The corridors near the east wing were quieter than the rest of the keep. Not abandoned—never that—but steeped in an older stillness, where time moved slowly and dust gathered in corners no patrols bothered to sweep. The stone here was warmer somehow, veined with faded gold where the sunlight caught on arched windows. It smelled of wax and soft smoke, of old wool and something sweeter—fruit, maybe. Dried flowers.
Liora wasn't sure why her feet had taken her there.
Only that they had.
By the time she reached the narrow door at the end of the hall, her fingers were cold, and her pulse still hadn't slowed. Her knuckles hesitated over the wood.
She shouldn't be here.
But she didn't know where else to go.
She knocked.
A pause. Then, softly—"Come in."
The voice was unmistakable. Even through the door, it held a kind of gravity—Lady Ilyren Halvarin, wife of the Warden of the Southern Gates. Veyra's mother. An Omega, like her.
Liora opened the door slowly, carefully. She expected severity. Coldness. Something sharp and noble.
Instead, she was met with soft lamplight and warmth.
The room was modestly furnished—a few well-made chairs, bookshelves lined with old volumes, and a small brazier casting flickering shadows along the stone. An open window let in a breeze that stirred the edge of a curtain. A single bowl of ripe figs sat untouched on a side table beside a folded letter.
Lady Ilyren sat at a table near the hearth, shawl draped loosely over her shoulders, a ribbon of silver threaded through her dark braid. She was older, certainly—but not frail. Her eyes were watchful. Alive.
She looked up.
And she smiled.
"Miss Vayne," she said gently. "What a rare pleasure."
Liora swallowed. "I... I'm sorry to disturb—"
"You're not." Lady Ilyren rose smoothly. "Please. Sit."
Liora crossed the room slowly, barefoot, still wrapped in Veyra's oversized tunic. She perched stiffly on the edge of a cushioned bench.
The older woman studied her for only a moment before turning, wordlessly pouring warm tea from a nearby pot and setting a cup in front of her. Steam rose—scented with something floral and earthy.
Liora didn't touch it.
Lady Ilyren spoke first.
"You're flushed," she said softly. "And shaken. You've either been kissed... or nearly killed. Or, perhaps, both."
That nearly broke Liora in half.
Her eyes stung immediately, breath catching in her throat. She didn't look up. "You're not wrong."
"About which?"
Liora let out a strangled laugh. "Both."
There was a silence.
Lady Ilyren sat beside her—not across, but beside—and folded her hands neatly in her lap.
Liora stared into the tea. Her voice came quieter now. "He came into her quarters. Alric. Serren's son. He just... walked in. I was alone."
Lady Ilyren went still. Not startled. Not frightened. Just... very still.
"Did he hurt you?"
"No. Just came to remind me he could."
Lady Ilyren's lips pressed together. "And Veyra?"
"She found out," Liora said. "After. She came back with a vengeance... But that's not... that's not what this is about."
Another pause.
"She cornered me." Liora's voice shook, despite her attempt to keep it level. "Didn't touch me, not really. Just got too close. Looked at me like I'd already said yes. And I—I pushed her back, I made her lie down, and I—" Her breath caught.
"I kissed her."
The words sat heavy in the air between them.
Lady Ilyren didn't flinch. She simply turned her gaze toward the fire.
"Did she kiss you back?"
"Yes." Liora's voice broke. "Just once. Not even... it was barely—"
"But enough," Ilyren murmured. "Enough that you're sitting in my room instead of hers."
Liora's hands shook. "She didn't hurt me. She didn't force it. But she wanted to. I saw it in her. And I—I wanted to take it from her before she forgot how to ask."
Another silence stretched, deeper this time.
"I don't know what I've done," Liora whispered.
Lady Ilyren rose slowly and moved to the bowl of figs. She selected one, turned it in her fingers for a moment, then returned and offered it to Liora. No explanation. Just the act.
Liora took it.
The fruit was soft in her palm, fragrant and dark.
"When I first met her father," Ilyren said at last, "he looked at me like I was made of stars. But he didn't know what to do with stars. Only swords."
Liora glanced up.
"I had to teach him. Not through submission. Through stillness. Through saying no. And sometimes—" her voice softened even more, "—through saying yes before he was ready to hear it."
She met Liora's eyes fully now.
"You did not overstep, child. You asserted your place. You reminded an Alpha what choosing looks like. And if Veyra is worth the breath in her lungs, she will remember that it is your choice to give."
Liora swallowed hard, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
"Do you hate me for it?"
Lady Ilyren blinked. "For kissing my daughter? For putting her on her back and reminding her not to claim what isn't freely offered?"
Liora nodded, stiffly.
The older Omega smiled—small and sharp.
"I could kiss you for it."
Liora laughed then, shaky but real. "She's going to hate me."
"No," Ilyren said. "She's going to think about you until it hurts."
They both sat in the quiet for a while.
"...What do I do now?"
Lady Ilyren tilted her head.
