She could still feel the steam on her skin as she stepped barefoot across the chamber floor, the towel clutched loose in her hands. Her hair was damp, curling softly against the nape of her neck, the scent of lavender soap clinging to her wrists.
The room had shifted in her absence—cleaned, organized, somehow quieter.
Veyra was at the desk again, back to her, gloved fingers pressing down a wax seal over a fresh writ. She hadn't spoken much since handing over the collar. Hadn't needed to.
Liora's gaze flicked to it now—set gently atop the folded travel tunic Veyra had laid on the cot while she was bathing. The same collar... and yet not. The silver clasp gleamed like a quiet defiance, reshaped by a woman who had no reason to offer her anything at all, and yet had.
She hesitated, towel still in hand, damp hair sticking to her temple.
And she felt it.
Veyra was watching her.
Not with desire. Not exactly.
But with something aware. Still. Steady.
Liora didn't flinch.
She walked toward the cot, back straight despite the heat rising up her throat. She could feel it blooming across her cheeks, her chest, down the line of her ribs. She told herself it was just the bath. Just the change in temperature.
But she knew better.
She picked up the tunic with both hands.
The fabric was cool now, soft from wear, and as she pulled it over her head, it slipped against her shoulders like memory. Like something already known. The wide collar fell slightly off one side, revealing the faint, pink mark where the old collar had rubbed raw. She tugged it higher again—quickly.
Still, she didn't look up.
Instead, she stepped into her trousers, tying them at the waist with hands that moved on instinct. Her fingers fumbled once with the knot. The silence in the room was heavier than it should've been.
She bent to lace her boots.
When she finally stood again, her breath wasn't quite steady.
She looked up.
Veyra hadn't moved.
One arm rested now across her chest, gloved fingers touching her opposite shoulder—composed, unassuming, like she hadn't just watched Liora put herself together piece by piece.
Liora's voice came before she could stop it.
"You could've said something."
Veyra blinked once. Not startled—more like pulled from deep thought.
"I was giving you space."
Liora crossed her arms. "Is watching how you give space now?"
There was no defense. No apology.
"I didn't want to look away."
The words pointed like a blade, but they were soft, not sharp. There was no heat in them—only truth. Sincerity.
Liora looked down, fidgeting with the frayed edge of her belt. "Next time, sound up a warning horn or something. I wasn't exactly decent."
Veyra's voice was quieter now. "You weren't afraid. That matters more."
Liora didn't answer.
She just reached for her cloak, draped where she'd left it near the cot. It smelled of pine smoke and old rain. It wasn't clean, but it was hers. She slung it over her shoulders and tried to ignore how warm her cheeks still felt.
Then, carefully, she picked up the collar from the cot—cradled it in both hands like something fragile.
Her fingers hesitated.
But she didn't falter.
She fastened it at her throat. The new clasp was cool. Quiet. It clicked into place like a whisper, not a snare.
And for the first time, she didn't feel caged by it.
She opened her mouth, turning to Veyra—but suddenly paused. As though in quiet realization, she lowered her hand towards her cloak's inner pocket. Then gently fumbled through it.
Her fingers found the thin chain by touch before she even saw it.
She drew the locket up from the cloak's inner fold.
The golden compass. Its edges were dull now, marked from travel and grit. She pressed her thumb over the etched curve of its rim and felt the old ache stir behind her ribs.
'I told you, you'll die out there!'
A friend's voice, from a lifetime ago.
And yet here she was. In Veyra Halvarin's quarters.
She looked to the woman in question.
"All right," she said. "I'm ready."
Veyra's gaze was on her again.
Not sharp. Not commanding.
Just still.
And something in it made Liora pause—like she'd stepped too close to the edge of something she hadn't meant to see.
Then Veyra cleared her throat.
She shifted her stance, arms dropping loosely to her sides, one hand absently brushing her belt like she didn't quite know what to do with it. Her voice, when it came, wasn't clipped or cool.
Just... uncertain.
"You look..."
A pause.
Then a blink, like she regretted starting.
Liora raised a brow, cautiously amused. "I look...?"
Veyra exhaled through her nose. Almost a huff. "Fine."
That earned a crooked smile from Liora. "Fine?"
Veyra's ears—gods, her ears—had turned faintly pink.
She glanced away, toward the window, then back again, as if weighing something. Finally, with the resignation of someone accepting the inevitable, she muttered:
"Beautiful."
The word was not meant to sound practiced.
It didn't.
