Eryshae

Eryshae

Vael moved to the bell-cord beside the hearth and gave it a sharp tug. The chime rang once; low, resonant, and unmistakable. Within moments, the door opened and Kinan stepped inside, eyes alert.

"My Lady?" he asked, noting the broken cup and the guarded posture of Sam at her side. Vael stepped back from the spill of broken obsidian and tea, her expression cold as a drawn blade.

"Kinan," she said, voice calm but cutting. She didn't look at Kinan. She looked at Durnan and Ruwan Eberflame, both standing with rigid, practiced dignity. "Escort Lord Durnan and his son to the holding cells," she said. "Separate chambers. No contact." Durnan gave a shallow bow, his pride unshaken. "As you wish, Lady Vael. I trust this is temporary, and clarity will prevail."

"I imagine it will," she replied coolly. "Once Myrtle confirms what your 'family blend' contains." Ruwan handed the teapot to one of Kinan's men without protest. "A misunderstanding, no doubt," he said, smiling thinly.

Ruwan rotated the ring on his finger; once, twice, three times; until the motion became subconscious. The smooth metal clicked softly against his knuckle, a sound he barely registered beneath the thunder of his thoughts.

Durnan moved ahead of him as the guards closed in. As they passed each other, the old man tapped his fingers once against his thigh.

One. Two. Pause. One. One. Three.

Hold the line. No confession. Play the fool.

Ruwan answered without thinking; Two. One. Four.

Understood. I know. I won't.

But his stomach twisted. He remembered the dry bitterness of the tea, the faintest metallic note on the back of his tongue. He had watched Vael lift the cup with poised suspicion, praying she'd sip. Just enough to still her. Just enough to gain time. It hadn't worked.

He'd done everything as Durnan taught him. The blend. The timing. The misdirection. And Sam saw through it. Ruwan's smile cracked at the edges as the guards nudged him forward. In silence, they walked the long corridor. Stone underfoot. Torches flaring. Durnan didn't glance back.

Play the fool, the code had said.

But what fool still clung to a plan that failed? Ruwan breathed in sharply. His fingers tightened around the ring.

He'd trusted his father's methods. Trusted the subtleties of powder and poison. Trusted patience and veiled threats. But the world was shifting, and Vael was sharper than either of them had accounted for.

The guards didn't speak. Their armor whispered with every step, a soft rustle of leather and chain that grated at the edge of Ruwan's thoughts. The halls of the Citadel weren't made to comfort the guilty; not even the falsely accused. Stone pressed in on every side, heavy and cold, as if the walls themselves bore witness to betrayal.

He kept his pace even, his expression smooth. The ring on his finger felt heavier with each turn of the corridor. Still he spun it; once, twice, pause; though his thumb began to ache from the pressure.

The corridor dipped. Older stone here, and damp. Moss in the creases. He counted torches without meaning to. Six. Seven. Eight. No one had touched him. They hadn't needed to.

Ruwan glanced at the backs of the guards ahead of him, then at the one trailing behind. A perfect triangle; formation drill. Professional. Impersonal. Not a punishment, not yet. But deliberate.

As they descended farther, a subtle shift caught his attention; the torchlight grew fainter, filtered by thicker shadows, until the hallway narrowed. A single iron door waited at the end. No windows. No passersby. No audience.

A prison for quiet things. The guard ahead halted and drew a keyring from his belt. Metal clinked; one sharp chime, then a second, duller. The door creaked open on a moan that set Ruwan's jaw tight. "In," the guard said.

Ruwan stepped forward without hesitation. The cell was small. Bare. A cot. A bucket. A single barred slit near the ceiling, letting in a strip of amber gloom. It smelled faintly of rust and old decisions. He turned, and the door slammed shut behind him before he could speak. The lock clicked once. Then again.

No parting glance. No words. Just silence. Ruwan stood still for a long moment, staring at the place where the torchlight had vanished under the doorframe. The only sound now was the distant drip of water and the quiet pulse in his ears.

Then, slowly, he reached up; and took off the ring. His thumb moved in slow, habitual circles over the ring on his finger; black metal, green-veined, curved unnaturally smooth. Its surface shimmered faintly, like wet stone under moonlight. In the gloom, it pulsed once, catching the flame of a torch.

He felt it. Not warmth exactly; more like a whisper of presence. A reminder. The oval gem set into the ring, sea-glass green with strands of gold, flickered as he passed beneath another sconce. It almost seemed to look back at him. Like it knew.

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The metal was strangely cool against his palm, the gem dimmer now; or was that just the lack of light? Either way, it felt heavier than it should. As if it carried not just power, but consequence.

Ruwan sat on the cot, elbows on knees, ring cradled in his palm like something sacred. Or cursed.

He hated the silence now. Before, he could use it; fill it with meaning, let others project their fears into it. Silence had been a tool, a tactic. Now it pressed in like a sealed tomb. A punishment. A judgment.

He turned the ring over in his fingers again.

Once. Twice. Pause.

He didn't complete the third rotation.

The flicker of green-gold in the stone dimmed, like a breath held too long. They were in motion now; Vael, Sam, Myrtle. Threads tightening. He should have seen it coming. No. He had seen it coming. He just hadn't believed they'd act so swiftly. Not Vael. Not like this.

He rested his head against the cold stone wall behind him. The back of his skull met it with a dull thud. Durnan's signals still rang in his ears. Old rhythms. Old loyalty. They were supposed to be enough.

Play the fool.

And maybe he had. Maybe he'd been the fool all along; believing that Vael could be nudged instead of conquered. That she could be bent without breaking. That he had time.

