The room fell silent.
“What?” Collin breathed.
“I start formal training in two weeks,” Gravis said flatly. “I’m not going back to Nereid.”
The stillness shattered.
“The captains are monsters,” Collin snapped. “And their men? Spineless. You saw what we became under them! In weeks we did things—things—no decent person should survive. We let ourselves be ruled by fear. We forgot right from wrong.”
Gravis’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.
Aries shrugged a tentative shoulder. “Maybe it’s not... entirely a bad thing.”
Heads whipped toward him. He shifted uncomfortably. “I just mean—if we’re serious about resurrecting our fathers’ rebellion, having someoneinsidethe system could help.”
“Wehavesomeone inside,” Nic bit out forcefully. “Lekyi. And at least he has access. Gravis would be bottom rung—barely above the kitchen boy. What intel do you think he’d hear? The captains don’t exactly send memos to the barracks floor.”
“And don’t forget,” River added grimly, “my uncle was a guard too. A good one. Lekyi found records—he nearly made captain before they executed him for being a rebel. Embedded or not, it didn’t make a difference. The plan still burned.”
The tension coiled, and then Gravis turned—slowly—his eyes settling on Helen.
“What I want to know,” he said coldly, “is whyshedidn’t say anything. You want me to believe that a steward’s daughter had no inkling Nesaea was about to be raided? That an entire village was marked and she just... had no idea?”
The accusation cracked the room wide open.
And Nic didn’t shout—hestruck.
The golden light of the sunset filtered through the open window, casting soft colors across the gloom inside Collin’s house. Outside, Gravis stomped down the path, raising little puffs of yellow dust with every step. Then he turned the bend and disappeared into the forest.
With a heavy groan, Collin dropped into the nearest chair at the dining table.
At the far end, Dragonfly and Hadria sat close together, whispering in anxious tones. River moved silently through the wreckage, sweeping up shards of shattered glass. Clive held a dish towel to his mouth, blood already drying at the edges.
“I think we ought to call it a night,” Collin muttered, rubbing his temples.
“I’ll make you a new frame for your painting,” Nic offered quietly from across the room, his voice edged with guilt.
“You’d better,” Hadria snapped. “Honestly, Nic, why do you let Gravis get to you every single time? I’m not defending him—what he says is vile—but youknowhe just spits nonsense when he’s wound up. You can’t keep letting him ruffle your feathers.”
Nic’s head turned slowly, hazel eyes still raging. “He doesn’t just spit nonsense. When he talks about Helen and James like that, like they’re poison—he’s lucky I only use my fists.”
Hadria bit back her retort, teeth pressed tight. For once, she let it go.
Nic turned toward Clive. “You alright, my friend?”
Clive exhaled, sagging back slightly in his chair. He touched the towel to his mouth again, checked for fresh blood. “I’ll live. But Collin’s right—I should head home.”
“How’s your mother?” Dragonfly asked gently.
Clive’s shoulders lifted in a shrug, his face unreadable. “She still wakes up crying some nights. I don’t think she’s ever really stopped grieving my father’s execution. But my aunt is staying with us for now. She brings some light when she visits.”
Once the last guest had gone, silence descended—too still, too loud.
Collin stood alone, staring at the blood on the mosaic rug. It had soaked into the wool and silk like rain into cracked earth. There was no native red in that weave—only whites, blues, greens, browns. The blood didn’t belong. It glared back at him like a foreigner left behind after the war, stranded in an unfamiliar land, staining everything it touched.
Where it met the pale blues, it shouted. Against the greens and browns, it pretended to blend.
“I can try soaking it,” Hadria murmured behind him. “But I don’t think it’ll come out.”
