The manor was too still.
Not the silence of victory, but the silence after a scream—the kind that lingered in the air, waiting for something worse. The throne room lay in ruins behind them, marble cracked, statues shattered, the stench of smoke and blood thick in the halls.
Elma staggered against the wall, her veins faintly glowing under her skin. The shard pulsed in her chest like a feverish heart, each beat making her vision blur.
Calista caught her before she fell, slipping an arm around her waist. "Easy," she murmured. Her voice was steady, but her eyes burned with something raw. Fear. Relief. Something in between.
"I'm fine," Elma rasped.
"You're not." Calista pressed her palm against Elma's face, brushing damp hair from her brow. "You're burning up."
Elma leaned into the touch before she could stop herself. Her body trembled, her breath ragged. "We hurt him."
Calista's lips twitched—half a smile, half a grimace. "We did more than that. We proved he can bleed."
The words settled heavy between them. Nitron was still out there. Wounded, yes. But alive.
They moved through the shadowed corridors together, the manor groaning around them. Torches sputtered as they passed, and once or twice, they caught the quick shuffle of footsteps ahead—servants scattering before being seen.
Through a half-open door, Elma heard whispers.
"Did you see him?" a servant hissed. "Blood on his cheek. I swear it—"
"Quiet!" another snapped. "If he hears you—"
The voices cut off as the door slammed shut.
Calista guided Elma onward, jaw tight. "They're already talking."
"Good," Elma murmured, though her chest ached with each word. "Let them know he's not untouchable anymore."
At last, Calista led her into a secluded chamber, shutting the door behind them. It wasn't untouched—the walls bore cracks from the earlier tremors, dust thick on the floor—but it was quiet. Safe, for now.
Elma sank onto the edge of the bed, every muscle shaking. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling; her skin glowed faintly like embers under the surface.
Calista knelt in front of her, dabbing at the blood on her temple with a strip of cloth. Her hands were steady, but her breath came fast.
"You're not alone in this," she whispered.
Elma's gaze lifted, catching hers. There was no mask in Calista's face now—no sharp smile, no calculated poise. Just honesty. Just her.
"I almost lost you back there," Calista admitted. Her voice cracked. "I thought—"
"You didn't." Elma's hand found hers, gripping tight despite the tremor. "You kept me here."
Calista froze, her eyes searching Elma's face as if she didn't dare believe it. Then, slowly, she exhaled, a trembling laugh slipping out.
"You stubborn, impossible girl," she breathed.
Elma's lips curved faintly. "You like that about me."
Their foreheads touched, the air between them charged, fragile, inevitable. The shard's hum quieted, as if listening.
Calista cupped her cheek again, thumb brushing her jaw. "We could die tomorrow," she whispered.
"Then tonight's ours," Elma answered.
The kiss came like a breaking dam—hungry, desperate, the culmination of battles fought and words unsaid. Calista pulled her close, steadying her trembling body, and Elma clung back as if she'd never let go.
For the first time, there was no leash, no trial, no throne looming over them. Just heat. Just breath. Just them.
Clothes fell away between hurried touches and quiet gasps. Every scar, every bruise, every trembling line of light under Elma's skin was traced with reverence, Calista's lips pressing devotion into each mark. Elma's hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, grounding herself in the only thing that still felt real.
The shard pulsed once—soft, almost tender—and then dimmed, letting them be.
The world narrowed to touch, to breath, to fire.
And then the night took them.
Morning—or what passed for it in the manor's endless shadows—brought no peace. Elma stirred, fever still clinging to her bones, the shard whispering faintly in her skull.
Tower.
Her breath caught. The shard's voice wasn't urging, wasn't commanding—just warning.
Calista stirred beside her, eyes opening sharp, hand instinctively reaching for the dagger on the nightstand. She caught Elma's expression and frowned.
"What is it?"
Elma swallowed, the shard's hum threading cold through her chest.
"It's not over," she whispered. "Something's waiting in the tower."
The silence pressed in again, heavier than before.
[Quest Updated: Thronebreaker]
Status: Nitron Wounded, Still at Large.
Objective: Regroup. Survive the Manor.
New Threat: The Tower's Shadow.
Risk Level: Catastrophic.