Chapter 22: The Dagger and the Devil
He stormed in just before sundown.
The guards didn't stop him. The doors slammed against the walls. His scent arrived before his voice—ash, steel, storm.
Nyra stood by the hearth, removing her earrings.
"Bryant—"
"You drank it?" he snapped. "The Council's Vintage?"
Her fingers stilled.
"You weren't supposed to go alone."
"I wasn't supposed to survive the dungeon either. But here I am."
He looked like he hadn't slept.
His coat was half-unbuttoned. His jaw clenched hard enough to splinter teeth.
"They used truthroot on you."
"I know."
"They planted a woman to call you Smith."
"I know."
He stared at her, wild and quiet.
"You should have told me," he said.
"I don't belong to you," she answered. "And I won't be used like some porcelain wolf tucked away on a shelf."
That hit.
Not because it was untrue.
Because it was exactly what he feared.
He moved closer.
Slower now.
"You could've died."
"You burn people for less."
He stepped closer still.
"You don't get it, do you?" he murmured.
Her voice lowered. "Then explain it."
He didn't. Not in words.
He just reached for her face—
His thumb brushing the line of her scar.
She didn't pull away.
"Say it," she whispered.
But he didn't.
Because love was still a war he refused to surrender to.
So instead—
He kissed her forehead.
Just once.
Then turned and left.
Not out of rage.
Out of fear.
Not of her enemies.
But of what she was starting to mean.
---
That night—
Nyra returned to her chamber.
Something was different.
Her window was slightly ajar.
She stepped in, every sense sharp.
The fire was out.
The shadows longer.
And then she saw it—
A small blade resting on her pillow.
Carved ivory handle.
Ancient.
Royal.
And on its hilt…
R.S.
> Rina Smith.
Her mother's initials.
Nyra picked it up slowly.
Her fingers curled around the grip like muscle memory.
And in the faint candlelight, she saw the note beneath it.
One line. Handwritten in rust-colored ink:
> Your blood remembers.
Now let it burn.
---