"You don't have to promise things you can't?—"
"I know what I'm promising." He pulls my hand through the bar and presses his mouth to my knuckles, bruises and all. "Let me keep this one."
I close my eyes for a moment. Behind them, something I've been holding at arm's length for weeks finally stops fighting and settles.
"Okay," I say.
He leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead through the bars, lingering for a moment.
"Three days," he says against my hair. "Stay in one piece."
"I'll do my best."
He straightens. His hand falls away from mine, slow. He watches me for one more beat, then turns and speaks quietly to the guard, something about conditions and food quality that has the warden's voice rising defensively from the far end of the block.
I watch him go.
I stand at the bars after the cell block door closes and the sound of his voice fades down the corridor, and I press my palm flat against my stomach.
Three days.
For the first time since they put the irons on my wrists, I actually believe I'm going to see the other side of them.
26
NYRIUS
The rumor reaches me before breakfast.
One of my riders brings it in with the morning dispatch — a note from a contact inside the courthouse prison, three lines, no names.The blacksmith is with child. Word is moving through the block. Guards talking.
I read it twice, fold it, and put it in my coat.
I knew it would leak. Stone walls and bribed guards are not a reliable seal on anything, and a story like this — a human prisoner carrying a dark elf's child — is exactly the kind of thing that moves fast because everyone who hears it wants to be the one to tell it next.
I spend the morning getting ahead of what I can. Two letters sent, one to the oversight council requesting a review of the arrest authorization, one to a sympathetic administrative contact in Denvara who has been quietly unhappy with Malrec's methods for years. Cyran rides out before midday to follow up on the proxy account documentation.
The rumor arrives there ahead of me when I get to the estate.
Thalen is in my receiving room when I wrap up breakfast.
He didn't wait to be let in, which means my household staff has started making poor decisions about who constitutes a welcome visitor. I make a note to address that later.
He stands when I enter, which is courtesy, but his expression is not courteous. He looks like he’s been sitting with bad news long enough to have organized it into a presentation.
"She's pregnant," he says.
"I'm not discussing?—"
"The prison guards are talking. By tomorrow it's in every council member's correspondence." He steps forward. "Nyrius. Are you sure you understand what this means politically? Think about it before you decide how to respond."
"I understand what it means."
"I don't think you do." His voice is sharp now, the pleasantness gone entirely. "A half-human child acknowledged by a border lord is not a personal matter. It becomes a political instrument the moment it becomes known. Every rival you've made with these reforms, every noble who voted against your labor proposals, every member of the oversight council who resented being bypassed — they all have a new argument now." He stops two feet away. "Your judgment is compromised. Your governance is personal rather than institutional. And you handed them a human criminal's child as proof."
I narrow my eyes at him.
"She is not a criminal," I say. "She's a woman who forged blades to pay for her brother's medicine while court the appointed magistrate bled her village dry through fabricated tax assessments." I move past him toward my desk. "And the child is mine. I won’t pretend otherwise to protect anyone's political comfort."
