The scent of morning drifted faintly through the window— bakery goods, and small sun-heated flowers.
Veyra was already awake.
The hour was early—gray-blue light just beginning to press through the high slats in her chamber wall. Most of the keep was still asleep, save for the cooks and the guards on final rotation. But Veyra had been up for over an hour, bare feet cold against the stone as she moved quietly around her quarters.
She sat now at her writing desk, coat draped over the chair behind her, hair damp from a quick rinse. The low lamp beside her cast amber light across the parchment spread out before her—supply ledgers, troop updates, two letters half-scribed in her strict, angular hand. One of them bore the wax seal of her father's southern garrison.
Her eyes were sharp. Her expression unreadable. But every now and then, her gaze flicked—not to the papers, but to the bed.
To her.
Liora slept curled on her side, tucked deep into the woolen sheets. One arm was folded beneath the pillow, her hair a rose-gold tangle across the linen. Her scent had settled in the room overnight—lavender and honey, warm and real—and it lingered like a thread across the floorboards and around Veyra's wrists.
She'd stayed.
She'd slept.
And Veyra had lain awake longer than she wanted to admit, watching the shadows on the ceiling move until dawn had begun to rise.
You should have left her a note. That had been her first instinct when waking early.
But she hadn't.
She hadn't wanted to leave.
A quiet knock broke the hush—two soft raps on the chamber door.
Liora stirred slightly, letting out a quiet breath, one hand moving blindly across the blankets.
Veyra was already on her feet.
She crossed the room in silence, pausing at the edge of the bed to press a knuckle lightly to Liora's arm. Just a touch.
Liora blinked up at her blearily, eyes not yet focused. Her voice was husky with sleep. "What's…?"
"It's nothing urgent," Veyra murmured, tone low and gentle. "Go back to sleep."
Liora gave a small huff and rolled to her other side, tugging the blanket over her ear. Her scent shifted slightly with the movement—still drowsy, unguarded, open.
Veyra's throat tightened.
She turned and stepped to the door, unlatching it quietly.
A young Beta courier stood just outside, panting slightly from the early climb. His uniform was slightly askew, but he straightened quickly at the sight of her.
"Commander Halvarin," he said, dipping his head. "Message from the forge. The collar you brought last night—it's ready. The smith asked for you to retrieve it yourself."
Veyra nodded once. "Thank you. Dismissed."
The courier bowed again and jogged off, boots echoing faintly down the hall.
Veyra shut the door and leaned against it for a breath.
Then she crossed the room again, back to the desk. She didn't reach for her coat immediately. Instead, her eyes found the bed once more—where Liora now lay half-buried in the linens, face pressed against her own outstretched arm, utterly unaware of how soft and safe she looked.
Veyra's fingers flexed once at her side.
She picked up the coat, fastened the belt at her waist, and gathered her gloves from the chair.
Let her sleep, she told herself.
By the time she returned, the morning would have fully risen—and the symbol of what had been forced upon Liora would be hers to command.
—
The halls were still hushed as Veyra moved through them, the stone cold beneath her boots. A few guards gave short nods as she passed, but none stopped her. The morning watch had barely rotated in—the stillness between shifts made the keep feel hollow, like a blade waiting to be drawn.
She preferred it this way.
The air in the eastern corridor grew warmer as she approached the smithy—faint smoke already curling from the open chimney vent and the low thrum of coals coming to life ahead. A morning forge, slow and steady.
The side door to the smith's alcove stood ajar. Veyra stepped through without knocking.
The Omega smith—her sleeves already rolled, wrists smudged with black ash—glanced up as she entered.
"You're early," the older woman said, her voice gruff but not unkind.
"You said it'd be done by dawn."
The smith nodded, then turned toward the worktable by the hearth. She picked something up from the cloth-draped surface, cradled in both hands. When she turned back, the object glinted softly in the forge light.
It was the same collar.
But not the same.
The clasp was no longer a solid rear-locking band. The leather had been split at the throat and rejoined with twin silver hooks—small, precise, shaped to fold flat against the skin when closed but easily unfastened by the wearer's own hands. The inner lining had been softened, the edges slightly padded.
There were faint scars in the leather where the original scenting had burned too deep.
They would never be fully erased.
But they were sanded, faded. No longer defining.
"She'll feel the old stitching," the smith said as she handed it over. "But it's hers now. No lock. No hidden catch. Just choice."
Veyra accepted the collar in her gloved hand.
It was lighter than before.
And still warm from the hearth.
Her thumb traced the new clasp once, carefully. There was nothing aggressive about the piece now. It looked like what it always should have been—symbolic. A token. Not a tether.
"She'll know what it means," Veyra said quietly.
The smith gave a short, satisfied nod. "Good."
There was a pause.
Then the Omega added, softer this time, "When I was her age, I'd have paid silver to have a choice like that. Even once."
Veyra looked up.
Their eyes met for a beat—two women, from two different castes, shaped by the same brutal law.
Then the smith turned away and returned to her tools.