A drop of water fell near the cell door. Then another. Even the leaks here seemed deliberate. Timed. Torture by subtle erosion. He breathed in, and it felt too loud.

But now, alone, walls closing, options thinning; he wondered. He slipped the ring back on. Slowly. Deliberately. It settled with a finality that felt like oath and shackle all at once. Then, he closed his eyes.

The cot creaked slightly as he shifted. He crossed one leg over the other, straightened his back. His face relaxed into something still. Thoughtful. Calm. Vael might think she'd won the first move. But the game wasn't over. It never ended with a single play. And if she forced his hand; he would show her just how well he'd learned from Durnan.

Time lost meaning in the cell. No sun to track. No voice to answer. Only the steady drip of water and the weight of the ring tightening around his finger. He let the stillness stretch. Waited, like Durnan taught him. Let the guards grow bored. Complacent. One passed by at regular intervals; he counted three visits, each thirty heartbeats apart. Then a fourth. Slightly late.

That would be the shift change. Ruwan rose. He stepped quietly to the barred slit near the ceiling, not to look out, but to listen. Footsteps above; distant, not approaching. The hallway was empty.

He slipped the ring from his finger and held it to his lips. "I'm ready." The whisper barely stirred the air; but the gem pulsed once. Deep green. Then nothing.

Seconds passed. Then the lock on his cell door clicked. Not loudly. Not showy. Just a soft, traitorous shift of iron against iron. The door creaked an inch open. Ruwan didn't smile. He didn't feel triumph. Just clarity.

He stepped into the hallway. Torches still burned, but their light bent strangely now; shadows pulling away from him, distorting his shape at the edges. The ring's magic blurred him at the corners, like heat on stone. A quiet presence that didn't belong. Not invisibility. Just a soft suggestion to the world: You don't see me. You didn't hear that. There's nothing here.

It would hold. For a time. Ruwan walked. No rush. No panic. Three cells down, across a T-intersection of stone. He found the second lock already undone. Durnan looked up from his cot, unsurprised.

"About time," the old man said, rising. He smoothed his coat as if dressing for a dinner party. "You waited until the guards hit their lowest attention cycle. Good." Ruwan gave a curt nod. "You taught me well." Durnan stepped out of his cell, expression unreadable. He glanced once toward the way out; then toward the deeper dark.

"We could go now," Ruwan said. Durnan raised a brow. "We could. But Myrtle's lab lies two levels below. You want proof of the tea? Evidence?" Ruwan hesitated. The ring pulsed faintly against his skin; strained now, as if reminding him it wasn't limitless.

"They won't trust our word," Durnan said softly. "They'll say we ran. That we poisoned Vael and escaped judgment." Ruwan exhaled through his nose. Thought. Calculated. "Then we don't just escape," he said. "We unravel them."

They moved like smoke. No torches. No words. Just breath and the light scrape of leather against stone. The ring's magic wrapped around them like a shifting veil; imperfect, but enough to bend awareness, enough to suggest silence where there was sound, stillness where there was motion.

Myrtle's laboratory was housed in the deeper bowels of the Court. Not far; but far enough to risk discovery. Ruwan led, counting turns and listening for footfalls. Durnan followed, fingers tracing the wall with near reverence, as though reacquainting himself with the skeleton of old schemes.

At last, they reached the archway: thick stone, reinforced door. Unlocked. Myrtle had never believed in locks. Too crude, she once said. If someone means to find you, they will. Ruwan eased the door open.

Inside: glass vials, suspended herbs, rows of powders and tinctures stored in labeled drawers. The smell of moss and alcohol and old parchment. Durnan moved with practiced economy, heading straight to the second shelf on the far wal;l beneath the copper distiller. He opened a thin wooden box, withdrawing a pouch of blackroot dust and a tincture of bellthorn resin. "The blend we used," Durnan murmured. "Both still here." Ruwan frowned. "She hasn't tested them yet?"

"She has. But not completely." He tapped a small brass alembic on the counter. The coil gleamed with recent use, but the flask beneath it remained capped, sealed with her mark. "She hasn't finalized her notes. That's our opening."

Durnan handed Ruwan the resin. "Swap it with this." He produced a second vial; same shape, same label. "Diluted. Mundane. Harmless." Ruwan nodded and made the switch. His fingers didn't tremble.

Durnan, meanwhile, scraped just enough dust from the blackroot pouch into a new wax-sealed envelope. "We leave the original untouched, but now there's conflict. Two blends. Two results. Doubt."

He tucked the envelope into his coat. "Now we have uncertainty. No clean verdict." Ruwan paused beside Myrtle's ledger. "Should we change her notes?"

Durnan's eyes glinted. "No. That's too heavy-handed. Let her wonder. Let her find both blends and question herself." The ring pulsed once; a shudder of heat now, like a warning cough in the back of Ruwan's skull.

"We need to go," he said tightly. Durnan nodded. They retraced their steps. Slower now. Not from caution; from weight. Every heartbeat felt heavier, every step like moving through water. The ring was tiring. Fraying. Its magic didn't burn; it drained.

By the time they reached the cellblock again, Ruwan's vision had thinned to gray at the edges. Durnan opened his cell without a sound, slipping inside like a ghost. No farewell. Just a look; the kind that passed between soldiers on the eve of something larger.

Ruwan moved to his own cell. The door closed behind him with a soft snick. He lay back on the cot, the ring still cooling on his palm. No triumph. No relief.

But when the guard passed minutes later, torch in hand, he saw nothing amiss. No breach. No movement. Two quiet men in separate cells, accused but calm. Exactly as expected. And below them, Myrtle's lab now held questions where there had been answers.