The Tower's heart still trembled.
Ash drifted from the ceiling in soft clouds, coating the cracked stone floor like snowfall. The throne lay in ruins, its jagged crown shattered into dust. Nitron was gone. His scream still seemed to hang in the air, echoing in the marrow of the house.
Elma's chest heaved. Her veins still glowed faintly, the shard's fire pulsing in angry waves beneath her skin. She felt scorched from the inside out, every heartbeat threatening to tear her apart.
But then Calista's arms were around her, steady and warm.
"It's done," Calista whispered, her voice low, unsteady but fierce. "He's gone. You broke him."
Elma sagged against her, ash streaking across her cheek where it met Calista's shoulder. "It doesn't feel done," she murmured. The shard pulsed again—hungry, insistent, unsatisfied. More. More. More.
Calista pulled back enough to look her in the eyes. In the dim light of the Tower, her gaze cut sharper than any flame. "That shard may want more. But you—" Her hand cupped Elma's jaw, thumb brushing the corner of her lips. "You decide what it gets."
For a moment, the world shrank to just that touch. The Tower groaned, servants whispered from the doorway, the air still heavy with smoke and ruin—but all of it faded behind the heat between them.
Elma covered Calista's hand with her own, holding it against her cheek. "I only want one thing."
Calista's lips curved, not into a smile but into something hungrier, rawer. "Say it."
"You," Elma breathed.
The shard pulsed hard enough to steal her breath. But this time, its hunger didn't terrify her. It only sharpened her own.
They slipped from the Tower before the servants could swarm. Whispers followed them down the broken stairs—the leashless vessel, the queen at her side, Nitron in ash. Eyes tracked them with awe and terror, but none dared step in their way.
Vale House shook, its sigils flickering uncertainly without their master's command. The walls no longer moved against them. The house was leaderless.
They found shelter in the east wing, in a chamber Calista herself had claimed years ago but never dared inhabit openly. High windows overlooked the storm-torn gardens, their glass cracked but intact. Dust lay thick across velvet chairs, untouched for months, maybe years.
Here, at last, the silence pressed in.
Elma paced the length of the room, her body trembling as the shard's glow dimmed and flared in uneven bursts. "It won't stop," she hissed, clutching her chest. "It wants everything—more fire, more blood, more—" She broke off, teeth clenched against a groan.
Calista crossed the room in three steps. "Then give it something else."
Elma blinked, confused. "What?"
Calista reached for her, fingers tangling in the ash-streaked fabric of her shirt. "Me."
The shard surged in recognition, heat rushing through Elma's veins in a wave so sharp she gasped.
Calista pulled her close, lips brushing her ear. "You've given enough to his chains, to his throne, to his games. Now take something for yourself."
Her mouth pressed against Elma's, and the world broke open.
The kiss was fire. Not the shard's fire—something hotter, sweeter, alive with promise. Elma's knees nearly buckled, but Calista's arms held her upright, steady as they always had been.
Elma kissed her back, desperate, teeth grazing, hands clutching at silk and skin. The shard roared approval, flooding her body with heat that no longer felt like chains.
Clothes came away in frantic, uneven motions, ash smudging across bare skin. Calista's laugh broke between kisses, low and breathless. "Careful—"
"Don't tell me to be careful," Elma whispered against her throat, biting gently, pulling another laugh from her. "Not with you."
The velvet chair caught them as they tumbled down together, bodies pressed tight, heat sparking wherever skin met skin. Elma's hands roamed, memorizing every line, every scar, every shiver that answered her touch.
Calista tilted her head back, lips parting, her voice spilling out in sharp gasps. "Elma—"
The shard pulsed in time with her heartbeat, urging her forward, begging her to consume. For a terrifying moment, Elma feared she might lose herself in it, burn too hot and sear everything away.
But then Calista's hand gripped hers, grounding her. "With me," she whispered. "Not the shard. Me."
Elma's chest tightened. She pressed their joined hands against her heart, against the glow searing through her veins. "Always you."
Their lips met again, slower this time, hungrier but deliberate, as if each kiss was a vow. Elma let the shard's fire bleed into her touch, but not control her. Every moan, every sigh, every desperate clutch belonged to them, not to Nitron, not to the leash, not to the shard.
When they finally collapsed together on the velvet chair, the world beyond their skin was a haze of ash and silence. Elma's breath came in ragged bursts, her body trembling with exhaustion and release. Calista lay half-draped across her, head resting against her chest, lips curved in a small, dangerous smile.
Fade to black.
When Elma opened her eyes again, dawn's gray light spilled through the cracked windows. Ash still fell outside, a soft veil over the gardens.
The shard pulsed quietly in her chest, calmer now, though its hunger lingered like an echo.
Calista stirred beside her, her hair tangled, her eyes heavy with sleep. "You're awake," she murmured.
Elma brushed a hand along her cheek, marveling at the peace etched across it. "I didn't dream."
"Good." Calista kissed her knuckles, then pulled herself up slowly. "Dreaming was always his game."
Elma's chest tightened with something fierce, something almost unbearable. "I don't want to be him."
"Then don't," Calista said simply. "We'll build something else. Together."
A knock broke the silence. A servant's voice, thin and hesitant: "Mistresses… the people are waiting. Vale House is masterless. They… look to you."
Elma and Calista exchanged a long look.
The shard thrummed louder, insistent. Crown. Rule. Desire is power.
Calista's hand slid into hers. "They'll follow because they're afraid. But if we want to survive, we need more than fear."
Elma squeezed her fingers. "We need rebellion."
They rose together, still streaked with ash, their bodies tired but unbroken. As they stepped toward the door, Elma glanced back once at the ruined chair, at the imprint of their bodies pressed into the velvet.
Ashes and oaths.
The past was dust. The future waited.
And for the first time, Elma stepped into it not as vessel, not as prey—
but as something more.