Veyra lingered only a moment more before stepping back out into the cold.
She slipped the collar into her inner coat pocket—not hidden, but protected—and began the quiet walk back to the upper keep.
Every step up the stone stair felt like a line redrawn.
The morning sun had not yet cleared the battlements, but the mist was beginning to lift from the lower courtyards. Veyra's boots echoed softly on the stone as she rounded the final turn toward the upper keep, collar tucked safely inside her coat.
She passed through a narrow arched corridor—half-lit by angled sunlight—and nearly missed the figure standing at the far edge of the alcove.
Kellen stepped from the shadows with his usual silence, arms crossed, cloak still dusted from an early patrol.
Veyra didn't startle. "You walk quieter than most scouts."
"I learned from the best," he replied. "Though I imagine you've had more restless mornings than mine."
His eyes flicked downward, catching the faint bulge inside her coat. He didn't comment on it. Not directly.
"Is it finished?"
Veyra nodded once. "She'll have it when she wakes."
There was a pause—respectful, not awkward. Then Kellen pushed off the wall and walked beside her as they made their way toward the stairs.
"I thought you'd want this before breakfast," he said, handing her a rolled parchment, the seal already broken. "Word came in from the lower scouts posted near the south border. They tracked the missing carriage line."
Her eyes narrowed. "From the Karsen Vale routes?"
He nodded grimly. "They found three carts—half-buried in brush near a ravine, close to the old Ember Hollow trail."
"Empty?"
"Mostly. Tools gone. No trade banners. No registered marks. But there were signs of fresh hoofprints around them. And the rear axle on one cart had been splintered intentionally. Someone wanted them off the road."
Veyra unrolled the parchment and scanned the hand-drawn map. "Too clean for a bandit ambush."
"Exactly. And the scouts noticed something else—there were odd wheel tracks nearby. Narrower than our wagons. Lighter. Unshod."
Veyra frowned. "Not Vaereth design."
"No." Kellen's voice dropped slightly. "Eldranis build. Or close to it."
That brought her fully to a stop.
Her breath left her in a slow exhale.
"If they're making contact that close to the inner border…" she muttered.
Kellen finished it for her. "Then the smuggling route isn't theoretical. It's active. And under protection."
Her pulse picked up. She looked past him—toward the tower in the east, where the Circle chamber sat quiet in the rising dawn.
"Tareth," she said under her breath.
"It has his stink all over it," Kellen agreed. "But I'll need more than tracks and guesses to prove it."
Veyra glanced toward the map again. "You'll get more. If they've made contact, there's currency moving. Supplies. Messaging. Someone's keeping a log, even if it's coded."
Kellen grunted. "If it exists, I'll find it."
They resumed walking.
Only as they neared the upper hall did his voice drop again, more careful now.
"And her?"
Veyra didn't answer at first.
Then: "She's sleeping."
He nodded once, understanding what she didn't say.
Veyra paused at the base of the stair.
The collar in her coat felt suddenly heavier again—not in weight, but in meaning.
"If this is all part of the same game," she said quietly, "then I've made the right enemies."
"Or the only ones who were never on your side to begin with," Kellen added.
She didn't disagree.
He touched her shoulder lightly—a gesture of grounding more than comfort. Then he stepped back into the corridor.
"I'll send word when we get our next break."
"Do that," she said, already turning away.
Her hand drifted to the inside of her coat again, fingers brushing the altered silver clasp.
A collar made to be opened.
And a truth waiting to be placed back in the hands of the one it was stolen from.
—
The door to their quarters gave beneath her hand with a familiar weight.
Veyra stepped inside quietly, pulling it shut behind her, letting the faint click of the latch settle into the silence like the punctuation of a long breath held.
The room was still dim—morning sun just beginning to slant through the narrow window above the cot. The air was warm from sleep, tinged faintly with soap and wool and the calming undercurrent of lavender.
And honey.
She froze in place.
Liora was awake.
The blankets were half-kicked off, draped across the bed like they'd lost their grip mid-dream. A loose sleeve hung off one shoulder—one of Veyra's old undershirts again, slipped on during the night. Her legs tangled awkwardly in the edge of the quilt as she sat up with a sleepy, slow-motion grunt, blinking hard as though her lashes still carried the weight of sleep.
She didn't see her yet.
She was rubbing her eye with the heel of her palm like a child, and the shift of her shoulders revealed the pink-stained edge of skin where the collar had rubbed the night before.
Veyra's breath caught.
Not at the wound.
But at the way the morning light touched her.
Unaware. Unguarded.
Entirely her own.
Liora yawned—soft and defiant in its own way—then froze, mid-stretch.
Her copper eyes locked onto Veyra's, suddenly wide.
She looked down at herself. Then back at her.
"Gods," she muttered, voice rough and hoarse from sleep. "You—you're back already."
Veyra didn't smile. But something gentled in her expression.
"I didn't want to wake you."
Liora fumbled with the edge of the blanket, half-kneeling on the bed like she might bolt or burrow. "You didn't. I mean—you did. But it's fine. I didn't mean to… sprawl."
