The council chamber reeked of old velvet and fresh suspicion.
Elma stood near the dais, leash humming like a warning bell in her chest. Above her, banners of the Vale house stirred in a draft that wasn't there. Donors, courtiers, and allies sat in their gilded rows, pretending patience.
Nitron occupied the throne-like chair at the head of the room. He didn't slouch. He didn't smile. He just existed like an executioner waiting for the axe to be brought.
"Three donors," he said finally, voice low enough to still the chamber. "Three men who swore loyalty elsewhere, and yet now bend to me. Convenient."
The leash twisted. Elma forced her smirk into place. "Maybe they just like the winning side."
The pain came instantly—sharp, white-hot across her sternum. Her knees nearly buckled, but she stayed upright.
Nitron's gaze lingered on her like a weight. "Or maybe someone is buying loyalty behind my back."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Whispers, sharp as knives.
Calista Vale sat at his right, expression porcelain, posture flawless. Not a flicker of warmth crossed her face when she looked at Elma. Not tonight. Her voice, when it came, was cool enough to frost glass.
"Perhaps we should be grateful, husband. Influence, no matter how purchased, still strengthens the house."
Nitron's eyes narrowed. "Gratitude is for the weak. Loyalty is the only coin I take."
The leash pulsed again, warning. Elma bowed slightly, letting the grin curve her mouth just enough to irritate him. "Then I'll keep spending."
Gasps scattered. Nitron's aura slammed the chamber like a hammer, silencing everything. For a heartbeat, Elma thought he'd strike her where she stood.
But then, with terrifying calm, he leaned back. "Dance for them, then."
The leash surged. Elma's limbs stiffened, responding before her brain could curse. She stepped into the center of the chamber, every nerve burning. The musicians struck a slow, deliberate rhythm, strings dragging like knives across bone.
Each step was obedience carved into spectacle. Each turn of her hips was rebellion written in secret language. Her gaze never left Calista's.
The donors clapped politely. The courtiers whispered louder. Calista's mask never broke—but her knuckles turned white around her fan.
When the music ended, Elma bowed low, blood singing from the leash's grip. Nitron rose. His words cut across the chamber like scripture.
"She dances because I allow it. She bleeds because I command it. Do not mistake her leash for her will."
Applause followed, forced and brittle. The chamber emptied in waves, tension trailing like smoke.
Only when the doors shut did Nitron finally look down at her. "Prove your loyalty again," he murmured. "Or next time, you'll bleed in chains."
The corridors outside were colder than the chamber. Elma pressed a hand to her ribs, breath shallow. She wanted to rip the leash out of her bones with her nails.
Instead, she found the library.
Calista was waiting, draped in ink-black silk, mask still half in place. She shut the door behind Elma, her composure cracking at last.
"You're going to get yourself killed," she hissed.
Elma leaned against a shelf, smirk sharp even through the ache. "Better killed for choosing than living as his pet."
"You think this is a game?" Calista's eyes blazed. "Every look, every word, every slip—he notices. He's letting you breathe only to see how far you'll fall."
Elma stepped closer, leash flaring instantly, pain slicing her lungs. She ignored it. "Then let him watch. Let him choke on it."
Calista's mask slipped entirely now, anguish and hunger colliding in her face. She closed the distance until only the leash's ache kept them apart. "We don't have long."
"One week," Elma whispered. "Then we stop playing by his script."
Calista's hand trembled at her side, aching to reach her. She didn't. Couldn't. The leash roared, daring her to try.
Instead she leaned in, voice a hiss meant for Elma alone. "Then be ready. Because when the week ends, blood will spill. His… or ours."
Elma's grin curved bitter and bright. "I'll take either."
The shard pulsed in her sleeve, a promise alive against her skin.
The Vale house was no longer just Nitron's. It was theirs—waiting to be stolen.