Commander Calira huffs a laugh that sounds anything but amused—that too feels forced. “Preparedness is constant,” Calira replies evenly. “Concern is unnecessary.”
Rehearsed.
Planned.
It rolls off her tongue too easily. Like she’s repeated the words enough times to sand the truth off them.
He wants to push. To ask if she believes the people outside The Barrier feel like it’s warfare every fucking day. To ask if she believes Thalmyr’s Starborn army can possibly protect the people across all of Dravara considering their only base is in Virellin now that guards have been pulled back from The Joining? What of Vyrhal? What of Galreth? What of Mount Lyssar?
But he’s too practiced in the art of performance to succumb to those desires.
So he offers a nervous chuckle. “What a relief,” he drawls, puffing out an exaggerated exhale. “What do you lot actually do with them all in those reserves? Please tell me you oil them and maintain them.”
He sounds like a pathetic smith with a weapon obsession. He knows it. But when people know they’re more powerful than another, they become relaxed, disarmed. Because if everyone was going to underestimate him, he may as well use it to his advantage.
Commander Calira lets out a mildly frustrated huff, and he can’t see her face, but he knows she’s rolling her eyes. “Weaponcare is essential,” she says evenly. “Venomshade alchemy is volatile. A neglected blade becomes a liability.”
The way she says liability makes Ronyn think she means people, too.
She turns her back to him.
Conversation over.
But Ronyn doesn’t need to keep talking—he got exactly what he needs: they’re all fucking Venomshades, and that story was a load of horse shit.
A sharp, forceful nudge jolts him from his thoughts, knocking the wind out of him.
Orrin leans down, and whispers, “Stop fuckin’ talkin’. This ismyoperation.”
Ronyn can’t help the smile that stretches across his face. “Well someone had to—she asked you a question and you just opened your mouth like a drooling dog.”
Orrin waves him away with an annoyed flick of his wrist, and a grumble.
But Ronyn can’t stop. “Do you fancy the Crown’s Blade, Orrin? The scary, powerful, deadly Crown’s Blade?” he teases.
“Course not,” Orrin snaps. “I— I just want the coin, all right? Can’t argue with profit.”
Ronyn chuckles, rich and free. And he knows he has Orrin exactly where he wants him—nestled in the sweet bosom of camaraderie.
“How’d she get that endearing little nickname, anyway?” Ronyn asks, hoping the diversion from teasing will feel like a reprieve for Orrin.
Orrin sighs an exhale, and he leans in close, eyes darting around the open forges for straying eyes and ears. “Word has it that she’s the most wicked Venomshade in the history of Thalmyr’s Royal Guard. Makes deadly alchemy the likes of which have never been seen. Potions that corrode steel, acidsthat burn flesh, elixirs that liquify bone from the inside out. A master of alchemy, they say,” he whispers.
The words echo in his mind.
Corrode steel.
Burn flesh.
Liquify bone.
Orrin sucks his teeth, leaning in to within an inch of Ronyn’s face. “Heard she once liquified a man’s lungs from the inside out and made the rest of his unit watch.”
Ronyn swallows thickly, forcing the bile back down his throat.
He reinforces his mask. “Even more reasons to stay on her good side, then. Better finish these blades—I rather like my lungs solid.”
Orrin only nods, spins on his heel, and starts barking orders across the forge.
