Eryshae

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Ruwan

The doors creaked open before the knock could land.

Ruwan stood motionless at the far end of the war chamber, silhouetted against tall windows streaked with rain. The soft patter against the glass was the only sound in the room, save for the low crackle of the hearth behind him. A courier stepped inside, soaked to the bone, his boots leaving faint prints on the stone.

"My lord," he said, voice tight. "Report from the valley." Ruwan did not turn. "Speak."

"The attack failed," the courier said, each word heavy. "The convoy was already stirring when Mira's team struck. There were more guards than expected. Vice-Chief Sam and the princess both survived. Most of our men are dead or scattered. Mira hasn't returned."

Silence. The fire snapped behind him. Ruwan's hands clenched behind his back, fingers curling tight around each other. His gaze stayed fixed on the storm beyond the glass. Slowly, deliberately, he exhaled through his nose.

"You're certain?"

"Yes, my lord. The survivors reported Commander Sidney's forces were already forming ranks when the camp was breached. They fought like they knew it was coming." Ruwan turned his head slightly. Not enough for the courier to see his expression.

"They were coming," he said, softly. "Right into my hands." His fingers unfurled, then curled again. A slow breath. Then, without warning, he turned and drove his fist into the edge of the map table. The sharp crack of knuckles on wood echoed through the chamber. The courier flinched but did not move.

The pain didn't slow Ruwan. With a sweep of his arm, he knocked over the carved convoy markers. Tiny wooden raccoons clattered to the floor. He stared at them for a moment, lips drawn into a cold line. "They were supposed to sleep," he muttered. "They were supposed to burn."

He paced once. Twice. The ring on his finger pulsed faintly, sensing the stir of emotion, but its magic did not rise. Not yet. "I gave clear orders," he continued, quieter now, more dangerous. "Infiltration. Elimination. Not a brawl in the mud." He stopped pacing and looked at the courier for the first time. "You said they fought like they knew. That means someone warned them."

"I; I can't confirm that, my lord," the courier stammered. "You can't confirm, or you won't admit?" Ruwan asked, stepping closer. The courier's mouth opened, but Ruwan raised a hand to silence him.

"No matter," he said coldly. "We'll find the leak later." He moved to the broken map table and pressed his palms to its surface. Rain tapped harder against the windows, thunder rumbling somewhere in the distance.

Then, as if a switch had flipped, his tone shifted. Clipped. Calm. "You'll head east," he said. "To Ocean City." The courier blinked. "Ocean City?"

"I want reinforcements," Ruwan said, not looking at him. "The old armsman Garrith still owes us, and the docks are restless. Take the seal and remind them the Eberflame coin kept their harbor alive through two winters. I want men who won't hesitate in the dark." The courier hesitated. "Mercenaries?"

"Cutthroats, if they're sober," Ruwan said. "I don't need a clean sword. I need a sharp one." He reached into a drawer and withdrew a small iron box, stamped with the Eberflame crest. He handed it to the courier. "Funds. Travel light, ride hard, and don't come back without steel."

The courier bowed low. "At once, my lord." Ruwan turned back to the rain. "And if anyone in Ocean City hesitates… remind them who lit the lanterns when the tide came in red."

The courier bowed again, tighter this time, and vanished through the door like smoke. Ruwan stood alone in the flickering light, the ruined map at his back.

His eyes found the storm outside again. And quietly, too low for any ears but his own, he whispered:

"I will unmake you, Sam. I will break her mind before I touch her skin. And when she begs to forget, I will remind her who made her remember."

The firelight cast golden bars across the corridor as Ruwan strode through the keep, the heels of his boots sharp against polished stone. The storm outside had begun to settle into a steady rhythm; rain pattering against windows like a ticking clock.

He entered his private chambers without a word. The room was warm and dim, scented with roasted chicory and cloves. At the small table near the hearth, Victoria stood with her back to him, draped in a gown the color of rosewater and sin. The silk clung to her hips like it was made for her alone, the fabric translucent at the hem, her long hair bound in a simple knot at the base of her neck.