It sounded like it had slipped out on accident—like it had been in her mouth too long, and she'd lost the battle to keep it in.
Liora blinked.
For the first time all morning, she didn't know what to say.
Veyra's shoulders straightened a beat too late, like she was trying to reclaim command of the moment. Her expression closed down, just slightly—but not enough to erase the flush rising at her throat.
"I just— I meant..." Veyra tried again, then stopped herself. "You look like yourself."
Liora's stomach fluttered. Not the way it did when she was afraid. This was something quieter. A little dangerous.
Her voice, when she found it, came out softer than she expected. "You're not very good at that, are you?"
"At what?"
"Compliments."
Veyra's mouth twitched. "I don't give them often."
Liora stepped forward, just enough to make the space between them hum again.
"Maybe you should," she said. "You're oddly convincing when you mean it."
Veyra didn't answer right away. But she didn't look away either.
And for one breathless moment, the room was very, very quiet.
Then Veyra shifted—back into motion, back into armor. "We leave by dusk."
Liora nodded, her cheeks warm.
She turned toward the door before she could say anything stupid.
But the sound of Veyra's voice stayed with her all the way down the hall.
'Beautiful.'
She huffed softly under her breath, but nonetheless allowed the small smile to remain on her lips.
—
The door clicked shut behind her with an almost apologetic finality.
Veyra didn't move.
Didn't exhale.
Didn't blink.
'Gods.'
She let the word roll in her head like a stone dropped into deep water. Then again, with more force:
'Gods, what is wrong with you?'
She turned away from the door abruptly, crossing to the far end of the room with short, clipped steps. The boots she hadn't removed thudded dully against the floorboards, but she didn't stop. Not until she was at the shelf near the window, pretending she'd come to retrieve something—anything—though her hand hovered motionless over a book she didn't actually see.
'You said she looked beautiful.'
Her fingers twitched. Closed. Rested on the spine of the tome with all the restraint she could summon.
Which she did.
Which she does.
But that's not the point.
The point was—you don't say things like that.
Not to an Omega who's still recovering from a forced collaring. Not when the air between you is already thick with—whatever this is... Not when she looked at you like—
Veyra drew in a breath, slow and controlled. Let it out between her teeth.
'Fool. She's barely started to trust you, and you're handing her confusion dressed as sincerity like it won't snap back and bite you.'
She paced once, then stopped near the foot of the bed, one hand coming to rest against the post as if it could anchor her body where her thoughts refused to settle.
The problem wasn't the compliment. Not exactly.
It was that she'd meant it.
But her timing...
No polish. No distance. Just plain, human honesty from someone who'd spent the last decade turning that part of herself to steel.
She squeezed her eyes shut briefly. Ran a gloved hand back through her hair, pressing her palm hard against the top of her skull like she could shove the thoughts back into place.
Then, finally—mercifully—she turned her attention outward.
Focus. Orders. Action.
She stepped to the chamber door, unlatched it with more force than necessary, and opened it onto the corridor where the morning shadows still cut sharp across the stone floor.
A guard stood just beyond the threshold, Beta, sharp-eyed and already shifting into attention when she saw Veyra's face.
"Commander?"
Veyra didn't waste breath. "Find Captain Kellen and Lieutenant Deyla. Tell them I want their travel kits packed, final supplies reviewed, and both mounts readied by the southern gate in two hours."
The guard dipped her head immediately. "Yes, Commander."
"And inform the blacksmith we'll be checking the mounts for scent-marked tack. Anything that even suggests tracking residue gets burned."
The guard blinked at that, then nodded more firmly. "Understood."
She turned and jogged down the corridor, boots a quiet rhythm against the stone.
Veyra closed the door again.
Slower this time.
The quiet that returned was not comforting.
Her eyes drifted to the desk, where the map of Karsen Vale still lay pinned open beside the seal she'd affixed not an hour ago. The lines felt thinner now. The paper more brittle.
Her voice, when she finally allowed herself to speak again, was low. Dry.
"Beautiful," she muttered to herself. "Brilliant."
She rubbed her brow hard and turned back to her kit.
Time to pack. Time to ride. Time to stop thinking.
But her fingers brushed her inner coat pocket as she moved toward the bed.
The clasp of the second collar still sat there—discarded, unused. The old one. Marked by scent. Shame. She shook her head in disgust.
She would burn it before they left.
One collar made by force. One given back with choice.
And between them: the distance Veyra didn't know how to cross.