The Tower was quiet now, except for the crackle of falling stone.
Ash drifted down in slow flakes, settling into Elma's hair, streaking Calista's silk. Nitron's body had burned away to nothing, leaving only the scorch mark where he fell. The air still smelled of iron and smoke, but it was over.
Elma stood in the wreckage, unsteady but upright. The shard inside her wasn't roaring anymore—it hummed like a coal banked in ash, restless but waiting.
At the doorway, servants crowded shoulder to shoulder. No one spoke. Some stared at Elma as if she'd grown horns, others with something like awe. A few dropped to their knees, heads bowed low. Not to Nitron's name this time, but to hers.
Calista's hand slid into Elma's, squeezing once before she spoke. Her voice carried, sharp and cool: "Vale House belongs to no man now. You've seen it. You've felt it. The leash is broken."
A ripple moved through the servants—fear, relief, something neither could name.
Elma swallowed. Her throat was dry, her tongue heavy, but the words came anyway. "You don't have to kneel." She looked at the faces around her, pale with soot and uncertainty. "You don't have to kneel to anyone ever again."
For a moment, no one moved. Then a young maid lifted her head. Her eyes were wet, but steady. "If not you, then who?"
Elma's stomach twisted. The shard stirred at the question, eager. Take them. Rule.
Calista stepped closer, her voice low at Elma's ear. "They'll follow someone, whether you claim it or not. Better you than the next tyrant who tries to step in."
Elma's heart thudded. She hated the way the word rule curled inside her, the way the shard fed on it. But Calista's hand was warm in hers, and the truth was plain in the faces staring back. If she said nothing, someone else would take this moment from her.
She lifted her chin—not with fire or light, but with steady breath. "Then follow rebellion. Follow freedom. Not me, not my leash, not another master. Follow the promise that none of us will ever bow to him again."
The room held its breath.
And then someone clapped. A guard—scarred, soot-streaked, eyes sharp. Others followed, tentative at first, then louder, until the Tower rang with the sound. It wasn't worship. It was release.
They met that night in the east wing.
The great hall was half-collapsed, but torches burned in iron sconces, casting uneven light across the walls. Servants, guards, and house stewards filled the space, their whispers darting like moths. Word of Nitron's fall had already spread beyond the manor. Messengers had slipped into the city. Whispers would become rumors by morning. By next week, the whole Vale would know.
Elma sat at the head of the broken table, Calista at her side. She hated the way it looked, like a throne reborn, but Calista leaned in close and murmured, "It's not a throne if you don't let it be one."
So she stayed.
One by one, the voices rose. A steward demanded to know how they'd hold the manor without Nitron's coffers. A guard swore half the city's vultures would descend once they smelled weakness. A maid whispered of allies outside—names of old families, rivals who might turn rebellion into war.
Elma listened. She didn't command, didn't lash. She only asked questions, and the room began to shift. They stopped looking for orders and started offering ideas. For the first time in Vale House, voices rose without fear of chains.
But still, every so often, Elma felt the shard stir. It wanted her to take the table, to pound her fist, to crown herself in ash and silence. Each time, she breathed slow until the urge passed.
Near midnight, the hall emptied, leaving only ashes on the torches and the weight of new oaths. The rebellion was no longer rumor. It was alive. Fragile, but alive.
Elma leaned back, rubbing her temples. Calista slid a cup of wine into her hand.
"You spoke well," Calista said.
"I spoke scared."
"That's what made them listen."
Elma let out a shaky laugh. For the first time since the leash had shattered, she felt almost human again. Almost.
Calista rested a hand on her shoulder, thumb brushing the line of her collarbone. "You'll make them believe. Not because the shard burns in you. Because you do."
Elma covered her hand, holding it there. "Then don't let me become him."
Calista's gaze was steady, sharp as a blade. "I won't. Even if I have to cut you down myself."
Elma should have flinched. Instead, she smiled.
Outside, the wind carried ashes into the night, scattering them across the Vale. And with them, the first breath of rebellion spread.