Eryshae

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Lieutenant Rellis

The Old Mill

The trees grew thick around the path leading north, their canopies choking out the moonlight until only shards of silver filtered down like shattered spears. The dirt trail was carved by wagon wheels and the passage of boots, but tonight it bore a different burden: Mira, bound at the wrists, unconscious and half-slumped over the saddle of a weary raccoon mount. Her cloak dragged in the mud, soiled with blood and ash. Her head lolled, but her breath remained steady. Shallow. Alive. Barely.

The lieutenant, a thin-jawed man named Rellis, rode beside her, jaw clenched tight enough to grind enamel to dust. His armor clinked with every step, his fingers still damp from the blood of the men she had killed. He hated her for that. And for something more. She'd fought like a devil. He couldn't stop seeing it, the flicker of her blades in the dark, the way she moved like water wrapped in flame. Half his squad hadn't walked away. He would've taken her head, but Ruwan had other plans.

They reached the mill at the border of the drowned groves, a collapsed structure lost to ivy and silence. An old saw wheel rested half-sunken in a bed of moss, its wooden teeth warped with age. But the place was not abandoned. Torchlight flickered behind the broken slats. Guards. And something colder. Rellis dismounted, his knees aching as he dropped into the wet leaves. He gestured for the others to remain outside. Two soldiers hauled Mira down and dragged her limp form toward the doors.

Inside, the rot smelled sweet. Fungal. A strange perfume hung in the air, mixing lavender with iron. It turned Rellis' stomach. At the far end of the ruined chamber, beneath the skeleton of what had once been a stairwell, stood a man.

The Amir.

He wore blackened vine-plate armor woven with iron roots, his back half-turned to them. His left gauntlet rested on a tall, lacquered cane carved from petrified oak. He was listening.

To her.

A woman with hair that shimmered like oil in moonlight. She was coiled in silks the color of a drowning sky, lapis and ink, with sapphires on every finger. Her voice was low and elegant, soaked in command. "...Three of the border towns already send double tithe. The others will fold with proper pressure. Civic pride, or starvation. Either way, they bleed into our ledger." He tilted his head. "And the militia?" She smiled, baring too-white teeth. "Draft the sons. Keep the daughters as leverage. Parents obey when silence means coffins."

Rellis cleared his throat. The Amir did not turn. "Set her down." Mira's body was dropped without care. Only then did the Amir speak again. "What condition?"

"Alive. Bruised. Fought like a goddamned fury." Her name curled through Rellis' mind like a curse: Lady Nerine. "Of course she did," the woman said. Lady Nerine of the Sapphire Straits. Strategist of the Deep Courts. Exiled for poisoning her betrothed, returned under a dozen banners. Her name meant tempest, her title meant ruin.

The Amir finally turned. His face was smooth. Handsome. Ageless. But his eyes were wrong. Too still. Too sharp. "Ruwan believes the Amber is being used to resurrect the Druid boy." Rellis stiffened. "But that's impossible, sir. The body was speared through the heart." The Amir's smile was thin. "So were the forests once. And now look."

Lady Nerine stepped closer to Mira, crouching gracefully. She studied the unconscious traitor with mild curiosity, as one might regard a drowned bird. "She'll talk. Eventually." Lady Nerine turned, a dark amusement flickering in her eyes. "Careful, my love. Ruwan might start to think you like the taste of old blood."

"He should pray that I do." And then, as Mira groaned faintly, her fingers twitching against the floorboards. Mira stirred. A sharp breath. A twitch of her fingers. Her lips parted with a groan that barely left her throat. She blinked once, twice, vision swimming with pain and torchlight. Then she saw him. The man standing above her. Eyes sharp as splintered obsidian. Armor etched like roots into stone. Her breath caught. She flinched back an inch, even as her body refused to obey. "…Vice-Chief Farouq…" she rasped.

The Amir's jaw clenched. His brow twitched just enough to betray irritation. "I'm not that fool," he muttered through his teeth, voice flat as cold steel. Lady Nerine's laugh was soft as silk sliding across a blade. She approached with a grace that belonged to serpents and drowning queens. Her palm slid gently along the Amir's armored bicep, the sapphires on her fingers catching firelight with every movement. "No one who's seen you up close would ever mistake you," she said sweetly. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial purr. "You're something far more dangerous."

The Amir's lip curled, but not in protest. He allowed her touch. Even leaned into it, just a fraction. Lady Nerine leaned closer, her breath cool against his neck. "So tell me, beloved warthorn…" Her eyes flicked to Mira's unconscious form. "What do we do with Vael?"

The Amir's eyes darkened. The name summoned heat behind his eyes, old ache, older fury. He looked down at Mira as if she were an unanswered letter. A broken cipher. His voice, when it came, was a low growl. "We take everything she loves." He turned from Mira's crumpled body, striding toward the shattered window where the fog rolled in thick over the drowned groves. "We cut her allies down. We raze what shelters her. And when she comes crawling back to beg for mercy…" He looked at Lady Nerine.

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"We show her what mercy really costs. "Lady Nerine smiled, slow and satisfied. Her fingers lingered on the Amir's arm a moment longer before pulling away like an anchor cut loose. Behind them, Mira slipped again into unconsciousness, caught between breath and shadow. Outside, the night trembled. And the first scream of a mourning raccoon echoed through the fog.