Veyra moved further inside the room, setting her coat across the back of the chair near the desk, careful and methodical. She was still in uniform, though the edges had been dusted by ash and mist. The movements were quiet, but Liora's eyes followed each one like she wasn't sure what to expect next.
"You're safe," Veyra said, low. Measured. "You don't need to apologize for sleeping."
Liora glanced toward the window. "Did you get the collar?"
Veyra reached into her coat pocket and held it out.
She didn't say anything. Just let it rest, open-palmed, in the space between them.
The collar looked different in the morning light. Not threatening. Not foreign. The softened edges and new clasp gleamed like something mended, not hidden.
Liora's eyes went to it, but she didn't reach right away.
"It's not…" she began, then faltered.
Veyra tilted her head slightly, waiting.
"…it's not the same," Liora finished. Her voice was quiet, but her posture had changed. Straighter. More aware.
"No," Veyra said. "It isn't."
A pause. Then:
"You can open it yourself now. From the front. It won't lock behind you."
Liora stared.
"And if I don't want it at all?"
Veyra's voice stayed low. "Then I'll take it back."
She didn't flinch when she said it. Didn't look wounded or defensive. She just said it like a fact. A vow of non-possession.
Liora's throat moved—swallowing, slow. She looked at Veyra, not the collar this time.
And Veyra felt it then.
The way her heart skipped.
Not from expectation.
But from restraint.
Liora reached for the collar.
Her fingers brushed against Veyra's palm as she took it, and something almost electric threaded between them—subtle, thin, but present.
Then Liora looked down, studying the clasp. Her hair fell forward like a curtain of rose-gold silk.
"…You changed it," she murmured, as if still confirming it aloud.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Veyra didn't answer at first.
Her gaze drifted lower. To the place at Liora's throat the leather had once circled.
Her fingers twitched at her side—then stilled.
"Because it's yours," she said finally. "It should never have been anything else."
Liora's gaze lingered on it a moment, then flicked to Veyra once more. Her expression was unreadable, but her breath had quickened slightly. Not from fear.
From something she didn't want to name yet.
"I'm going to wash," she said, getting up and turning toward the bathing alcove.
Veyra gave a low nod. "I'll be here."
The door to the bathing alcove closed with a soft click, steam already beginning to curl faintly beneath the carved wood frame. Veyra stood motionless for a moment in the dim morning quiet, the light filtering gray-blue through the high windows.
Then she turned.
The missive from Kellen still rested on her desk, half-folded beside a tangle of mapped parchment and the courier's seal. She moved toward it, seating herself with a slow, practiced economy, shoulders rolling forward as she read the contents again by habit, though the lines were already burned into memory.
Southern gate patrol confirms signs of abandoned carriages—three in total. Covered wagons, markings scraped clean. No ledgers found. Wheels show recent damage, likely intentional detachment. No sign of trade insignia. Border soil at the rear tires, windward side. Eastern mountain trail proximity confirmed. No sign of hostiles. But signs of concealment. Someone didn't want these seen from the main road.
Veyra let the parchment curl under her fingers.
East of the trail meant close to the Eldranis border—too close.
The wagons were gutted, no doubt, and no records meant no names to trace. But the tires had sunk deep into the mud, the signs of recent travel hard to fake. Something had been moved—hidden. Possibly people, possibly goods. Possibly both.
And if Tareth was involved, the only way to know was to see it herself.
She leaned forward, brushing a half-finished logistics draft aside and reached for her personal inventory ledger instead—the slim bound book where she planned supplies and movement details by hand.
Her writing was quick, clipped, and exact:
Standard rations, 5 days
Camp kit, 2 tents (Kellen + officer)
Medical pack – tinctures + suppressants (in case)
Secondary mount for Liora (lightweight, trained to scent cues)
Southern route maps (last updated: 3 months prior)
Sealed writs of authority (border clearance + southern outpost code)
She paused on the final line.
Then added:
Personal arms – full kit. Travel armor.
There would be no pretense of diplomacy. Not this time.
She would bring Kellen, her most trusted captain. Lieutenant Deyla, for discretion and precision. And—
Her eyes flicked toward the bathing alcove.
Liora.
Not just because she wouldn't be left behind again. Not just because trust had begun to seed itself between them.
But because if this conflict was tied to Omega control… if the enemy was using the border as a gateway for forced movement, suppression, or leverage—then Liora's very presence might be the key to understanding the why.
And because something deep in Veyra—something instinctive, protective, and still fiercely private—would not allow her to part ways with Liora now.
She circled the name once.
Liora Vayne.
Then closed the ledger.
As she rose to gather the travel seal and the worn southern map, the sound of water shifting in the next room gave her pause. Liora was rinsing her hair now. The quiet splash, the faint steam curling beneath the door.
Veyra let out a slow breath.
They would leave by dusk.
And whatever waited near the border—whatever Tareth and the others were hiding in Karsen Vale—it would no longer remain in shadow.