Rymora heard the words, but it quickly became obvious that she wasn’t truly listening—not in the way Aira needed. The sight of Aira lying broken on the bathroom floor had paralyzed her. For a moment, she forgot herself entirely. Her lips parted, an airy gasp trembling on the edge of her tongue, the urge to speak was immense as it bubbled to the surface of her throat.
But then panic struck. As if slapped by reality, Rymora clamped both hands over her mouth, horror widening her eyes. She’d almost spoken. Out loud.
Without another moment wasted, she spun on her heel and darted from the bathroom, her footsteps thudding across the cold floor as she rushed back into the main room. Her hands shook violently as she snatched a parchment from the writing desk and scrawled her message with a trembling quill—letters jagged and crooked.
Ink splattered as she tore herself away and ran back to Aira, crouching down beside her. Aira’s skin was pale, streaked with vomit and sweat, and the bathroom floor was thick with the stench of bile and blood. Rymora’s hand trembled as she held the parchment in front of her.
’You vomited blood! We need to get a healer here this very moment!’
Aira barely looked at the note. Her fevered eyes flicked across the words before they snapped up, locking on Rymora’s with a glare that sliced clean through the haze of pain.
She didn’t need pity. She needed action.
Her lips parted, but even that simple effort was a battlefield. Aira squeezed her eyes shut, sweat rolling down her temples as the pain surged again, stabbing through her gut like shards of heated glass. Every breath was a struggle. Every twitch of her muscles felt like she was peeling her skin from the inside.
Finally, she forced the words out—fragile and broken.
"G-ge... get the bag."
Her eyes softened as she looked up at Rymora again, the fury buried beneath the sheen of tears and pain. But her voice remained sharp, laced with venom.
"Unless you wish to die here," she rasped, "and never see the inside of this castle again—you’ll do as I say."
"We both know that you’re not just here to be my maid" Aira bit out trying to tell her that she would be dumb not to have discovered such a fact.
Rymora flinched, the cold edge of Aira’s desperation slicing through her. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.
Had Rymora really thought she could hide the truth forever? Pretending she couldn’t speak—maybe it had made her feel safe once. A secret weapon. A quiet way to avoid attention. But none of that mattered now. Aira knew. And she didn’t care. Not in this moment. She only cared about getting rid of the evidence.
Rymora knelt closer, her fingers brushing lightly against Aira’s arm, the only gesture of comfort she dared to offer. Aira’s skin was burning hot, her body twitching involuntarily. Her lips parted again, a whisper barely audible.
"When you’re done... call the healer," she murmured. "I don’t think I can last much longer."
The pain in her voice was unbearable to hear, so raw and full of quiet terror. Rymora’s chest tightened as she nodded quickly, no longer hesitating. Without another second wasted, she sprang up and ran, her mind focused like a blade.
She would do what needed to be done.
She would destroy the evidence, wash away every trace of their plan before returning. Because if she didn’t, if someone traced this back to Aira, then Aira would not only be punished but Rymora herself would lose her life.
After Rymora left, silence claimed the space again.
Aira lay in her own filth, blood cooling against her skin. Her limbs refused to move, the fever locking her in place as her body shivered uncontrollably. The stench clung to everything—her clothes, her hair, her breath.
She closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to cry.
She focused on the sound of the wind rattling faintly against the window.. Anything to keep her mind from slipping into the darkness that clawed at the edge of her consciousness.
The pain was no longer waves—it was a storm, relentless and full of violence. Every breath felt like inhaling fire. Her mouth tasted of copper and ash.
When she heard the door open, she didn’t even flinch. Her cracked lips curled in irritation.Rymora had just left and who else could it be but her maid whom she had just convinced to leave and return as quickly as she could.
"Rymora," she muttered hoarsely, "What are you—"
Her voice trailed off, eyes narrowing as she forced them open.
Her gaze dropped to the floor. She saw them first—the shoes. Familiar black boots, the leather clean and brand new with gold insignia attached to the sides in just the same way she remembered.
Her stomach clenched with something that had nothing to do with the poison.
Those were the same boots she had seen when her village burned. When her world had fallen apart, and Zyren had stood watching, silent and untouched by the fire that destroyed everything she’d ever known.
The name burned inside her like a brand.
Her breath hitched as her eyes fluttered shut again, not because she couldn’t bear the sight of him, but because she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her this way.
Was he going to mock her? Speak in that cold, superior voice of his, dripping with judgment? Would he pretend she wasn’t even there—like some dying stray he couldn’t be bothered to save?
Aira prepared herself for the worst.
But instead, what filled the air was something far more jarring.
It was low at first—a soft chuckle, as if amused by some small, private joke. Then it grew louder, more bitter, curling through the room like smoke.
"Of all the things you could’ve done..." Zyren’s voice finally came, rich with sardonic amusement. "You chose this?" He asked almost like he could see right through her in one simple glance even without any evidence to back it up.