The fire in the ruined hearth was dying. Only embers remained, casting long shadows that flickered across the warped wood floor. Mira's unconscious form lay sprawled before them like a discarded prayer, hands still bound, her cloak torn and soaked with blood. Lady Nerine stood over her, arms crossed, lips pursed in an expression of mild curiosity. The flicker of firelight danced in the sapphires coiled around her wrists and throat, catching on the silver stitching of her silks. She looked like royalty. Like rot in velvet. "She's a savage," the lieutenant muttered, voice low. "Took down five men before they could restrain her. Should've slit her throat on the field."

"No," Lady Nerine said softly, not looking at him. "No, no, no. She's far too interesting for that." The Amir stood a few paces back, hands folded behind his back, spine perfectly straight as he watched the fire gutter out. The Amir's silhouette was iron-forged elegance, stark lines, crisp black, a face too symmetrical to be comforting. But his eyes… His eyes didn't blink. Lady Nerine turned toward him, silk whispering against her hips.

"I want her," she said plainly. "As mine." The Amir's brow arched, slow as a rising tide. "You want the traitor?" She stepped closer, heels clicking. "She's not broken yet. But she will be. I can feel it." Her tone dropped into a sultry purr. "She's sharp now, but I'll grind her into something smoother. Loyal. Obedient. Beautiful in her silence." She stepped even closer, placing a manicured hand on his chest. "Let me have her, my love," Lady Nerine said, voice honeyed. "Let me turn her into something exquisite."

The gleam in her eye wasn't excitement. It was hunger. The Amir tilted his head, studying her. His gaze dragged over her mouth, her neck, her throat where a sapphire pendant pulsed faintly with inner light. She looked like a temptation given breath. He reached out, fingers curling beneath her chin. Lifted her face until their eyes locked. "Don't break her," he said, voice velvet over steel. "Not entirely." And then he kissed her, slow, claiming, a promise of power and punishment all at once.

When he pulled away, his lips brushed her ear. "I want to see her beg before she bends." Lady Nerine smiled as if he'd gifted her the moon. She turned on her heel and looked to the lieutenant. "Take her down to the lowest cell," she ordered, voice snapping like a whip. "Chain her. Make her comfortable." Rellis swallowed. "Yes, my lady."

Two guards hoisted Mira from the floor. Her head lolled as they dragged her toward the spiral staircase beneath the mill's main hall. The ironbound door creaked open, revealing a shaft of pitch-black stone steps descending into cold silence. Lady Nerine followed them halfway down, already humming to herself. The Amir watched from the firelit room, expression unreadable as the shadows swallowed them one by one. He did not look away until the last echo of Lady Nerine's heels faded into nothing.

The stairwell groaned beneath their boots as Rellis led the way downward, torchlight dragging long shadows across the moss-streaked stone. Behind him, the two guards strained under Mira's weight, her limp form slung between them like a corpse too stubborn to die. "Careful," Rellis barked. "If she wakes up and starts flaying throats again, I'm not explaining it to the Amir." One of the soldiers, Karn, the lankier of the pair, grunted. "Wouldn't be the first time someone woke up swinging."

"Wouldn't be the first time someone lost an eye because they got cocky either," Rellis muttered. They reached the cell block. Iron bars lined the narrow corridor, each cell colder and damper than the last. The torches flickered blue in the damp air, giving the place a ghost-lit feel. Rellis opened the last door at the end with a squeal of rusted metal, and the guards carried Mira inside, setting her on the stone slab that served as a bed. "Strip her," Rellis ordered. "We disarm her first, then bind her properly." Karn looked at Mira skeptically. "She's out cold."

"Doesn't matter. That one probably sleeps with a blade under her tongue." The other guard snorted and reached down, unfastening Mira's belt. A long dagger clattered to the ground.

"Standard issue," he muttered.

"Check her boots," Rellis said.

Another knife. A curved one, serrated. Then a pressure needle sewn into the boot's tongue.

"…Is that poison?" the other guard asked.

"Probably," Rellis said. "Don't lick it."

They flipped her gently, pulling at her shoulder harness, another pair of hidden throwing knives fell loose, followed by a coiled garrote that had been braided into her belt loops. Her sleeve lining revealed a hidden dart pouch. Her vambrace clicked open to reveal a retractable blade no longer than a finger.

Karn whistled low. "Gods-damned cutlery drawer, this one."

"You're not done," Rellis said, rubbing his temple.

One guard hesitated. "What if she wakes up, "

"Then we hope Lady Nerine wants a new project made out of your entrails," Rellis snapped.

They resumed the search.

Two throwing stars under her collar. A miniature blade stitched into the hem of her trousers. A hollowed-out boot heel with crushed glass. A lockpick sewn under her bracer. A tiny needle in her earring. Gods help them, even her hair braid was wound with a razor-wire thread.

By the time they finished, a small arsenal lay scattered on the floor. "Mercy," one of the guards muttered, taking a step back. "What is she?" Rellis didn't answer. He just stared at the woman laid out before him, her breathing shallow, her body battered, her weapons finally gone. She didn't look like a legend now. But Rellis had watched her cut down men twice her size without hesitation. He'd watched her smile while soaked in blood.

He had no illusions. "She's a blade," he said at last, kneeling to bind her ankles with a reinforced chain. "And blades don't break easy." He stood, gesturing for the cell to be locked. "Leave the lights low. She wakes up swinging, I want her half-blind." As the guards exited the cell, Rellis cast one last glance at Mira, stripped, shackled, and still dangerous. He muttered a quiet prayer under his breath before closing the iron door. Not for her. For them.