Chapter 40 Chapter 40
Chapter 40 Chapter 40
The lamps outside Patrina's window guttered in the wind, their blue flames shivering behind glass. It was late, but sleep evaded her. She sat hunched at a small writing desk, the surface piled high with books borrowed from the Melanthor and a battered notebook filled with her own scribbles. The stripes of text on the page blurred and refocused as her mind wandered, refusing to settle on the treatise in her lap.
Twice she reread the same paragraph before giving up. Instead, her attention drifted to Nyxios’s collar. Its color still not yet pure pastel marked her indecision back at her. After her tense meeting with the high elf and the wood elf magistrate, the twin offers echoing in her mind, she found herself trapped between yearning and uncertainty.
If she left, the collar’s spell would break. She’d be free to pursue her research, study the dialects, fulfill her duty to Vyhelm. And yet, what haunted her wasn’t the prospect of freedom alone. It was the memory of Nyxios: the scent of incense on his skin, the wicked curve of his smile, the way his eyes softened, just for her, when he thought no one was watching. Even his shadow magic, which had once frightened her, now seemed less like a threat and more like a secret she was excited to discover.
She closed the book and pressed her knuckles to her lips. It would be so simple to walk away. The elves would protect her. She could finish her research in Solasa or even hide away in the Greenways. Yet she pictured Nyxios’s expression if she vanished. Would he wear an expression of stubbron pride or pain? Would he chase after her? Or would he let her go, convinced she was better off among her own kind?
The gentle chime of the clock in the corridor pulled her from her reverie. She realized she’d been sitting for hours.
A sharp rap sounded at her door. The knock startled her so badly she nearly dropped her book.
She stood and hesitated, smoothing the robe with nervous fingers. “Yes?” she called.
The door opened without waiting for permission. A tall, stone-faced guard filled the threshold, his dark uniform crisp and unadorned. His eyes flicked over her attire and registered only mild disapproval.
“You’re required. Go change,” he barked.
Patrina hesitated, weighing the wisdom of demanding more information. She thought of Nyxios, how he would have relished her stubbornness, the way he always tried to predict her next move.
“Where will Nyxios see me?” she asked, voice quieter than she intended.
The guard only stared, unmoved. “Change. Now.” He waited, arms crossed, as if daring her to resist.
With a touch of resentment, she turned to her wardrobe and selected a simple dress: a shapeless, dark wool tunic. If she was to be ordered, she was not going to dress up. She paired it with soft leather flats that looked as though they had seen more than one season of use. Beneath the dress, the collar Nyxios had gifted her felt heavier than ever.
She reemerged, hugging the warmth of her own arms. The guard evaluated her quickly, then nodded. “Follow.”
The halls beyond her room were utterly silent. The click of leather soles and the guard’s heavier boots echoed as they wound down passage after passage, always moving away from familiar gathering rooms and deeper into the back corridors. The blue lanterns flicked in the gloom, sometimes casting the shadow of her collar long and thin against the walls.
Patrina’s mind churned. She kept pace with the guard, growing more unsettled with each turn. Perhaps Nyxios had already learned of the elves’ offer. Was this how he planned to confront her? With witnesses? Or would he simply take her somewhere private—behind a locked door, with only the cold logic of tradition to shield him?
Her voice sounded small against the emptiness. “Where am I being taken?”
No reply.
They passed the kitchens. They were quiet, the scent of bread replaced by a lingering hint of smoke. Patrina glanced over her shoulder, searching for Ziska or another servant. But the passageways were empty, the hour too late for casual foot traffic.
The guard led her down a narrow staircase, each step colder than the last. They entered the servant’s wing, its corridors stripped of all ornament. The walls were bare wood, floors scuffed by years of use. Patrina pressed her lips together. It felt wrong. This route, these empty spaces. Nyxios used to joke about the maze of his own house, always proud to show her the elegant architecture, the hidden alcoves. Yet this path held none of that playfulness. She looked behind her. Not a servant in sight. It was empty, still.
