A little over an hour later, it was done.
A countermeasure drafted, assessed, revised—then assessed again. Repeated until certainty, real or imagined, had settled into place.
Whether it succeeded or failed, they had ensured one thing: the Council would only be taking one head.
Chion's.
With that settled, they departed to fulfill their assigned roles for the Midnight Trial.
Well. Three of them, at least.
Chion had requested that Violet remain behind.
Her gaze lingered on Leah as the door pulled shut. Then it returned to him—irritation plain, curiosity barely bothering to conceal itself.
"You asked me to stay?"
He raised a single finger from where he sat on the edge of the bed. Patience. He was listening to the fading echo of footsteps in the corridor.
Further.
Further still.
Only when silence had fully settled did he lower his hand.
"Well?" she prompted.
His head tilted slightly. "Some clarifications."
"On?"
"The Exodus."
Her posture adjusted. "I'm listening."
"Not yet." His hands rose to his hair—long, silver, straight—and he drew his fingers slowly through it once. "I need a favour first."
Violet's eyes narrowed. "What kind of favour."
"Will you—"
"Will I what, exactly."
"Assist in getting it ready."
She stared at him.
Then her eyes went wide. A faint gasp escaped before she could stop it.
Was he—
No.
No, he wasn't joking.
Embarrassment flashed across her face. She swallowed it down. Drew a hand near her mouth and cleared her throat.
"That's… inappropriate, don't you think?"
Something almost shifted in his expression.
It actually was. Among the clan, only spouses tended one another's hair. While still Hollow, the task fell instead to the Shia of House Peryn.
Though he had not expected that reaction. Much less from her.
"I'm willing to compensate you," he said, gesturing toward the chest, still half full.
Her eyes flickered toward it, then snapped back. The embarrassment remained painfully visible.
"That's not the point," she muttered. Frustration rising. "It's indecent, okay?"
His brow twitched. A faint smirk touched his lips—gone a moment later.
"I'm twelve."
The silence that followed was the loudest thing in the room.
Her mouth opened. Words formed somewhere in the distance and then fell, one by one, into a pit she couldn't see the bottom of.
Wait, I wasn't even—
It's not like I—
That's not what I—
Nothing.
"…I'll do it," she said at last.
And felt, for reasons she had no interest in examining, like an absolute degenerate.
This manipulative little bastard.
*************
"How do you want it?" she asked, already dragging her feet toward him against her better judgment.
He didn't answer immediately. His finger traced idly along a lock of silver hair, and she had the distinct impression he was enjoying himself far more than the situation warranted.
Then, just as she came to stand before him—
"The Seven Sacred Serpents."
Her hand stilled. She hesitated to ask for clarification.
His gaze found hers. Already carrying the answer she didn't want to hear.
"The Crowned Serpent."
Her lips went faintly numb.
Responses formed. Dissolved.
"You're going to offend a lot of people," she said at last.
"Well," he replied, "those people want me dead."
Her eyes held his. The tension between them was real. Uncomfortable, even.
"…I guess."
She nudged him down to the floor, then settled behind him with a soft thud.
"Do you have the ornaments?" she asked. "Or does your insanity not extend that far?"
"I do." A shrug. His hand disappeared into his cloak and returned with a wrapped strip of leather, which he held back toward her.
She took it and unfolded it with careful precision. Her eyes moved across the contents.
Twenty-one golden beads.
Six gem-encased chains.
And two golden hairpins.
She stilled.
"An exact replica…"
It wasn't. He nodded anyway.
"Your…"
The words didn't form.
He nodded once more. Then went still entirely.
A breath passed.
"I'll be sure to bring them to your gravestone," she murmured.
A pause.
"If they even allow it."
Another single nod.
Her hands began to work in silence.