"You spoke to her before?"
"Just briefly. When she was first presented." Shame colored his voice, making him look away. "I did nothing to stop it then. Just watched, like all the others. Calculated her value to our house, assessed her compatibility for improvements." His jaw clenched. "This is my chance to make that right."
Boarstaff studied him for a long moment, and Sebastian could see him weighing every word, every gesture, searching for deception. "You can't save everyone who came before," he said finally. His hand covered Sebastian's, fingers interlacing despite everything that should have kept them apart, centuries of hatred, species rivalry, the fundamental incompatibility of their peoples.
"Boarstaff, I—" Sebastian began, then stopped. The words crowded in his throat, apology, confession, something deeper he couldn't name. "What I said to the council. About your children. I shouldn't have—"
"Don't." Boarstaff's voice was quiet but firm, cutting off theapology before it could fully form. "Not now."
Sebastian nodded, accepting the boundary even as part of him wanted to push past it, to explain that he'd been trying to help, that his cruelty had been strategic, not personal. But perhaps that made it worse. Perhaps using others' pain as a tool was exactly the kind of vampire behavior Boarstaff expected from him.
"Be careful," he said finally. "If you don't come back, you'll leave me alone with Thornmaker, and I'm not sure either of us would survive it."
That earned him a small smile from Boarstaff, the expression transforming his face from stern warchief to something more human, more accessible. "We'll return with the child. Should be back by late afternoon if all goes to plan."
"And if it doesn't go to plan?"
Boarstaff's expression sobered. "Then we'll be later. Or not at all."
The blunt honesty struck Sebastian harder than false reassurance would have. "The midday guard rotation is your best window. Don't miss it."
"We won't." Boarstaff stood to leave, then paused. "Sebastian... thank you. For the blood. For the intelligence. For..." He seemed to search for words, then simply nodded.
After Boarstaff left, Sebastian took a deep breath, already missing his presence. The rawhide bindings still anchored him to the chamber's wooden floor, but he could sit upright, move his arms, adjust his position on the living wood beneath him. Small mercies that felt like oceans after weeks of complete immobility.
The guards returned to their positions, watching him with cautious fascination. "The warchief takes a great risk," Murkub observed, his aged eyes missing nothing of Sebastian's changed posture. "Trusting you this much."
"He has good reasons not to trust me," Sebastian agreed, stretching carefully within the bindings' limited allowance. "Just as I have reasons to prove that trust well-placed."
"The child?" Koric asked.
"Among others." Sebastian flexed his fingers, watching the way the brass beneath his skin caught the crystal light. The metal moved differently now, no longer rigid mechanical components butsomething almost organic in its flexibility.
"How are they preparing?" Sebastian asked, breaking the silence that had settled over the chamber. "The warriors, I mean. For the mission."
Koric exchanged a glance with Murkub before answering. "Checking weapons, mostly. The shamans are blessing protective talismans. Council members offering final advice." He paused, then added with grudging respect, "They take your intelligence seriously."
"They should," Sebastian replied, though without his usual arrogance. "Every detail I gave them could mean the difference between success and slaughter."
Distant horns signaled the rescue party's departure. Sebastian's head turned toward the sound, tension visible in every line of his body.
"That's them leaving," Koric confirmed, noting Sebastian's reaction. "The warchief leads twelve of our best warriors."
"Twelve," Sebastian repeated, running calculations in his mind. "Against standard guard rotations, that should be sufficient. Unless..." He trailed off, a new worry taking root.
"Unless what?" Murkub demanded.
"Unless Zarek has changed the patterns. My brother is... unpredictable. Where our father values precision and routine, Zarek prefers chaos. If he suspects something—"
"The warchief knows the risks," Koric interrupted, though his own expression had grown troubled.
"Knowing and surviving are different things," Sebastian muttered, more to himself than the guards.
Then silence. Waiting. The crystal formations hummed their ancient song, and Sebastian found himself counting heartbeats, measuring time in the rhythm of blood through his changing veins. Each moment stretched like an eternity, filled with possibilities of success or catastrophic failure.
"They'll succeed," Koric said eventually, his earlier wariness softening into something closer to hope. "The warchief has never failed a mission he led personally."
Sebastian nodded, saying nothing. The mission would succeed or fail on his word. On the connection that had grown between them despite everything. On the tactical intelligence of a vampire who waschoosing to betray his own blood for reasons he was only beginning to understand.
