Alric did not answer at once.

  The corridor’s light pressed between them, caught between iron and skin. Her arms were still raised, chains slack and softly swaying, as though she had not yet decided whether to lower them. She watched him openly, chin lifted, eyes sharp with expectation.

  His fingers tightened at his side, then stilled.

  He took a step toward her.

  The distance closed fast, and he stopped himself a pace away, close enough that he could smell oil and sap beneath the linen of her dress. Close enough that the memory of fog and water stirred unbidden at the edge of his thoughts.

  Her mouth curved faintly in jeer.

  He spoke before she could.

  “Very well,” he said. “Do it.”

  His voice was level, stripped of inflection.

  For a heartbeat, she did not move. Then her expression tightened, the smile collapsing into something harder and more honest.

  “Do not mistake yourself for brave, butcher,” she said. “I would rather lay hands on death itself than touch you again.”

  The words were meant to cut, to force him back from the ground she had just lost.

  But he did not retreat. Instead, he let silence speak for him.

  The moment stretched, the palace’s shadows seeming to lean closer, listening to their every word.

  Enough, he broke it.

  “Go inside. I have something to report.”

  Her brow furrowed, the contempt still present, but faltering. She lowered her arms, chains chiming faintly against the leather bindings.

  She studied him as though he had spoken in another tongue.

  “What could possibly drag you here in the dead of night?”

  Alric remained silent and simply met her gaze before stepping past her.

  She recoiled a half-step to the side, frustration flashing across her face.

  “What?” she snapped “You cannot even wait to be invited? Or is this matter of such importance that you must invade my space like an uncouth beast as well?”

  He paused by the window behind her, eyes lifting to the dark beyond as though measuring night itself.

  He laid his candle-holder on the table beside him with care and did not turn to look at her.

  “Shut the door and sit. This concerns what the Emperor has decreed.”

  A sudden impulse came over her. For an instant, her hands lifted, shoulders tensing as her body trembled with unspent rage. The chains rattled as they hung in the air between them again.

  “Am I a dog now? Here to obey your every word?”

  He kept his gaze on the window, his reflection staring back at them.

  “Stand then. It makes no difference.”

  She breathed sharp for three breaths, then stilled. As her hands fell to her front, she turned to the door.

  The latch settled with a muted click.

  Her hand remained on it, ironwork frost enveloping it.

  Silence settled over the room, flickering flames casting shadows across the white stone.

  “So,” she said, frustration edging her voice, a small smirk playing on her lips. “Speak.”

  He turned slowly from the window, pale reflection following his movement crisply, shoulder barely missing the glass.

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  “His Majesty the Emperor has placed you under my charge. You are to depart with me when I am given leave from the capital.”

  “Should I be thankful, Lord Commander?” she scoffed. “Should I kneel and kiss your feet?”

  He remained silent, silver gaze cast onto her.

  “You are to tell me if you have any skills useful to a military dispatch. Merchantry, reading, mathematics. Anything that the legions might use.”

  Her expression hardened. “Why? Planning to put me to work? Make me earn my captivity?"

  “Yes. Now speak.”

  She clenched her jaw and stayed silent for a moment before answering him with a sharp exhale.

  “I can both read and write in serathian, valekyrian and drakorythian. I kept my husband’s ledgers for years. I managed his trade contracts, balanced accounts, tracked shipments to and from our warehouses."

  “There. That’s I can offer your precious legions, butcher.”

  He gave a curt nod, took candle in hand, and stepped toward the door where she stood.

  “Step aside. I have what I need.”

  She didn’t move and looked up at him, a toothy sneer spreading across her face.

  “You came to me at midnight for this? Really? Do you truly think I will let you trot out of here without a proper explanation to your secretive visit?”

  “There is no reason for you to know.” His voice was frosted steel.

  “But there is, butcher,” she stepped closer. “You came to me, not the other way around. You chose midnight. Why?”

  His jaw clenched.

  “It is nothing more than protocol, woman.”

  She closed the final distance between them, the rattle of ceremonial tolls at her wrists.