The guard reached a door at the far end. He glanced at her, then pushed it open. Night air rushed in, laced with brine from the nearby canal.
A second guard stood outside, taller and broader than the first. He carried himself with a strange tension, as if bracing for a fight.
Patrina hesitated on the threshold. Instinct prickled at the back of her neck. “I’d rather not go outside tonight,” she said, stepping back.
The guards exchanged a glance, silent communication flashing between them.
Patrina turned to return inside, but the hand clamped on her shoulder—impossibly strong, fingers digging through the fabric of her dress.
She tried to jerk away. “Let go of me! I’ll scream—”
The second guard produced a small, glass bottle from his pouch. He twisted the cap with a practiced flick of the wrist and sprayed a fine mist over her face.
A sweet, pungent fragrance filled her nose. It felt entirely wrong. The world spun. Her limbs went slack, knees buckling.
She fought to stay awake, but her eyelids would not obey.
The first guard caught her, lowering her gently but hurriedly to the dirt beneath the porch. Too late, she tried to struggle, but her body no longer answered.
She thought, dimly before losing consciousness, of Nyxios’s arms around her—how safe she had felt then and wished he were there.
Beneath the eaves, two shadows worked quickly. The second guard retrieved a square of cloth from his pocket, marked with a bloodstain. He poured a canteen of water over it, until the fabric gleamed slick and red.
“Ready?” the first guard whispered.
“Do it,” the other replied, nerves making his voice shake.
The second guard pressed the bloodied cloth to the metal lock of Patrina’s collar. He held it there for a count of three. With a faint metallic click, the collar released. The blackened band fell away and landed in the churned dirt, the stone in its center dull and lifeless.
“She’s clear. Grab her feet. Quick!”
Together, they hoisted Patrina’s limp form, one at the shoulders, one at the ankles. Her head lolled, mouth slightly opened with a groan.
“Go, go, go.” Panic made their voices thin.
They half-ran, half-staggered across the narrow strip of garden behind the servant’s exit. A shoe slipped off. Neither guard paused to retrieve it.
Within seconds, they melted into the night that blanketed the estate.
Lysandra stood just beyond the battered side gate of House Maelis, her posture as rigid as the iron bars behind her. The night was damp, the air thick with the hush of river fog, but she neither shivered nor shifted her weight as she waited.
She heard the trample of feet before she saw the guards, two silhouettes moving with practiced urgency across the pitted flagstones. They carried a third figure between them: limp, head sagging, one shoe missing. Lysandra exhaled in relief. The plan had unfolded precisely, no visible witnesses, no raised alarms. She stepped forward into the cone of light cast by the overhanging lantern.
“Here,” she whispered. “Bring her to the bench.”
The guards obeyed, lowering Patrina onto the waiting stone. Lysandra’s gaze flicked over the human woman’s exposed wrists and neck; no blood, no marks—good. She knelt, flipped open one eyelid, then the other. Satisfied, she pressed two fingers to the side of Patrina’s throat, counting the pulsebeats. Still steady, if sluggish. The narcotic had worked as intended.
“What about our pay?” one guard asked, voice low and tight with nerves.
Lysandra tossed him a small bag of silver. “Leave.”
The guards did not linger. With a quick look back at the human, they retreated down the garden path, their forms quickly swallowed by the fog.
She crouched, arranging Patrina’s arms and smoothing her hair so she would look presentable upon waking. “Sorry little scholar,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Patrina’s cheek. “You will probably be so confused to not wake up to Nyxios. Our House isn’t as gentle as his.” She could already picture the power shift, the way the other houses would scramble when they realized the human asset had changed hands.
A faint rustle made her look up. A window in House Maelis glowed faintly. Lysandra shouldered Patrina’s weight, hoisting her with impressive ease, and began the careful trek to the rear entry. At the threshold, she paused one last time to check for witnesses, then slipped through the door.