Chapter 108 – Ladies Night (2)
(Tamara)
We took a shower together before going out.
Which sounded sweeter than it was.
In practice, it was me pinning Lyra against the tiled wall with a grin and her spluttering because the water was too cold.
"Tamara," she hissed, teeth chattering, "this is not what I meant when I agreed to 'get ready together.'"
"Character building," I said, flicking water at her face. "Desert training. Northern Meltèn flashbacks."
"You were under wards in Northern Meltèn," she shot back, shoving at my shoulder. "You didn't walk around naked in cold water for fun."
"Didn't walk around naked with you either," I pointed out. "Progress."
She glared.
It was less effective when she was soaked and flushed and a little out of breath.
I reached up and flicked the end of her braid.
"Not my fault you look like me," I said. "People see us together and assume we're twins. I'm just leaning into the brand."
"I do not look like you," she said automatically.
"Sure," I said. "I'm blue, you're red. Very big differences. Entirely different people. Nothing alike."
She tried to elbow me.
I dodged. Mostly.
We didn't do anything more than that.
Just bickered. Rinsed off sweat and sparks from training. Shared soap and curses and a brief moment where she leaned her forehead against my shoulder and just… breathed.
It felt weirdly domestic.
Like we were something stable.
Which was a lie, obviously.
But a nice one.
***
We met Noelle at the exit, all three of us in civilian clothes.
No armor. No training gear. Just dresses and light coats and the unconscious way our hands kept drifting to where weapons should be.
Noelle bounced on the balls of her feet, bright-eyed.
"Okay," she said. "So. Plan. We go to the market district, get food, then see if that shop with the ridiculous feathered hats is still open so I can make you both try them on and suffer."
"No feathers," Lyra said flatly.
"Big feathers," Noelle insisted. "On principle."
I opened my mouth to make some joke about birds and fire when she derailed the entire morning.
"Do you ever think Erynd is a bit weird?" she asked.
I stopped walking.
Lyra did too.
We stared at her.
"What do you mean?" we said at the same time.
Noelle blinked, like she genuinely didn't realize she'd dropped something heavy.
"I mean," she said slowly, "we all know he's… you know." She waved a hand. "Erynd. But sometimes when I look at him with mage-sight on, things don't… look normal."
My shoulders tightened.
"Define not normal," I said. "He cooks, he tortures slavers, he makes trains. That's a lot of categories."
"No, I mean inside," Noelle said. "His mana cores."
Lyra's eyes sharpened.
"You've seen them?" she asked.
"Only by accident," Noelle said. "He doesn't like being stared at with mage-sight. But sometimes in battle, or when he's healing someone, it's impossible not to see at least a glimpse."
She chewed her lower lip, thinking.
"He has three," she said finally. "Three cores. One like ours – 'normal' size, normal color. And then two smaller ones. Black. Not dead-black, not like void. Just… dense. Heavy. Stronger than the main one. But when I look right at them, they always seem to be… shifting. Like they're not exactly where they should be."
Lyra inhaled softly.
"Like they're not… anchored," she said. "I noticed that once. I thought I was hallucinating."
Noelle shook her head.
"You weren't," she said. "I saw it too. They flicker. As if they're in and out of place. Like something that doesn't quite belong in a single body."
A chill slid down my spine.
"He's Erynd," I said, automatically. "He belongs."
Noelle shrugged awkwardly.
"I didn't say he doesn't," she said. "It just… looks wrong. In a way that doesn't feel like a curse or a normal mutation."
Lyra's fingers had drifted to the hilt of her short sword as if out of habit.
"And his sword," Noelle added.
We both looked at her again.
"Melody?" I asked.
Noelle nodded, face scrunching.
"Sometimes when he puts it down and turns away, the blade…" She wiggled her fingers. "Moves. Like someone's adjusting it. Not a draft, not a cheap scabbard. It's tiny. But it's there."
"She's conscious," I said. "He's said that much."
"I know," Noelle said. "But this is different. It's like… someone else is holding it for a second. Or the sword is… holding itself."
I thought of how the blade sometimes hummed when Erynd was very, very quiet.
Of the way Melody's voice in his head made him go still for half a heartbeat before he came back with some snide comment.
