masked the wince by tossing her hair, letting it fall like a dare.
Nitron's gaze touched her like a blade across skin. Not rage. Not warning. Promise.
Later, when most of the guests had slithered off to their carriages, Nitron remained with a small circle of wolves in silk. Donors who never left early. Men and women who thrived in shadows thicker than velvet.
Elma stayed standing. Her ribs screamed, but she didn't bow.
Nitron finally rose. His cloak dragged silence behind him. "Tomorrow," he said, eyes never leaving hers, "you will host Donor Thalos."
The name was a slap. Thalos—House Thorn's envoy, the very bloodline that had once kidnapped Calista.
Elma smirked, though her stomach turned. "A leash-dog entertaining kidnappers?"
The leash burned for her insolence. She stood taller anyway.
Nitron's eyes flared like furnaces. "You will please him. Or you will not be here to displease me again."
The words iced through her spine. The leash throbbed, eager to obey his command.
Her smirk didn't falter. "Then I'll make sure he never forgets me."
For a long beat, Nitron studied her. The entire room held its breath. Then he turned away, dismissing her like a man dismissing weather. "See that you do."
The corridors outside were dim, torches guttering low. The air smelled of stone and ash. Elma's steps echoed, soft but defiant. Her ribs hurt. Her leash hummed like a serpent under her skin.
She didn't expect anyone waiting. But Calista was there.
She leaned against the wall, midnight silk clinging to her like armor, eyes too sharp to be safe. Her fan snapped shut with a sound that echoed like a blade being sheathed.
"You shouldn't bait him like that," she hissed.
Elma leaned on the opposite wall, grin sharp despite the pain. "I thought you liked a good show."
Calista's eyes burned. "He'll test you. And with Thorn of all people? If he makes you kneel—" Her voice broke. She swallowed, forced it flat again. "If he makes you kneel for them, don't. Not even to survive. I'll burn the room before I watch it."
Elma laughed low, the sound cracked but alive. "Then keep the fire ready. Because I don't kneel."
The leash lashed at her, hot spikes of pain through her chest. She staggered, caught herself on the stone, gritting her teeth.
Calista flinched as if she felt the scorch herself, her hand twitching at her side, aching to reach out. She didn't. Couldn't. But her eyes gave her away—rage and hunger tangled together.
"One week," she whispered, voice trembling with danger. "We keep the masks on one week. Then the board flips."
Elma's grin widened, blood still fresh at her lip. "Then let's start breaking pieces."
The shard in her sleeve pulsed like a heartbeat.
The next night came quickly.
Candles threw orange light across the south lounge. Velvet seats, wine too expensive to drink, air thick with expectation.
Donor Thalos arrived in silence, his attendants trailing like shadows. Young, handsome in a way that was practiced, smile sharp as a knife meant for throats. House Thorn's golden envoy.
He sat opposite Elma, crossing one leg over the other, gaze sweeping her like inventory.
"So," he drawled. "The infamous leash-witch. I thought you'd be taller."
Elma poured him a drink without asking, the shard burning faint in her sleeve. She smirked. "And I thought you'd be smarter. Guess we're both disappointed."
His grin faltered. Then returned, sharper. "They say you bleed for the wife. They say you fight for anyone but him."
Her smile turned dangerous. "They say a lot of things. Funny how none of them ever live long enough to repeat it."
The leash seared, Nitron's suspicion a phantom in her chest. She let it burn. She wanted him to see.
Thalos leaned forward, eyes glittering. "You think you can turn me?"
"I think you came here alone because you already want to be turned."
His smile cracked. Her hand brushed his sleeve "accidentally." The shard pulsed once.
Threads burst in her vision—contracts like chains coiling his wrists, binding him to House Thorn. Cruel, red, unyielding.
Thalos stiffened, face paling. "What did you do?"
Elma smirked, voice low and lethal. "Showed you how trapped you are."
He swallowed hard. His bravado bled. And then, almost against his will, he whispered: "Help me."
Her grin widened. Victory tasted like smoke.
The shard pulsed.
[Quest Complete: Subvert 3 Donors]
Council Swing Secured.
Rumor Meter: 74%
New Flag: Thorn Compromise.
Later, when the lounge emptied and Thalos was gone, Elma found Calista waiting at the far end of the hall.
"We have the three," Elma said.
Calista's lips curved, small and dangerous. "Then the week begins."
For the first time, Elma believed it: the Vale house wasn't Nitron's anymore. It was theirs.