Riven let the silence settle. Long enough for courtesy to demand a report.
"I see you are well, Lady Rebecca. The North has done nothing—"
"Spare me, Elder."
The words cut through him. Sharp. Final.
"I know why you requested this meeting."
Riven fell silent. His gaze shifted—not to her, but to the cup now resting in his hand. Steam curled upward in slow, deliberate spirals. He watched it. Listened to the silence that followed.
Her gaze pressed into him. Deeper. And deeper still—before, at last, turning away. Soft.
"Tonight," she said, "at midnight, I was to host a banquet."
Her veiled gaze returned to him.
"Tell me, Elder…"
A pause.
"Can you assume the occasion?"
His breath stilled—just for a moment. He knew. Of course he knew. But the guilt would not allow him to say it.
"One hundred and thirty years of unquestioned service," she continued. "One deathly ordeal after another. And still—you want more."
A faint tilt of her head.
"You want my aid," she went on, "in convincing my beloved into yet another charade of your… loose designs."
Riven's posture shifted—barely. The cup in his hand remained steady. Unshaken.
"If there were another path," he said quietly, "I would have taken it. But circumstances have left me no other choice."
Silence answered him.
Then—
"Am I to pity your circumstances…? Is that it?"
His jaw tightened. Not anger. Not even close.
"No." His gaze lowered. "Only assist me… in reaching him."
"Why should I?" A pause. "Why would I ever?" Her head tilted slightly beneath the veil. "You are the Elder, are you not? He is your vassal. Why not order it… as you always have? Send him to his death. And await his return with another shining trophy. Why don't you."
Riven exhaled slowly. He set the cup down with deliberate care.
"I understand—"
"You don't."
She cut straight through him.
"You are a self-serving, self-justifying shell of a man." Her voice did not rise. It didn't need to. "Living only for the praise that obedience brings. Even when it murdered your children—your grandchildren—you did nothing. You measure life by the honour it brings your name—not by the rivers of blood this House demands in return."
"Enough."
Riven's voice rose. For a moment—rage passed through him. Then it was gone.
"I have done everything." Each word measured. "Given everything I could—for this House. My comrades. My vassals. And my own blood. Everything." A breath. "None of it willingly. None of it without cost. But what choice do you think I had? How much power do you think this title holds? I am one man—against twelve." His gaze lifted now. Steady. Unflinching. "I cannot be the smartest. The strongest. Or even the most beloved. But I can be the one who survives. The one who ensures this House—and your future—survives."
Silence settled between them. Heavy.
"You want me to order him?" His voice lowered. "I will. I will abandon all pretense of a father. And decree it. And when he refuses—" Because they both knew he would— "and the rest demand his head… I will be the one to take it." A pause. "And give you a real reason to despise me…" His gaze did not waver. "Daughter."
She went still. Just for a moment. Something unpleasant crossed her mind. She burned it away. Steadied herself. Set the untouched cup down with care, then rose.
"I'll do it."
Her voice was soft. Controlled.
She turned to leave. Then paused and looked back.
"But know this—should anything happen to my beloved… Forget that we share blood." Her gaze hardened. "Send your executioners for my head. Before I come for yours."
A final pause.
"Father."
Riven nodded once. He swallowed—the bitterness rising sharp at the back of his throat. And watched her go. Toward the doors. Armon and Elliott parted for her—with exact, ritual precision. Neither of them dared look twice at a pureblood Noctis.
**********
When her hands finally stopped shaking—
and her mind found something resembling focus—
she lit the candle.
A timed one. Set to extinguish itself in exactly ninety minutes. Minus the five she had already wasted—
panicking.
Holding back a breakdown.
Her hands moved.
Forceps.
Razors.
That dagger-thing.
Reagents.
Pinned skin.
Between her teeth—a glowing crystal. Bitten down hard enough to threaten fracture.
Whatever he had taken—
it hadn't just rendered him unconscious.
It had shut down the hyper-regeneration of their kind entirely.
One mistake—
and he would bleed out.
Her thoughts churned.
A storm of irritation.
Resentment.
Fear.
Don't provoke the Council, I said.
An open door of opportunity—and you spat it back at me.
And then what?
Get poisoned like the greedy rat you are.
All deserved. Right.
Wrong.
Demand surgery—on a hunch.
Write half-mad instructions—
hand them to me—
and give me a damn nod to cut you open.
I should kill you now.
End this nonsense.
Her hands didn't stop.
Even as the thought settled in.
Even as something colder followed it.
Her eyes strained harder—
not to kill him.
Nyxvalis blood was black.
And so was everything beneath it.
She had never cared to study anatomy.
Her work had always been simpler—
cut through.
Destroy.
Move on.
So why—
why the hell was she doing this?
Only the faint blue channels of current gave her guidance.
Where to cut.
Where not to.
That much—
she had bothered to learn.
Her gaze snapped back to the instructions.
Again.
And again.
Twelve millimetres left of the heart.
She bit down harder on the crystal.
His voice echoed—uninvited.
Hold it like this.
Angle it—no, lower.
Sterilise here.
Don't hesitate.
Curse you, Chion.
Her fingers moved deeper.
Too close.
Far too close.
Then—
she felt it.
Before she saw it.
Cold.
Wrong.
A small sphere.
Wriggling.
Threaded with fine, twitching tendrils.
Disgusting.
A shiver crawled up her spine as she adjusted her grip—
following his instructions.
Precisely.
It was working.
It's working—
The thing…
opened.
An eye.
Not a curse.
A Malifice.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
The structure shifted—
alive.
Then it screamed.
A sound that did not belong inside a body.
It ruptured.
Purple ichor burst outward—
coating her hands.
The instruments.
Him.
"By the gods—what have I done—"
Chion convulsed.
Violently.
His body arched—
then buckled.
Vessels ruptured beneath his skin.
Dark lines spread—
splintering outward.
Breaking.
Blood followed.
Too much.
Far too much.
Her breath hitched.
Her hands froze.
No.
No—
He was dying.
She had killed him.