Of the fact that half the time, his eyes looked like he was listening to someone we couldn't see.
Noelle looked guilty.
"I asked Yara once," she said. "When we were both in the forge. I asked if she could sense anything weird from Melody. She just… went quiet. Then she said she couldn't talk about it."
Lyra frowned.
"Couldn't?" she repeated. "Not 'wouldn't'?"
"Couldn't," Noelle said. "Like someone took the word out of her mouth."
We stood there in the corridor, market plans temporarily forgotten.
Silence stretched.
My mind reached for something to grab.
"Do you think he's Odin?" I heard myself ask.
Both of them looked at me.
The name tasted strange in my mouth.
Julia had filled the gaps in our understanding with stories. Sermons, she'd called them, when we'd had those "events" in the lower halls. Small gatherings. A few dozen people. Simple food. Talks about "Yggdrasil systems" and "roots" and "storms" and the kind of devotion that felt too practical to be called worship and yet clearly was.
She never said "god."
But she said "Odin" sometimes. Quietly. Carefully.
An old name for something that watched the loops with Erynd.
Noelle tugged on a loose strand of her hair.
"Maybe," she said. "Maybe he's a god. Maybe he's a monster. Maybe he's just Erynd with too many cores and the sword equivalent of a chatty roommate."
Lyra's mouth flickered with a humorless smile.
"Whatever he is," Noelle finished softly, "god or not… he's our master."
The word slid out of her easily.
Too easily.
I flinched.
Master.
I'd called him many things, in my head.
Erynd. Idiot. Genius. Bastard. Lover, sometimes, when his hands were on my skin and nothing else existed.
Master hadn't been one of them.
Except—
My stomach flipped.
Except I knew exactly when that had changed.
***
(Flashback)
We'd been on his bed.
Of course.
I was on top of him, fingers in his hair, kissing him the way I'd wanted to since the first time he'd insulted my fire control and then stayed up past midnight to help me fix it.
He kissed back.
He always did, when he allowed himself to.
His hands were warm on my waist, steady, firm. All my edges felt like they'd been set on fire, and for once, it was the good kind.
I shifted, leaned down, mouth trailing from his lips to his jaw.
"Tamara," he said.
Not a moan. Not a growl.
My name.
Flat. Serious.
My body froze like he'd thrown cold water on me.
I pulled back enough to see his face.
He wasn't pushing me away.
But his eyes were clear.
"Listen," he said. "Please. This is serious."
He rarely said "please."
I pushed myself upright, straddling his hips, bracing my hands on his chest.
"Is something wrong?" I asked.
He stared at the ceiling for a breath, as if choosing how to cut something open.
Then he looked at me.
"Your father," he said. "And your brothers."
My chest tightened.
"The Duke of Orvel?" I asked. "What about him? About them?"
"They're not saints," he said.
I snorted before I could stop myself.
"I know that," I said. "They're nobles."
He didn't smile.
"They're worse," he said quietly. "Much worse. And your domain is rotten through."
Discomfort prickled under my ribs.
"I know Orvel has problems," I began. "We have distance issues, bandits, some cult activity—"
"Tamara," he cut in. "Your father killed your mother."
The world sharpened.
"What," I said.
"He killed her," Erynd repeated. "Not with his own hands. He ordered it. Like signing a document. She interfered with his little arrangements with an underground cult that's been carving pieces off your lands for years."
My vision tunneled.
"That's not—" I started.
He didn't let me finish.
"Do you know where Marion is right now?" he asked.
The name hit harder than the accusation.
Marion.
My maid.
No.
More than that.
My nanny. My teacher. My… mother, in all the ways that mattered.
She'd brushed my hair when my actual mother was too busy with councils. She'd bandaged burns on my hands after fire lessons. She'd snuck me sweets and sat through my tantrums and held me when I couldn't sleep.
"Marion went back to the estate," I said slowly. "Before graduation. She had… family things. I…"
I swallowed.
"I was busy," I muttered. "Exams. Training. I thought she'd write. I thought—"
"She went back," Erynd said. "And your brothers were waiting."
The air disappeared from my lungs.
