The Ithranor male comes with us. Or rather, Zyphoro keeps him with us. She toys with him like a cat batting around a stunned mouse, and I honestly can’t tell if the poor bastard is in love or scared shitless.
Tonight, we’ve got the dining hall to ourselves. Low ceilings, smoky air, the faint stink of mildew in the walls. It’s as tight and claustrophobic as the ship’s cabin. We’re gathered around a table as filthy as my boots, its surface sticky with gods-know-what. The hunched innkeeper shuffles out from the kitchen, arms full of plates. Bread and cheese, a chunk of charred meat still speckled with burnt hair. I don’t ask what animal it came from. I don’t care. My eyes are on the jugs of wine he drops on the table with a heavy thud, dark liquid sloshing over the edge and dripping through the cracks into the floorboards below.
I pour myself a cup before he’s barely let go of the handle.
“Will there be anything else?” he croaks, coughing into his hand, barely catching the spittle.
I don’t look at him. “That’s all. Leave us.”
He grumbles something under his breath, but Reon is already pulling a gold coin from his vest. He flicks it into the air.
“For your trouble.”
The old human may be stooped and shriveled, but he’s fast enough to snatch that coin midair and bite it with the few teeth he has left. He nods, grunts, and hobbles away.
I bring the cup of wine to my lips and drink deep. Over the rim, I watch Zyphoro across from me, curled around the Ithranor male. Tamis, I think his name is, from what I could make out between the stammering and stuttering. She’s wrapped around him like smoke, fingers trailing through his long hair, dragging slow and lazy. His throat bobs with a nervous swallow. His hands tremble. He looks absolutely fucking terrified, but I’d wager a small fortune that he’s hard beneath this table.
“What was your name again?” I ask for clarity, lowering my cup.
“Tamis,” he confirms.
“Such a pretty name,” Zyphoro purrs, draping a leg over his lap. “Did your mother give you that name?”
He nods, hesitant. “Yes.”
“How fortunate,” she sighs, casting a glance at me. “Our mother didn’t get the chance to name us, did she, Daedalus?”
I roll my tongue across my teeth. “No, she did not, Zyphoro.”
She snaps her attention back to Tamis, voice all poison and silk. “I’d like to meet your mother. Maybe she’ll braid my hair. Read me bedtime stories. Tell me what a good little girl I am.”
A low, mocking laugh cuts through the room.
Zyphoro’s gaze sharpens, snapping to Solena sitting in the shadows beside Orios, who’s the only one brave or dumb enough to be chewing the fuzzy meat.
“Something funny, maid?” Zyphoro spits.
Solena doesn’t flinch. She just smirks, sliding one hand across Orios’ broad shoulder, while the fingers on her other idly trace circles on his forearm.
“A mother might also tell you not to play with your food,” she says sweetly. “So fuck him already or leave him be. Either way, you’re boring me.”
A bark of laughter escapes me before I can stop it, and Reon, seated to my right, chokes down his own with a cough. Zyphoro’s glare cuts through both of us, silencing the table.
Only Orios seems unfazed, gnawing contentedly at the charred remains of whatever creature died for our supper.
Zyphoro’s attention shifts. She leans across the table and pushes Tamis aside with the casual cruelty of someone bored with a toy.
“You dare speak to me like that?” she hisses.
Solena doesn’t flinch. She sighs, long and tired, like she’s had this argument before in another lifetime. “I’d rather not speak to you at all. So why don’t you take your pet and leave the rest of us in peace?”
I watch them in silence, one corner of my mouth curling. You’d think after months trapped together on that damned ship, they’d have grown tired of sparring. But no. If anything, they’ve turned it into a sport. Neither willing to yield. Neither knowing how.
At least it makes for good entertainment.
Where I expect my sister to snap, to bare her fangs and rip into Solena with the fury she’s known for, Zyphoro does something far more dangerous. She smiles. The kind of smile that never ends well for anyone.
I know it too. It’s the same one I wear when I’ve found a game worth playing. The kind that Amara drew from my lips when she would do her best to resist me, even though I could smell her need clinging to her skin like perfume.