She moved without turning, delicate hands guiding the kettle from its hook over the coals. Steam curled around her wrist, and she didn't flinch. She measured grounds from memory, the exact weight and motion practiced to perfection. Her body swayed with the smallest grace, precise and methodical. Not a single motion wasted.

The cups were already warmed. "Victoria," Ruwan said, voice low. She poured his cup first, rich and dark. Then hers. She placed his on the ebony tray beside the window and stepped aside without a word, head lowered slightly; submissive, but ceremonial. Their ritual.

Ruwan crossed to her in a slow stalk, the residual fury in his chest tamed only by calculation. His eyes drank in the lines of her figure, the composure in her stillness. He stopped just beside her. Close enough to feel her breath stilling. He picked up the coffee.

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Sipped.

Silence.

Then, with quiet finality:

"You always serve it at the perfect temperature." She inclined her head ever so slightly. "I've learned your taste." Ruwan's gaze drifted back toward the rain-smeared glass. He sipped again, holding the cup in both hands as if it grounded him, staring at the storm as if he meant to swallow it.

Without turning, he said, "There's a mess in the war chamber. Broken glass. Splinters. Burned maps." A pause. "Clean it. Then come to bed."

Victoria didn't flinch. She set her own untouched cup aside, gathered a cloth from the drawer by the wall, and moved for the door with the same silent precision as before. Ruwan stood alone again, watching the windows as thunder rolled over the horizon. He sipped, once more. Then whispered, to no one at all: "Let them chase ghosts. I will greet them in their dreams."

Ruwan stood by the rain-streaked window of his private chambers, the cooling coffee cradled in his hands. Beyond the glass, Emberhold slept beneath a shroud of mist and flickering lanterns, unaware of the storm quietly gathering inside its own walls.

His reflection stared back at him; sharpened, fractured by rivulets of water. He watched it shift with each droplet that trailed down the pane.

Corruption, he mused.

The word used to carry weight. Now it was a currency; bartered, hidden, dressed in silk and declared righteousness by those who drank from its poisoned well.

Emberhold reeked of it. The merchant houses rotted from the inside, noble families locked in a smug dance of mutual extortion. The guards skimmed wages. The stewards bribed truth. The governors lied with velvet smiles.

And yet…

He sipped again. The bitterness soothed him. There were others; men and women whose loyalties had curdled. Soldiers passed over for promotion, tradesmen taxed into ruin, orphans of misrule hardened by the city's appetite for blood. He'd seen them in passing; eyes shadowed, backs straightened with desperate dignity. Resentful. Ready.

They would need a purpose. A symbol. A whisper that things could change; not by idealism, but by strategy. By precision, and by fear. He would offer them structure. Secrets. A new name.

Cells, not armies. Quiet oaths behind closed doors. Weapons passed hand to hand. Influence spread like fungus beneath the marble floors.

Let the idealists preach. He would build. The irony wasn't lost on him. Durnan's bloodline, long-loathed by the tribalists, now seeding the soil for a new rebellion. The great Eberflame House; the very architects of the old Dominion; becoming the spark for the next.

His lips curled into a smirk. "A True Eryshae," he murmured. One not shackled by Vael's bleeding-heart diplomacy or Sam's soft-souled fumbling. A tribe with roots of steel. Ruled not by consensus, but by clarity.

By his family.

By him.

Victoria's footsteps echoed faintly from down the hall; soft and steady as always, moving toward the war chamber. Ruwan didn't turn. He set his coffee down on the sill and folded his hands behind his back, staring out into the velvet dark. "Let the people rise," he whispered, "and let them never know whose hand lifted them."

The fire had burned low in the hearth when Victoria returned. She entered without a word, the soft pink of her dress muted in the dim light, her expression serene, her hands clasped neatly before her. No perfume; Ruwan forbade it on nights such as this. Only the faint scent of fresh coffee still lingered on her fingers.

Ruwan sat in the velvet-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, arms draped along the carved wooden arms. His expression was unreadable. She moved with precision; shoulders aligned, chin slightly dipped, never too fast, never too slow. He didn't look at her. Not yet. "Is the study clean?"