"They raped her," he said. No softening. No euphemisms. "They treated her like a toy they shared. When they were done, they turned her over to some of the cult's lower scum to use as they pleased. They were going to keep her like that. As… entertainment."
Something inside me screamed.
I didn't know if it was my fire, my heart, or some younger version of me that remembered Marion's hands braiding her hair.
"I got there before they finished breaking her body," Erynd went on. "I got her out. But minds are more fragile. She isn't the same. I've done what I can. Our healers have done what they can. There is… damage that doesn't undo."
He didn't reach for me.
He just let the words sit there, sharp and cruel and true.
I realized I was shaking.
"I didn't… I didn't notice she was gone that long," I whispered. "I thought she was busy. I was… in your bed. I was… training. Laughing. While they—"
Tears hit my hands.
I hadn't felt them arrive.
"Why didn't she tell me?" I choked.
"Because she didn't want to add guilt to the list of things you carry," Erynd said. "She told me to spare you. That if you knew, you would burn Orvel down in a week."
"Maybe I should," I snarled, voice cracking.
He watched me for a long moment.
"I can protect you," he said finally. "From them. From the cult. From the fallout of what we're going to do."
"We," I echoed.
His gaze didn't waver.
"Are you willing," he asked softly, "to take my hand and never let go? Even when you hate what we're doing? Even when it destroys what you thought your family was?"
I looked at him.
Really looked.
Not at the man under me on the bed.
At the person who'd fed me when I forgot to eat. Who'd stayed up nights reinforcing my flames until they stopped exploding. Who'd dragged me out of my own self-pity more than once.
The one who'd saved Marion when I hadn't even noticed she'd left.
My breath came in ragged pulls.
I grabbed his hand.
Not like a lover.
Like a drowning woman.
"Yes," I said. "Yes. Whatever you say. Whatever you need. Just… don't let them touch her again. Don't let them—"
"I won't," he said.
He squeezed my hand.
And in that moment, something shifted.
He stopped being "just" a man with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue.
He became something else.
A savior.
An axis.
A point the world turned around.
***
The next time I saw Marion, she was… different.
Colder.
Her eyes had that glassy, too-still look trauma gives people. Like she was watching the world through dirty water.
We were in one of Yggdrasil's quiet rooms. Stone walls. Wards. Space made for bad things.
My brothers were there.
They didn't look like dukes' sons.
They didn't look like nobles.
They looked like men who'd finally discovered that consequences existed.
Bruised. Bound. Wards crawling over their bodies, stealing strength, keeping them awake. Their mouths gagged enough to muffle, not enough to silence.
Marion stood beside Erynd.
She held a set of tongs in one hand.
Not kitchen tongs. Smith tools. Heavy. Cold.
Her knuckles were white around the handle.
Her eyes were empty.
Until she saw us.
Until she saw me.
Her "lady."
Her little girl who had grown up and run off to play war while Marion went back home alone.
Something flickered.
Light. Faint. Fragile.
"Tamara," she said.
Her voice cracked.
I stepped forward. My throat was too tight to speak.
Marion's mouth trembled.
"You know what you must do, my dears," she said.
Dears.
Plural.
She looked at me.
Then at Erynd.
He didn't smile.
He just watched.
The guilt was a yawning hole inside me.
If I had paid attention. If I had written. If I had visited. If I had remembered that Marion was not just furniture in my life, but a person who left when she walked away—
They wouldn't have touched her.
They wouldn't have had the chance.
This was my fault.
In a way that bypassed logic.
Erynd hadn't said that.
He didn't need to.
I picked up one of the tools from the table.
Not because I enjoyed it.
Because something in me insisted I owed this.
My brothers tried to speak.
To plead.
To threaten.
Wards ate their voices.
What we did to them wasn't clean.
It wasn't quick.
Erynd had promised there would be no blood.
Not much, anyway.
It was all pain.
Layered. Measured.
Magic that flayed nerves without opening skin. Heat that seared sensation without burning flesh. Illusions that forced them to relive what they'd done from the other side, over and over.
Their minds cracked before their bodies did.
I didn't feel sorry.
Not even a little.
