The courtyard was empty by nightfall, but the whispers hadn't stopped.
All day the servants had spoken of the rider in gray. Some said he was only a scout, testing the waters. Others swore he carried the city's will, a warning wrapped in smiles. By the time the torches were lit, the air in Vale House was heavier than before, as if fear had seeped back in through the cracks of the stone.
Elma walked the east wing with Calista at her side, their footsteps echoing softly against the worn floor. The shard stirred with every glance, every hushed voice that fell silent when she passed. It wanted her to burn, to silence the doubt.
But Calista's hand brushed hers lightly, grounding her. A reminder: not every battle needed fire.
They slipped into their chamber and closed the door behind them. The noise of the house dimmed. Only the soft crackle of a hearth remained.
Elma sat on the edge of the bed, pressing her palms into her knees. "They think we're weak."
"They think we're unproven," Calista corrected, her voice calm. She moved to pour wine into two cups, the motion fluid, deliberate. "And they're right, for now. But that's not weakness. That's stagecraft."
Elma looked up, frowning. "Stagecraft?"
Calista turned, handing her the cup, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Do you think Nitron ruled by strength alone? No. He ruled by shadows, by the illusion of inevitability. The leash, the sigils, the games he played—they made people believe resistance was pointless."
Elma's jaw tightened. "And now they don't believe in anything."
"Not yet." Calista sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. Her eyes were sharp, reflecting the firelight. "That's why we give them something new to believe in."
The shard pulsed, hungry. Rule. Take. Crown.
Elma shut her eyes, pushing the whisper back. "And if I fail them?"
Calista reached out, her hand cupping Elma's jaw, steady and warm. "Then we fail together. But listen to me—" her voice dropped, softer but firmer than ever, "you are not a leash, Elma. You're not his vessel anymore. You are mine. And I am yours."
Elma's breath caught. The words sank deep, cutting through the shard's pull.
Her chest felt tight, her voice rough. "Say it again."
Calista leaned closer, lips brushing hers. "Yours."
The kiss wasn't rushed, wasn't desperate. It was slow, deliberate, filled with the weight of everything they'd fought for. Elma's hands tangled in Calista's hair, pulling her closer, clinging to the one truth that made the shard's whispers fall silent.
When they broke apart, Calista rested her forehead against hers, their breaths mingling. "Let the city send smiles. Let them send blades. Let them send crowns dripping in blood. We will not bow. Not to them. Not to anyone."
Elma swallowed, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Then swear it."
Calista's hand slid into hers, fingers tightening like a lock. "I swear. In shadows, in fire, in blood. Until the end."
Elma's throat burned. She pressed their joined hands to her lips, sealing the vow with a kiss.
For a long time, they stayed like that—no crowns, no thrones, no shard. Just two women breathing in the quiet, holding each other against the weight of the world outside.
But peace never lasted.
Long after Calista had fallen asleep against her shoulder, Elma sat awake, staring at the fire's dying embers. The shard pulsed faintly in her chest, but the whisper was different this time. Not a command. Not hunger.
Another comes.
Elma's eyes narrowed.
And in the stillness of the east wing, she knew the emissary's smile had only been the first shadow. The next would not come with pleasantries.