The sheets were damp with heat, clinging to their skin in the aftermath of tangled limbs and whispered moans.
Simon lay half-naked against the headboard, breath steadying, skin slick with sweat and satisfaction. His chest rose and fell beneath the soft glow of candlelight, muscles loose, the last shivers of pleasure still fading from his body.
Lyra lay beside him, her body pressed along his side, one bare leg hooked over his. She kissed his chest lazily. Once, then again…her lips lingering just below his collarbone. Each kiss was a quiet promise, a tether to keep him there, longer.
Her hand moved in slow circles across his shoulder, fingertips tracing the shape of him like she was still memorizing his body, though she already knew it by heart.
"You'll be leaving soon," she murmured, her voice barely more than breath against his skin. "I can feel it."
He didn't answer at first. The silence stretched, not cruel, just inevitable.
"Yes," he said finally. "House Valenson."
She pulled the sheet up over herself, hiding her chest more out of instinct than modesty. "Why? I believed the engagement was off?"
"The vault, it was breached," he said, voice turning cold with thought. "Their relic. Cylla is being threatened. I have a feeling they'll want the union accelerated."
"So," Lyra said, her hand still on his skin, "you'll go marry a girl you barely know."
Simon exhaled slowly, then looked at her, his expression softer than his voice. "It's not about knowing her. It's about the relic. The bloodline. Power."
"What about me? What happens to us?"
"I don't want any of them," he said. "I want you, that doesn't change."
That made her pause. She stared at him, eyes dark with warmth, almost pleading. "Then why not marry me?"
Lyra wasn't just anyone. She'd been in Simon's life for as long as he could remember. She was the daughter of House Vayne, a lesser noble family once close to the Thornes, now faded into near-obscurity. Their lands were modest, their coffers thinner each year, but their name still held enough weight for invitations and whispers.
They had grown up together, danced at the same winter feasts, laughed at court dramas behind gilded fans. Somewhere between youth and duty, passion had bloomed. Quiet at first, then impossible to ignore. She'd been his first lover, and he, hers.
There had always been an unspoken future between them, a private belief that somehow, despite the politics, despite the thrones and bloodlines, they would find their way to each other.
Lyra had given herself to Simon not out of seduction or calculation, but out of certainty that one day, she would be his wife.
But now, with Valenson's vault breached and Cylla in danger, the path ahead was shifting. And Lyra could feel it slipping from under her fingers.
Simon almost smiled at her question. Almost. "Because my father would rather slit my throat than see our House lose Cylla."
"So if we had it…if we took Cylla. Could we be together?" Lyra asked, like she really believed that were possible.
He laughed then, shaking his head. "Lyra… no one just takes Cylla. It's bound. It was forged for House Valenson by old gods or something older. As long as their bloodline remains strong, Cylla will kill anyone who tries to claim it."
"But it was taken once, wasn't it?"
"Only when their line weakened," Simon said. "A single crack in their power, and someone managed it. But they took it back. Because Cylla knows its home. It's not just a relic…it's alive. In a way."
"And what does it do?" she whispered.
"It makes them young, almost immortal," he said simply. "It keeps their bones strong, their hearts burning. Zarek may look thirty, but he's past sixty. The magic slows time for them. And anyone who marries into it… shares in that gift."
Lyra stared into the fire. "So that's what I'm up against. Time itself." She sighed.
A tap came at the window. Sharp, rhythmic. Simon rose at once, instincts sliding into place like armor. He moved across the room, lifting the latch and retrieving the raven that waited. A message was tied to its leg. From House Valenson, just as he'd expected.
He untied it, unrolled it, read it once.
His brow furrowed.
"What is it?" Lyra asked.
He didn't answer.
He read it again.
"Who the hell is Dahlia?" he muttered.
Simon stood in front of the mirror, fastening the last clasp of his tunic. The softness of Lyra's kisses had long cooled on his skin, replaced by the stiff weight of duty.
His face held no expression, but his movements were precise, the kind of sharp, effortless efficiency carved into men raised for war and throne.
"Ready, my lord?" His right hand man, Commander Edrin asked from the doorway, his tone brisk, his face stone.
Simon didn't answer. He gave one last glance at his reflection, the collar of House Thorne high against his neck, the fabric threaded with silver serpents, and then he turned away.
