Eryshae

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The Amir

Amir Estate - Master bedroom

The master bedroom smelled faintly of steel oil and jasmine, an odd pairing that suited them. The Amir lay half-reclined against the silken cushions, chest rising with the ragged rhythm of someone who had just won and lost in the same breath. Lady Nerine straddled him, hair unbound, her pale shoulders gleaming with a sheen of sweat. Her hand was at his throat, fingers resting against the strong column of his neck as though testing his pulse. Not choking, not caressing, measuring.

He laughed, low in his chest, the sound lazy and amused. "If this were a duel, I'd call foul. You used your knee." Her lips quirked faintly, though her eyes were cool steel. "You let me."

"Let?" His grin widened as he caught her wrist and twisted it aside, rolling with sudden force until her back met the mattress. Their bodies struck the sheets like colliding blades as he sheathed his sword deep inside of her. "I was being generous." Lady Nerine's breath came unsteady, savoring the feeling of him inside her. She did not resist, nor did she yield. She tilted her chin, her eyes sharp in the dim morning light. "Generosity is weakness. And weakness gets you killed."

For a moment, they held there, two predators locked in a moment that looked like combat and felt like worship. His hand pressed into the mattress beside her head, her legs coiled around his waist like a snare. It was a game they both knew by heart: test, counter, strike, retreat.

The Amir dipped his mouth close to her ear, his words more playful than reverent. "If I die like this, I'll die happy." Her nails skimmed his ribs, not tender but tactical. "Then you'll die stupid." He barked a laugh, teeth flashing in the dim light. There was no softness in it, only the thrill of two wills colliding. He kissed her then, hard and brief, the way soldiers clash shields, impact, not surrender.

When he pulled back, the grin lingered. "We'll call it a draw." Lady Nerine smoothed her hair back with a gesture so controlled it almost erased the chaos of their play. She rose from the bed, her body cutting a silhouette of discipline even in disarray. "Dressing time is over. The plan won't wait for your theatrics."

The Amir lay back against the cushions, watching her with shameless appreciation, his voice a lazy purr. "Everything waits for my theatrics." But when she cast him a single look, cold, commanding, edged with promise, he swung himself upright without protest. The game was over. The war was about to begin.

The Amir dragged on a silk shirt without buttoning it, leaving his chest half-bared. He reached for his boots with all the ceremony of a man about to march to war, or to dinner, it was hard to tell which. "Packing's done," he said, tossing his belt onto the bed, where it clattered with steel. "I checked the supplies twice. We could feed a regiment for a week."

"You packed for a circus, not a campaign," Lady Nerine replied, tugging her gloves on with sharp, precise pulls. Every motion was crisp, efficient, as if her body obeyed her the way soldiers obeyed orders. "You don't need six bottles of wine for a three-day march." The Amir chuckled, running his fingers through his hair before knotting it at the nape of his neck. "I don't march without good wine. Morale, my sweets. Morale." She shot him a look over her shoulder, fastening the high collar of her coat. "You call it morale. I call it indulgence."

"You say that," he countered, stepping close enough to cinch the strap of her shoulder-holster with unexpected deftness, "but who's always the first to drink it when the night gets cold?" Her smirk was almost imperceptible, the barest tilt of her lips. "Because I can't let you dull yourself. Someone has to keep the watch and make sure the soldiers obey."

He leaned in, just enough to let the heat of his breath brush her ear. "You like watching me." She fastened the last clasp of her coat with a snap and stepped away, the line of her jaw sharp. "In combat. Not in bed. And especially not when you're snoring." His laugh rang out, genuine and thunderous, filling the chamber. "Fair. But I'll have you know, my snoring has lulled entire platoons to sleep."

"Or driven them to desert." He slipped on his coat, finally buttoning his shirt beneath it, and buckled his swordbelt with a flourish. The man could make even routine dressing look like theater. Lady Nerine, by contrast, drew her dagger with the clean sound of steel leaving sheath, tested its edge against her thumb, and slid it back into place with military precision. "The carriage will be ready. No delays."

"Delays?" The Amir lifted a brow, slinging his travel cloak over his shoulder. "Delays are when the story gets interesting." She turned to face him fully now, boots clicking against the marble floor as she crossed the room. "We don't need interesting. We need fast. Every hour wasted makes us weaker."

He regarded her in silence for a beat, and then, so quick it almost seemed thoughtless, he kissed her. Not the hard clash of earlier, but a swift strike, an interruption, a reminder. When he pulled back, his grin was wicked. "You make even going east to Ocean City feel like a battle worth fighting."

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Her hand pressed flat against his chest, not pushing him away but holding him there, steady. "That's because it is more than a battle, Ruwan played his role and is food for the fishes now." Then she released him and swept toward the door, the sound of her stride the cadence of a march. The Amir followed, fastening his cloak. His grin had not dimmed. For them, intimacy was war. And war was the only intimacy they trusted.

The Amir stood on the high terrace, shoulders squared, the pale dawn spilling across the eastern horizon. He watched the bustle of the courtyards below with quiet amusement, the servants scrambling to secure trunks, scrolls, and supplies for the journey east. He had commanded armies, bargained with Vice-Chief's, and outwitted men with more cunning than morals, but this departure had a different weight. It was one part strategy, two parts showmanship, and all parts necessity.