Liora stared at the fig in her hand, then up again. "What should I do? How can I even approach her after that? I said things I meant and things I didn't and I—" She faltered, breath catching. "How can I look at her after pinning her down and—kissing her like that? How do I fix it?"
The words came fast, raw, unguarded.
Lady Ilyren's expression didn't shift. But something gentle entered her voice.
"You don't fix a fire, Liora. You tend it."
Liora blinked.
"You don't run from the heat, either. Not if you're the one who lit it."
"But what if I hurt her?" she whispered. "She's so... strong. She leads armies. And I still feel like I knocked the air out of her. What if I pushed too hard?"
"She's never been wanted like that before," Ilyren said quietly. "Not by someone who saw her first, not her name. You didn't hurt her. You scared her. That's different."
"And if she pulls away now?" Liora's voice cracked. "If I ruined it?"
Lady Ilyren reached over, this time taking Liora's hand. Her touch was soft. Steady.
"Then you give her space to come back. And when she does—you let her look at you. Fully. As you are. Not bowed. Not sorry. Just honest."
Liora's eyes stung.
"You tell her the truth, Liora. Not the clean version. The real one."
"And if I'm still afraid?"
Lady Ilyren's mouth tilted in a knowing smile.
"Then welcome to the rest of your life."
Outside, a hawk cried once into the wind.
Liora turned the fig in her fingers again. "I told her I didn't want her. I lied."
"You're allowed to lie when you're scared," Ilyren said, rising to return to her chair. "But don't make it a habit."
Liora nodded slowly, eyes wet.
Liora stood slowly, brushing her fingers down the front of her tunic, her skin still prickling from everything she hadn't yet said.
Liora didn't answer right away.
She just sat there, shoulders curled in, the fig still resting forgotten in her palm. Her other hand—trembling now that the adrenaline had worn off—pressed low over her ribs where the bandage sat beneath the tunic. Everything in her body felt wrung out. Tender. Like a song played too long.
And only now did she realize her face was wet.
She blinked, confused by the sensation. Lifted a hand to her cheek—and stared at her fingers.
She hadn't cried. Had she?
Lady Ilyren stood without a word. She moved with the kind of grace Liora imagined only came with age and long-won dignity—no hurry, no pity. Just presence. A quiet, commanding stillness.
A soft cloth was fetched from a folded pile near the hearth. She warmed it briefly over the brazier, testing it against her own wrist before bringing it to Liora's face.
"May I?" she asked, as if it were a sacred thing.
Liora nodded once, unable to speak.
Lady Ilyren knelt beside her—not regal now, just human—and gently began to wipe the tears from her cheeks. One by one. No scolding. No fuss. Just the faint pressure of warm cloth, scented of dried chamomile.
"I used to do this for Veyra," she murmured, almost to herself. "After her first skirmish. She came home with a split lip and refused to cry for three days. But the salt dried on her face all the same."
Liora's throat worked.
"She never lets anyone see her cry."
"No," Ilyren said softly. "But she always comes undone when she is alone. That's when you know."
She finished cleaning the tear streaks and then, with careful fingers, tucked a lock of Liora's strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. Her hand lingered there for just a second—thumb brushing gently over her temple.
"You're strong," she said. "But you don't have to be composed."
Liora blinked again.
"I'm not like you," she said, her voice catching.
Lady Ilyren tilted her head, amused. "No. You're louder."
She rose to her feet again, this time reaching for a fresh linen cloth and a small glass jar of healing balm from the shelf.
"You've reopened your wound," she said, glancing at the dark patch near Liora's ribs. "Lift your arm. I'll rewrap it."
Liora obeyed automatically, flushing as the older Omega helped her slip the loose tunic higher. The cool touch of balm made her flinch—but it was kind, precise.
"She'll blame herself when she sees this," Ilyren said as she secured the fresh bandage. "She'll think her scent or her nearness caused it."
"She wasn't rough—"
"She doesn't have to be. She's Alpha. You were in pain and alone. She'll feel it like a failing, not a fact."
Liora bit her lip.
"I said cruel things."
"You said true things," Ilyren corrected. "Truth has a sharp edge. Let her feel it. She's never needed softness as much as she needs clarity right now."
Liora looked down. "I don't know if I can face her."
"You don't need to say anything profound," Ilyren said gently. "You don't need to explain what you did. Just return."
"Return?"
"Walk through the door," she said. "That's all. She'll be listening for you. She already is."
Liora's shoulders curled inward again.
Ilyren reached down, smoothing the collar of the tunic Liora wore—straightening it with the same care she might have given Veyra as a child. She adjusted the hem gently, brushed a few wrinkles from her sleeves. Her hands were so calm. So certain.
Then, with a final glance, she took Liora's chin lightly between her fingers.
"Let her see the woman who challenged her," she said. "Not the girl who ran."
Liora's breath caught.
Then, finally—finally—she nodded.
"I don't want to run anymore."
"Good," Ilyren murmured. "Then go back before you convince yourself of all the reasons you shouldn't."