  Her hands rose to his chest, met it flat, and with a anger-fuelled push, he was shoved back a step.

  "Do not insult me," she hissed. "You don't come to a prisoner's chamber at midnight for protocol. Tell me why, or I scream loud enough for every guard, Seneschal and official in this palace to hear what the Lord Commander does when he can't sleep."

  “Scream then.” His voice, though not raised, rang hollow. “See what happens when a stain-touched woman assaults the Lord Commander.”

  She shook her head, smile sharpening to something fiercer.

  "Do not mistake me for powerless, butcher. Though your Emperor named me contaminated, and your Seneschals agree, do you think they will believe you came here at midnight for a report? To me? Or will they wonder what else the Lord Commander does with his hex-touched charge behind closed doors when nobody sees him?"

  She held his gaze unflinchingly, spine drawn taut.

  He held her eyes for a long moment, fist clenching hard around the candle holder.

  Then he let a long exhale escape him, letting some truth go like mist over stone.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said at last.

  “So?” Her posture eased a fraction.

  He let another exhale through his nose. His free hand lifted and slid under his chin, fingers brushing against his mouth for a breath before coming to rest at his side again.

  He looked away toward the window where darkness pressed against glass.

  "Gold can't quiet the mind and marble can’t stay the hand."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Do not hide behind riddles and courtly evasion. I asked you plainly. Answer me the same."

  His jaw worked, fist still tight around the brass holder.

  "I can't." The words came rough. "And you should leave it be."

  He turned to face her once more, features unreadable through the flickering flames. Silence stretched between them; winter wind stirred faintly beyond the glass.

  She studied him for a long moment: the tension in his shoulders, the way his fist still gripped the candle holder, his careful blankness used as armour.

  Her posture eased fully, though wariness remained in her gaze.

  “You are hiding something, that much is apparent. And though it was you who walked here like a condemned man, I will let it go for tonight.”

  “Good,” he shifted his weight slightly, as though preparing to leave.

  “But,” she began, cutting his movements short “answer me this first. Where are we going? and when?”

  “I don’t know when. The Emperor commands, I obey. But if I had to guess, it will be Drakoryth. The Queen’s faction has recently sent envoys to court.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Wonderful, from olive groves and verdant trees, to dragonoid war-zealots and molten rivers.”

  Her eyes locked on his. “And what am I to you there? Proof of hex contamination? A pretty ornament for your command tent?”

  He shook his head. “Neither,” his voice came flat as iron, “you'll manage warehouses. All supplies, ledgers and shipment records will pass through you. The quartermasters will answer to you for inventory."

  She blinked.

  "You're putting me in charge of your supply lines?"

  He nodded. “Not at once, but if what you say is true, you will be valuable, both in practice and in loyalty.”

  Her voice came sharp as steel. “I will never be loyal to you, scum.”

  “Indeed, but neither will you be loyal to any Valekyrian dignitaries.”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “Your hatred of the Empire that destroyed your city. You'll take orders from no one but necessity.”

  She held his gaze, searching for mockery or scorn, but found simply cold assessment.

  “You'll train under Vargo for two weeks. He coordinates camp logistics and march preparation.”

  She scoffed.

  "Your old dog from the camp?"

  "The same."

  She watched him a moment longer, then stepped aside.

  He crossed to the door passing by her, candle holder scraping softly against the latch as he shifted it to his free hand.

  The door opened and torchlight from the corridor spilled in, cutting harsh shadows across the stone floor.

  He paused at the threshold, silhouette framed by firelight.

  For a breath, he remained there, as though words lingered unspoken. Then he stepped through, latch closing behind him with a soft click.

  Priscilla stood alone, chains weighing heavier than before.

  She moved to the window where he'd stood, pressing her palm against the cold glass. Beyond it, Valekyr stretched out beneath a moonless sky: towers and spires reduced to nothing but shadow, the city's splendor swallowed by darkness.

  Her reflection stared back at her, distorted by candlelight.

  He had given her power, however small, to command her destiny again. And she hated it all, for a tiny, insignificant shell of a part of herself felt relief for it, just like it had in the Crag.