Every flinch. Every muffled scream. Every broken plea made the hole inside me feel a little less like it was going to swallow me whole.
Marion stood beside me.
Sometimes she gave suggestions in a low, steady voice.
Sometimes she just watched.
At the end, when they finally stopped moving, she turned to me.
Her eyes were clearer than before.
"Thank you, my lady," she said.
And that was the thing that broke me.
"It's my fault," I blurted, grabbing her and pulling her in. She was smaller than I remembered. Or maybe I had grown. "I wasn't there. I didn't notice. I was—"
She shushed me.
Like she did when I was ten and whining about stupid things.
"As long as we survived," she said, voice soft in my ear, "and serve him, everything will be fine."
Serve him.
Not the duke.
Not the old gods.
Him.
Erynd.
My grip on her tightened.
I looked over her shoulder at him.
He stood there.
Hands calm. Eyes tired. Watching me.
Watching us.
He wasn't a noble.
He wasn't a tutor.
He wasn't anything my old world had words for.
In that moment, in the bloodless aftermath of the ugliest thing I'd ever done, he was the only thing that felt solid.
"Erynd," I started.
The name felt… small.
Inadequate.
My savior.
My judge.
My executioner.
My… god.
The word slid through my thoughts without permission.
I didn't say it out loud.
But my heart did.
And from that day on, when I thought of him, it was never just as Erynd anymore.
He was the one who knew the worst versions of me and still reached out his hand.
He was the one who gave me the tools to hurt the people who'd hurt the woman who raised me.
He was the one who turned my fire into something more than tantrums.
He was the one I trusted when I didn't trust myself.
Of course Marion said "serve him" like a prayer.
Of course Julia preached "Odin" in back rooms.
Of course Noelle called him "master" without thinking.
I had taken his hand that day.
I hadn't let go since.
***
Present
"Tam?"
Noelle's voice brought me back.
We were still in the corridor.
The air smelled like stone and faint dust. No blood. No oil. No screaming.
Just three girls on their way to the market.
Noelle was watching me, brows drawn.
Lyra too.
"You went… quiet," Lyra said carefully.
"I was thinking," I said.
"Dangerous habit," Noelle tried to joke.
I managed a smile.
"Yeah," I said. "Apparently, I've picked up worse ones."
Noelle shifted her weight from foot to foot.
"So," she said, more shyly now. "Is it… bad? Calling him 'master'?"
The word slid through me again.
I thought of my father's face when he realized his power didn't matter in Erynd's rooms.
I thought of Marion whispering serve him like a promise.
I thought of Erynd asking if I was willing to take his hand and never let go.
"Bad?" I repeated.
I looked at them.
At the two women who had become my gravity when he wasn't in the room.
At the way all our orbits bent around the same sharp point.
"I think," I said slowly, "the gods people write about in temples… don't deserve the title."
I let out a breath.
"But him?" I said. "If I have to kneel for someone, I'd rather it be the bastard who saved my mother and put my brothers in the ground than the ones who watched and did nothing."
Noelle blinked.
Lyra's expression didn't change much.
Her eyes did.
"Are you saying he is a god?" Noelle asked.
"I'm saying…" I shrugged. "…I don't care if he is or he isn't. He's ours. And I'm fine with that."
The word master didn't feel wrong anymore.
It felt… accurate.
Not in a collar-and-chain way.
In the way you looked at the person who held all your worst secrets and didn't flinch.
Corruption, someone else might have called it.
Letting a man take the place in my head where divinity used to sit.
Maybe they'd be right.
But the old gods hadn't been there in that room with my brothers.
Erynd had.
"Come on," I said, forcing my voice lighter. "We're supposed to be buying snacks and humiliating Lyra with feathers, not having a crisis in the hallway."
"I am not wearing feathers," Lyra repeated, automatically, like a charm against madness.
"You are," Noelle said, relief making her words bounce. "Big ones. Blue and red. To match."
I let them pull me along.
Ladies' night, Noelle had called it.
Time without him.
Just us.
Except he was still there, in my thoughts.
In the way we walked.
In the word that now sat heavy and warm under my tongue.
Master.
I didn't say it aloud.
But I didn't deny it either.
And that was, I realized, its own kind of answer.