Riven let the silence settle—long enough that courtesy itself began to demand a report.
"I see you are well, Lady Rebecca. The North has done nothing—"
"Spare me, Elder."
The words cut clean. Sharp. Final.
"I know why you requested this meeting."
Riven fell silent. His gaze shifted—not to her, but to the cup in his hand. Steam curled upward in slow, deliberate spirals. He watched it. Listened to the silence that followed.
Her gaze pressed into him. Deeper. And deeper still.
Then, at last, it withdrew.
"Tonight," she said softly, "at midnight, I was to host a banquet."
Her veiled gaze returned.
"Tell me, Elder…"
A pause.
"Can you assume the occasion?"
His breath stilled—only for a moment. He knew. Of course he knew.
But guilt would not allow him to say it.
"One hundred and thirty years of unquestioned service," she continued. "One ordeal after another. And still—you want more."
A faint tilt of her head.
"You want my aid… in convincing my beloved into yet another charade of your… loose designs."
Riven's posture shifted—barely. The cup in his hand remained steady.
"If there were another path," he said quietly, "I would have taken it. But there is none left to me."
Silence answered him.
Then—
"Am I to pity your circumstances? is that it?"
His jaw tightened.
"No." His gaze lowered. "Only assist me… in reaching him."
"Why should I?" A breath. "Why would I ever?" Her head tilted beneath the veil ,the momentary anger dissolving into ritual hyporacy.
"You are the Elder. He is your vassal. Order him—as you always have. Send him to his death. Then wait for his return with another shining trophy."
A pause.
"Why don't you?"
Riven exhaled slowly and set the cup down with deliberate care.
"I understand—"
"You don't."
She cut through him without raising her voice.
"You are a self-serving, self-justifying shell of a man. Living for the praise obedience brings. Even when it cost your children—your grandchildren—you did nothing. You measure life by the honour it grants your name… not by the blood this House demands in return. I will —"
"Enough."
The word came sharp—rage flickering, then gone.
"I have done everything," he said, each word measured. "Given everything—for this House. My comrades. My vassals. My blood." A breath. "None of it willingly. None without cost. But what choice did I have?"
His gaze lifted. Steady. Unflinching.
"How much power do you think this title holds? I am one man—against twelve. I cannot be the strongest. Or the cleverest. Or even the most beloved." A pause. "But I can be the one who survives. The one who ensures this House—and your future—survives."
Silence settled. Heavy.
"You want me to order him?" His voice lowered. "I will. I will abandon all pretense of being a father and decree it."
A beat.
"And when he refuses—" because they both knew he would— "and the rest demand his head… I will be the one to take it."
Another pause.
"And give you a real reason to despise me… Daughter."
She went still.
Something crossed her mind—something sharp, unwelcome. She burned it away.
She set her untouched cup down and rose.
"I'll do it."
Her voice was soft. Controlled.
She turned to leave—then paused.
"But understand this. If anything happens to my beloved…" Her gaze hardened. "Forget we share blood. Send your executioners for my head. Before I come for you."
A final beat.
"Father."
Riven nodded once. The bitterness rose, sharp at the back of his throat.
He watched her go.
Armon and Elliott parted for her with ritual precision. Neither dared look twice at a pureblood Noctis.
**********
When her hands finally stopped shaking—
and her mind found something resembling focus—
she lit the candle.
A timed one. Set to extinguish itself in exactly ninety minutes. Minus the five she had already wasted—
panicking.
Holding back a breakdown.
Her hands moved.
Forceps.
Razors.
That dagger-thing.
Reagents.
Pinned skin.
Between her teeth—a glowing crystal. Bitten down hard enough to threaten fracture.
Whatever he had taken—
it hadn't just rendered him unconscious.
It had completely shut down the hyper-regeneration of their kind
One mistake—
and he bleeds out.
Her thoughts didn't slow.
They churned.
Risk my life to steal intel for you—
Oh, I did. Demand anything? No.
Expect sense.
Why did I even—
Blather about leverage. About time.
Then what?
Provoke the Council.
Trigger some half-ancient blood ritual.
Drag my assets into your mess—
and forget to mention you were poisoned like a rat.
Her grip tightened.
Enough.
No—
Not even close.
Demand surgery-on a hunch.
Write half-mad instructions—
hand them to me—
and give me a damn nod to cut you open.
I should kill you now.
End this nonsense.
Her hands didn't stop.
Even as the thought settled in.
Even as something colder followed it.
Her eyes strained harder—
not to kill him.
Nyxvalis blood was black.
And so was everything beneath it.
She had never cared to study anatomy.
Her work had always been simpler—
cut through.
Destroy.
Move on.
So why—
why the hell was she doing this?
Only the faint blue channels of current gave her guidance.
Where to cut.
Where not to.
That much—
she had bothered to learn.
Her gaze snapped back to the instructions.
Again.
And again.
Twelve millimetres left of the heart.
She bit down harder on the crystal.
His voice echoed—uninvited.
Hold it like this.
Angle it—no, lower.
Sterilise here.
Don't hesitate.
Curse you, Chion.
Her fingers moved deeper.
Too close.
Far too close.
Then—
she felt it.
Before she saw it.
Cold.
Wrong.
A small sphere.
Wriggling.
Threaded with fine, twitching tendrils.
Disgusting.
A shiver crawled up her spine as she adjusted her grip—
following his instructions.
Precisely.
It was working.
It's working—
The thing…
opened.
An eye.
Not a curse.
A Malifice.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
The structure shifted—
alive.
Then it screamed.
A sound that did not belong inside a body.
It ruptured.
Purple ichor burst outward—
coating her hands.
The instruments.
Him.
"By the gods—what have I done—"
Chion convulsed.
Violently.
His body arched—
then buckled.
Vessels ruptured beneath his skin.
Dark lines spread—
splintering outward.
Breaking.
Blood followed.
Too much.
Far too much.
Her breath hitched.
Her hands froze.
No.
No—
He was dying.
She had killed him.