The journey to House Valenson was a quiet one. Their banners trailed behind them like whispers, their horses riding in clean formation. The land darkened the farther they rode, the trees older, the mist heavier, like time itself grew slower near Valenson's borders.
By the time their party arrived at the estate, servants were already lined in rows, dressed in deep indigo and pearl. The gates opened without question. A bell rang. The grand hall of Valenson had been prepared.
They were expected.
Simon dismounted, brushing off the servant who reached for his reins. "Take me to the dining hall."
Velvet carpets guided them inside, past tall columns glowing with crystal light. Dishes clinked softly somewhere ahead. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat, sweet figs, and sharp herbs.
At the head sat Zarek Valenson, still impossibly youthful, with silver-threaded black hair and a stare that had broken stronger men than Simon.
Beside him, Alana sat, cool and perfect in sapphire, lifted a goblet to her lips without so much as looking up.
At Zarek's left sat Lord Marnix, Dahlia's father. A broad-shouldered man, heavy-jawed, with the weary eyes of someone who was used to compromise. Other members of the house filled in the gaps. Cousins, councilmen, and a few whose names Simon didn't care to learn.
Simon and Commander Edrin were escorted to their seats halfway down the table. Zarek didn't rise. He simply nodded.
"My father sends his regards," Simon said flatly. His father had refused to come. As expected. Lord Thorne was too proud, he did not cross borders unless it was to conquer them.
Zarek raised a glass. "I'm sure he does. He always was a man of great warmth." The sacarsm spilling from his lips.
That earned a laugh from one of the cousins. Commander Edrin didn't blink.
"We'll keep this short," Lord Marnix said, his voice measured but taut with strain. "Our vault was breached. The inner seals barely held. It was a warning, if nothing else. You know what's at stake. We've reviewed the terms of the union. Dahlia is of marital age and she will be your new bride. She is as beautiful as Lady Alana, and she would definitely bear you children."
Simon scoffed and let his arrogance rise like a blade unsheathed. "I asked for steel," he said, cool and cutting, "and you offer me painted metal. Pretty. Soft. Dull at the core."
A hiss of breath ran down the table. Lord Marnix stiffened, color blooming in his cheeks.
Simon leaned forward now, resting one elbow on the arm of his chair, eyes narrowing. "How am I to believe that binding myself to your daughter will grant House Thorne any favors from Cylla? That she even bears the right blood as she the daughter of a fostered child?"
Marnix surged to his feet, the carved oak chair screeching harshly against the polished marble floor of the ancestral hall. "I stand as living proof that the gods embrace all children sworn to House Valenson, be they born of blood or bound by vow," he declared, his voice resonant, cutting through the hall's oppressive silence.
His eyes, fierce with conviction. Lord Marnix continued, "I may be a foster son, taken from the ashes of a lesser line, yet Cylla's blessings flow through me. Strength unyielding, youth undimmed."
Simon's gaze slid from Marnix's thinning hair to the worn leather of his boots. Slow, deliberate and cruel. "Youth? Your pot belly and the folds beneath your eyes say otherwise, Lord Marnix," he said, voice cold and clean as breaking ice.
A breathless silent gasps gripped the table.
Alana flinched. Her fingers tightened around her goblet until it slipped against the rim of the plate with a sharp clink. Wine sloshed over her hand, unnoticed. Her jaw clenched, lips parted in disbelief, but no words came. Not yet.
Across the table, a younger Valenson spat a curse under his breath. The servants froze mid-step, as if Simon had drawn steel in a consecrated hall.
Zarek didn't move. He sipped his wine with maddening calm. Then, "I see your House lends out its manners like it lends out its men. Carelessly, and without polish."
Simon's smirk returned. "I will not be tricked into handing over my House's power for a promise dressed in poetry, yet delivered in dust. If Cylla is to be preserved, then give me a true Valenson blood. Until then, you're offering nothing."
He shoved his chair back with a grating screech, rising sharply. "I came for a union of legacy and power, not a fraud draped in lace and deceit."
He turned, already headed to the doors.
And then—
"I can prove it."
The voice was clear. Soft, but somehow louder than all the noise that had come before.
Dahlia stood at the far end of the hall, just inside the tall archway. Her lips were pressed into a thin line. As she stepped forward, her movements were deliberate, each step measured, her shoulders squared and rigid.