She stepped aside with the ease of someone who knew the decision had already been made. She didn't watch Liora go. Just returned to her seat beside the fire and picked up the fig Liora had left behind.
"Take the long way," she called gently as Liora opened the door. "Let your steps be certain. It'll give her time to sit up straight and pretend she wasn't waiting."
Liora paused.
Then smiled, just barely.
And walked out.
"Thank you," Lady Ilyren inclined her head. "For saving her. And for not letting her forget herself."
—
Veyra hadn't moved since the door shut.
The bed creaked quietly beneath her, the furs beneath her palms rumpled and damp where her hands had clenched them. Her breath had evened, mostly. Her scent hadn't. It still laced the room—thick, sharp, unsettled—pine and spice gone raw with something else. Something unspooled. She could feel it in the air, curling beneath the floor of her ribs like smoke refusing to clear.
Gods.
She could still taste her.
She closed her eyes, teeth gritting.
The press of Liora's mouth against hers—it hadn't been gentle. Hadn't even really been a kiss. It was claiming. A demand. Liora had moved with all the fire Veyra usually had to restrain in herself, and for a split, electric second—she'd let her. She hadn't even thought. Her lips had moved on instinct. Her pulse had answered like a drum.
And now?
Now she was shaking.
Not visibly. Not quite. But inside—where no one could see—she was still on her back. Still feeling the press of Liora's knees into the bed. Still hearing the echo of that voice:
"Still feeling like the one in control?"
Her cheeks flushed again—angry and hot. Not with shame.
With memory.
Because gods help her, she liked it. She liked the burn of it. The inversion. The truth of it.
She hated that she liked it.
She hated even more that it had almost made her lose control.
She'd come into this room after hearing what Alric had done—burst through the door with the image of him in her space, near Liora's pillow, breathing her air like he had any right to. The anger had been immediate. Blinding. It had followed her in like a storm, scent sharpened by fury and possessiveness she didn't know how to cage. And then she'd seen Liora—barefoot, flushed, wrapped in her tunic like something soft and wild—and the wrong instincts had taken hold.
She'd leaned in.
She hadn't meant to pin her. But she had. She hadn't meant to let her scent slip. But it had. And Liora—gods, Liora hadn't wilted. She'd risen. She'd shoved her back and climbed over her and flipped the balance, so fast Veyra hadn't even realized the rules had changed until she was staring up at her.
And that voice.
"You think want gives you permission. It doesn't."
Veyra exhaled through her teeth.
She should've said something. Anything. But her mind had blanked. Everything she'd trained for—battle, strategy, political maneuvering—it meant nothing against the look in Liora's eyes when she said:
"If I want you—you'll know."
And then she'd left.
Just like that.
The air was colder now.
The hearth crackled behind her, low and dim. The scent of lavender still lingered on the pillow—shaken loose in the heat of her presence—and it only made things worse. Her body was betraying her, betraying them both. She could feel it—the edges of rut pressing closer than they'd ever been. Like her instincts had caught the shape of Liora's defiance and wanted to answer. Not with force. But with something older. Something primal.
Veyra pressed a fist to her thigh, hard.
She should've posted a guard.
Gods, she should've posted a fucking guard.
How had she left her alone? Vulnerable? After everything? After the garden? The collar? The ambush? Had she really been so focused on maps and accusations that she'd forgotten the simplest act of care?
Her failure wasn't just instinct. It was logistics. It was duty.
She should've known better.
She had known better.
Her jaw ached from clenching. The weight in her chest tightened.
And beneath that—beneath the guilt, the memory, the ache—was something worse:
Want.
She still wanted her. Even now. Even after.
Even knowing she shouldn't.
Not like this. Not while her body burned and her breath came shallow and Liora's absence made her feel like her skin didn't fit right anymore. She wanted her—but not to take her. She wanted her to come back. To choose her. To be seen and still approached.
And she didn't know if that was selfish or human.
She bent forward at the waist, elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. Her hair fell forward, black strands catching in the sweat at her temple. The cold of the stone floor bit at her ankles where her boots had been kicked off in the chaos.
What now?
What the hell was she supposed to do?
Wait? Apologize? Pretend it hadn't happened?
She'd promised herself—never like them. Never like the Alphas who let instinct do the speaking. She'd trained, endured, carved herself into something tighter than biology could reach. And in the end, she'd still let herself lean over the woman she wanted—voice rough, scent hot, control fraying like a string against a blade's edge.
Liora had stopped her. And gods... Veyra loved her for it.
She blinked once, hard. The fire cracked again.
Maybe that was the answer.
Not grand gestures. Not apologies dressed as strategy.
But space. Honesty.
And the strength to wait without forcing.
Still—if she never came back—
A soft knock at the door cut through the silence.
Veyra's head jerked up.
Her pulse spiked.
She didn't move. Not yet.
She just stared at the door.
And for the first time in hours, her breath hitched with something dangerously close to hope.