The manor felt wrong tonight.
Candles flickered when Elma and Calista passed, flames bending toward them like they were being watched. Servants skirted around corners without speaking, eyes lowered, but too quickly, like they'd been told to avoid even looking. Guards stood stiff at every door, smiles fixed and empty, hands a little too close to their swords.
It was quiet, but not peaceful. Quiet like the pause before an executioner's swing.
Elma adjusted the high collar of her coat, hiding the faint burn of the leash sigil against her neck. The shard's weight in her sleeve was a steady pulse she couldn't ignore, like a second heartbeat. Calista walked beside her, every step measured, her posture perfect. Only Elma could see the tension in her shoulders.
"Feels like walking into a trap," Elma muttered under her breath.
"It is," Calista said softly, her voice even. "We just don't know whose."
Two guards opened the study doors without being asked. The room beyond glowed with firelight.
Nitron sat behind his blackstone desk, draped in shadow like a king carved out of obsidian. He wasn't reading or writing. He was waiting.
"Come," he said.
His voice was soft, but it filled the room.
Elma stepped forward first, her boots barely making a sound on the thick carpet. Calista followed, her mask firmly in place, though her hand brushed Elma's briefly—just enough to feel the warmth of her skin. A silent reminder: we're in this together.
Nitron poured himself a glass of wine with the calm precision of someone who had all the time in the world. "You've been busy," he said.
Neither of them answered.
He swirled the glass, watching the dark liquid catch the firelight. "There are whispers in this house. Strange ones."
The leash tightened suddenly, sharp and suffocating. Elma froze, forcing herself not to react.
Nitron's gaze flicked to her. He smiled faintly, like a teacher amused by a struggling student. "Are you loyal, Elma?"
Her throat ached with the pressure. She forced the word out, steady but strained. "Yes."
The leash eased.
Nitron turned his attention to Calista. "And you, my queen? Loyal?"
Calista's voice was calm, smooth as silk over steel. "Always."
Nitron chuckled softly. "Good." He leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine. "Then tell me why the Shadow Hall stirred last night."
Elma's heart stopped for a beat.
Calista's expression didn't flicker. "I wouldn't know. I've been here all evening."
"Mm." Nitron swirled his wine again, gaze flicking between them. "Curious thing, old magic. It whispers louder than servants do. I can smell its breath in these halls."
Elma kept her face blank, but the shard in her sleeve warmed, as if reacting to his words.
Nitron's smile sharpened. "Do you believe in ghosts, Elma? Old ones. The kind that ask for names."
She met his gaze, unflinching. "If I did, I wouldn't tell them mine."
That earned a low laugh. "Good answer."
He set the glass down and slid an envelope across the desk. The wax seal was unfamiliar—a crest of a serpent biting its own tail.
"Be in the gardens at midnight," he said. "Wear black."
Calista took the envelope with steady hands, though Elma could see the tension in her knuckles.
Nitron leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. "I expect a flawless performance from both of you."
Neither woman moved. Neither breathed.
"You may go," he said finally, dismissing them like servants.
They left the study in silence, the heavy doors closing behind them with a dull thud. The hall outside felt colder, darker.
Calista's fingers tightened on the envelope. "He knows," she whispered.
"Maybe," Elma said quietly. "Or maybe he just wants us to think he does."
They passed two guards who were smiling too much, their hands resting on polished sword hilts. The flickering candlelight made their shadows stretch unnaturally long.
Back in Calista's private chambers, they shut the door and exhaled.
"Open it," Elma said.
Calista broke the wax seal. Inside was a single card, black as ink, with silver letters that shifted if you looked too long.
'Midnight. The serpent will test its prey. Don't bleed too soon.'
Elma frowned. "Cryptic. Typical."
Calista set the card down, pacing the room. "He's playing with us."
"Then we play back," Elma said. She rested her hand on Calista's arm, grounding her. "We've been on the back foot too long."
Calista looked at her, and for a second, the mask cracked. Fear, sharp and fleeting, flashed in her eyes.
"I won't let him hurt you," Elma said softly.
Calista's lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she stepped closer, her hand brushing Elma's sleeve. The shard pulsed faintly, warmth spreading through Elma's arm like a promise.
The manor outside was silent, but it felt like every shadow was listening.
They weren't walking into a trap tomorrow.
They were already in one.