Her hands, clasped tightly at her sides, twitched slightly, fingers curling as if resisting the urge to reach for something unseen.
All eyes turned to her, even Simon, who paused mid-stride, his brow furrowing in faint curiosity.
"I can prove that I am a true Valenson," she said, "and that I have been accepted by the gods."
Zarek was on his feet at once. "Dahlia. Go to your chambers."
She didn't blink. "Only Valensons can open the vault with just a touch of their palm. If I touch the vault," she said, "and I'm able to open it, will that be proof enough for you, Lord Simon?"
A second gasp echoed through the halls, deeper this time.
"Dahlia!" Alana's voice was sharp, clearly shaken. "You don't know what you're saying."
Simon turned, fully now, eyes narrowed in interest.
Lord Marnix's voice cracked with desperation. "Dahlia, please. Even I…I've never dared—" He stumbled forward, his eyes wild with fear, and leaned close to his daughter, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "Even I have never dared touch it, you know the risks. You're not ready for what it could unleash. No one is."
Dahlia drew back from her father's trembling grasp, her slippers scuffing softly against the worn flagstones of the grand hall. Her gown, heavy with brocade and silver thread, rustled as she straightened, her chin lifting defiantly.
"I've always wanted to know," Dahlia declared, her voice rising, sharp and clear, echoing off the cold stone walls. "If the gods have accepted me. If I truly belong to this House. If this is the only way to find out… then I will do it."
Zarek stepped down from the dining table, his face paler than before. "If you touch that vault and the gods have not claimed you, you will die."
"Then I shall die," Dahlia said. Her voice didn't tremble.
Silence settled in again, like a final breath before collapse.
"It is settled then," Simon cut through the silence, his voice a knife dipped in honey. "Shall we head to the vault?" He said it like a man suggesting a stroll after supper. Idle and almost amused.
Brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. Valenson Drama at no cost, he thought. How could I resist?
Across the room, Zarek and Marnix moved to the corner in hushed argument.
"This is reckless," Marnix muttered. "She's not prepared for this. We don't even know what it will do…if it'll work. If it'll kill her."
"It might," Zarek said. "But if we do nothing, we weaken our bloodline and we might lose Cylla. Forever. Do you want that on your name?" His eyes were flat. Unflinching.
Marnix hesitated, lips trembling on the edge of some softer argument. Then he closed his eyes and gave the smallest, most defeated nod.
And so they went.
In the hallway, Alana pushed past a servant and caught Simon just as he stepped into the torchlit corridor. Her voice cracked before she found her footing.
"You can't do this. Are you really going to let an innocent girl die?" Her breath came fast. "She's just young…and naive."
Simon didn't even stop walking. "Then prepare her a young and naive grave." The words hit like frost. He didn't turn. Just let them fall and kept moving.
Alana stood frozen for a beat, then ran to catch up.
The vault loomed at the end of the stone corridor—tall, sealed in obsidian, marked with the old Valenson sigils. The air here was colder, like even the stones remembered what slept behind the doors.
Zarek, Marnix, Simon, and the guards stood in a wide arc. Dahlia stepped forward, her eyes flashing with a mix of fear and determination. A resolute set to her jaw as she faced the door to the vault.
Alana caught her by the arm. "You don't have to do this," she said, desperate now. "Please. Simon isn't worth it. You could marry anyone—noble houses would line up for you."
Dahlia's eyes stayed steady, wide but dry. "I'm not doing this for Simon." She lifted her chin. "I'm doing this for me." She stepped free.
Alana stood trembling, until she turned to her uncle. "Zarek… please. It's Dahlia. You watched her grow up. You love her. You can stop this."
Zarek looked at her for a long time, something unreadable behind his expression. Then he leaned in close and whispered in her ear, "If Dahlia dies…it will be because you killed her."
Alana recoiled, stunned into silence by her Uncle's harshness even in this moment.
Dahlia fully approached the door. She placed both palms on the cold stone. Her voice, when it came, was soft but ancient and rhythmic. The words spilled from her like breath from a flame.
"Nyra velen, Dahlia Valenson. Drakha Marnix Valenson. Ez qybra vel Cylla, nyra arlīn aōha."
( I am Dahlia Valenson. Daughter of Marnix Valenson. Open the doors of Cylla and welcome your daughter in.)