"Yes, my lord," she said quietly. He gave a slow nod, eyes fixed on the fire. "Then begin." A flicker passed across her features. Not hesitation; never that; but the slightest narrowing of her eyes. She stepped to the center of the room and began, her voice level, graceful, and disturbingly rehearsed.

"I was born in Ocean City," she said, "to Serene Liri, once a merchant of silk and borrowed glamour. My mother wore debt like perfume; layered, sweet, and cloying. She borrowed against the house, the carriage, the future. And when the silk rotted and her credit soured, the collectors came."

Ruwan sipped his coffee, now lukewarm. He didn't speak.

"I was nineteen when she sold my name to cover her gambling losses. A forged bond, inked in desperation. My life for her reputation." Her hands remained still. Her tone never cracked.

"I was bound to House Eberflame. You selected me from the roster of forfeited daughters. Not for service. Not for skill. But because you liked the way I poured your tea the first time I was loaned out as a servant."

At that, Ruwan finally smiled.

"I was reclassified," she continued. "Personal retainer. Special domestic license. No wage. Full obedience. Silence written into the contract."

"And?" Ruwan asked softly.

"And I serve, my lord," she finished.

Ruwan set the coffee aside and leaned forward, elbows to knees, letting the firelight gild the sharp angles of his face. His voice was a whisper. "How many times have you recited that story for me?" "This is the three thousand and eighth, my lord."

He chuckled, low in his throat. "And still… it pleases me." Victoria said nothing. She stood, still as marble, awaiting his next command. "Take off the dress," he said, rising from the chair. "Then come to bed."

She obeyed without flinch or pause. As Ruwan walked past her, he murmured, "I should send Serene Liri a thank-you gift." His hand brushed her shoulder. Possessive. Casual. Certain. The fire crackled behind them, casting long shadows over the velvet and stone.

She moved with practiced grace, fingers finding the clasp of her dress without hesitation. It slipped from her shoulders like a sigh, pooling silently at her feet. Pale skin kissed by firelight. Eyes cast downward; not in shame, but in ritual. Ruwan stood behind her, watching.

He didn't touch her; not yet. He studied her the way a hunter studies the twitch of a wounded animal's flank. Her spine was straight, her shoulders loose, her breath steady. But there; just there, beneath the collarbone; a twitch. The faintest flutter. A muscle remembering what it had once flinched from.

She wasn't broken. Not completely.

And that was why he kept her. Ruwan stepped closer, the barest space between them. He could feel the warmth of her skin, the tension she didn't show. Victoria was always composed. Always careful. But her body told the truth in echoes. A faint hitch in the breath. A shift in weight that wasn't necessary.

Regret was still alive in her.

And he savored it.

"You try not to feel," he murmured near her ear, "but it leaks through your bones. That memory. That shame." Her chin dipped further. He reached forward and traced the curve of her neck with a single finger, slow and reverent, like reading scripture. "And it makes you… exquisite."

He stepped in front of her, studying the glassy sheen in her eyes. Not tears; no, not anymore. But something behind them. A storm once weathered. A girl buried beneath a woman's poise. "You still think of her, don't you?" Ruwan asked. "Your mother."

Victoria gave the smallest nod. It was all he needed. His smile was soft. Almost kind. "Good," he whispered. "I want you to remember her. I want you to think of her every time I kiss you. Every time I take you. Every time I call you mine."

The cruelty was not loud. It was quiet. Measured. A scalpel, not a hammer. He stepped back, undressed in silence, and climbed onto the bed, silk sheets cool beneath his back.

"Join me." Victoria moved like a shadow summoned by command. She climbed beside him, her body pressed just close enough to touch, just far enough to feel the tension hum like a string drawn tight.

Ruwan rested a hand lightly on her hip and stared at the ceiling. His voice was almost lazy. "One day," he said, "you'll thank me."

He didn't say for what.

He didn't have to.

And she didn't answer.

But beneath her silence, he could feel it: the ache of a memory she could never scrape clean. And that; more than obedience; was what made her truly his.