Fury ignites in Elyssara’s chest again.
But Kiva steps closer, worrying at the clasp on Elyssara’s cloak, her leathers, and begins to wrap the linen around Elyssara’s body with practiced efficiency. No fussing. No reverence. Just function. The fabric winds low at the hips, then higher, crossing her chest and shoulders, sleeves falling wide and loose, meant to be rolled back when labor demands it.
It is not beautiful.
It steals something from her.
The linen flattens her shape. Mutes her presence. Dulls the instinctive sense of strength that has followed her since her powers were unbound. In white, she is not a queen or a warrior or a weapon.
She isuseful.
And usefulness has never felt so close to erasure.
It touches on an unhealed wound—that she is nothing but a tool.
Kiva cinches the cord at her waist and stills, fingers lingering for the briefest moment.
“She would’ve liked you, Elyssara,” she murmurs, throat tight with emotion. “Yvesha. She would’ve liked you.”
Yvesha Corvannis.
Kael’s mother.
But Kiva doesn’t let the words linger.
“Keep your head down inside the walls,” she instructs. “Do nothing to attract attention, Elyssara.Nothing.”
Elyssara nods. And she hears the words that weren’t spoken:because attention will get you killed.
Kael stands a few paces away, already pulling off his leathers. He trades them for Laryn’s old linen trousers and a plain tunic—undyed, straight-cut, built for durability rather than form. The fabric clings differently, outlining muscle where armor once disguised it.
Against the white, the shadows beneath his skin look darker. Coiled. Pressed tight.
There is nowhere to hide a blade.
Nowhere to hide himself.
Kiva’s eyes snag on his darkened veins, but she says nothing. Only holds her breath.
Kael’s hands brush Elyssara’s as she adjusts the sleeve at her wrist. The contact sparks—quiet, grounding. Kael’s fingers curl around hers for a fraction of a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then he lets go.
Laryn clears his throat.
“I still work the cistern routes,” he says, already pacing. “Aqueduct work. Azhareth was built over underground rivers—old ones. We catch the flow in stone reservoirs beneath the city.”
He taps his heel against the boards once. A dull, hollow sound answers.
“From there, we run channels through the walls. Stone-lined. Gravity-fed. Keeps the elite districts wet year-round.”
Elyssara stares at Laryn, her shock palpable.
“Year-round,” Elyssara repeats, like the words taste foul.
“Inside the walls, water moves through stone channels,” Laryn explains. “Basins. Baths. Fountains the nobles have for decoration.”
His jaw tightens. “Outside, they carry it by hand so no one forgets who decides who drinks.”