Lady Nerine emerged from the shadowed corridor behind him, the sweep of her robes whispering across the terrace tiles. She leaned lightly against the balustrade beside him, eyes sharp, assessing the horizon. Her composure was flawless, almost predatory, a predator comfortable in the open, as if the road ahead already belonged to her.

"You've measured every trunk twice," she said, her voice smooth, clipped, laced with satisfaction. "But I suspect the plan will demand more than supplies and appearances."

He allowed a small smirk, the kind that danced between mischief and command. "Then we shall deliver both, won't we? A flawless procession and a flawless show of strength. The city deserves nothing less and is a distraction to get rid of Vael."

Her eyes flicked toward him, narrow, unimpressed. "It deserves results. And discipline. Not theatrics." He shrugged, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his curved blade. "Results follow preparation. Discipline follows experience. And theatrics… well, they can open doors where blades and words fail."

Below, the mounted escorts moved, desert horses stamping and tossing their heads, sensing the weight of the riders they carried. The Amir's gaze lingered on them for a moment, calculating, measuring, already plotting contingencies.

"You rely too much on charm," Nerine said, her lips curving slightly in that dangerous smile he knew could cut as easily as her wit. "And not enough on precision. I will not have you falter before we even reach the city."

He let the smirk linger, tipping his head in acknowledgment. "And I will not falter," he said. "Not when the road calls for both." She leaned back slightly, eyes still scanning the horizon, and with a faint chuckle, added, "Then we shall see if charm and precision can survive the first beat of the drum. I hope you are ready to lead where others would follow blindly."

"I always am my love, the best laid plans of mice and men…" he said, voice steady, confident. But beneath it, a thrill tickled his spine, the pulse of challenge, the call of danger, the sheer, intoxicating weight of command.

The first light of sun pierced the terrace railings, painting the stone gold. The Amir's hand flexed on the hilt of his blade. Today, they would move east. And whatever Ocean City held, they would meet it together.

The Amir descended the terrace steps with Lady Nerine at his shoulder, each stride purposeful, measured. Below, the courtyard had transformed into a river of activity: stablehands led horses with gleaming tack, grooms adjusted saddles and harnesses, and men-at-arms checked weapons, their green uniforms crisp and exacting.

The carriage waited at the far end of the courtyard, its polished wood gleaming as if it had been varnished to reflect authority itself. From a distance, it resembled a noble transport, ornate, sturdy, and unremarkable. Up close, however, its hidden iron bars and reinforced frame told a different story. Inside it, Rellis' prisoner was secured, though the Amir's gaze stayed forward, considering the optics, not the occupant.

Lady Nerine moved with a predator's grace, inspecting every detail as if the courtyard were her own chessboard. She tapped the harness of one raccoon, then the straps of the carriage, her eyes coldly precise. "This harness is too loose," she said sharply. "If the path east is uneven, the guards will have trouble controlling it. Re-adjust it. I want no excuses."

"Yes, Lady Nerine," a groom answered immediately, bowing as he corrected the straps. The Amir watched quietly, noting the precision in her every motion, the efficiency that made his own improvisational style seem casual in contrast. A smile played at his lips. "You always make it look effortless," he murmured.

"Effortless is a choice," she replied without looking at him, voice clipped, carrying the edge of warning. "Mistakes are a luxury neither of us can afford." He let the words hang between them. Charm could smooth over politics, over rivalries, over courts filled with vipers. But here, alongside Lady Nerine, he felt the edge of discipline sharpen against him like steel. And he liked it. The Amir approached the carriage himself, running a hand along the polished wood. "Ready?" he asked, voice carrying the easy confidence that had earned him both allies and enemies.

"Ready," Nerine said shortly. She strode beside him, hands folded behind her, observing the guards and grooms with the same scrutiny a general might reserve for battlefield reports. A signal from the Amir and the guards began leading raccoons into position. The carriage door opened, and Rellis' men carefully shifted the prisoner inside, ensuring she remained secure. Nerine's eyes followed every motion, calculating every angle, every potential slip.

The Amir's hand rested lightly on the carriage side, feeling the solid weight beneath his fingers. He could appreciate the subtlety of its disguise: a noble transport on the outside, a prison within. Only those with keen eyes, like Lady Nerine or himself, would notice.

A distant trumpet sounded. It wasn't ceremonial; it was a signal. Their departure was imminent. The Amir's lips curved in a grin. "East awaits. Let's see how well it greets us." Nerine's eyes glinted, cold but approving. "Do not underestimate it," she said. "And do not forget what you carry behind this carriage. Discipline is meaningless if the cargo bites the hands that feed it."

The Amir chuckled softly. "I've never been one to underestimate a challenge." And with a final glance at the organized chaos below, he swung himself into the driver's seat. Lady Nerine followed, her posture regal, commanding, a warning that she would hold him accountable every inch of the journey. The guards mounted beside them, the carriage creaking slightly under its weight, and the horses shifted impatiently, sensing movement.

The Amir flicked his reins. The raccoons responded. Slowly at first, then with growing momentum, the procession began moving eastward. Sunlight spilled across polished steel, leather, and timber. The city behind them seemed smaller with every step. Ahead lay the road, long and uncertain. And inside the carriage, hidden behind polished wood and iron, the true test of control waited.