“Inspection of the new help, Laryn. Routine. You know how it is,” the guard says, already reaching for Elyssara’s pack.
Laryn exhales sharply, irritation flashing across his face. “There’s a flow-gate stalling on the Eastern side,” he snaps. “Pressure’s building behind the seal.”
That gets the guard’s attention.
“If it gives,” Laryn continues, lowering his voice, “you’ll have the Eastern District dry by tomorrow and the castle fountains running like rivers.”
The guard grimaces, glancing toward the wall, then back at the horse.
“…Fuck,” he mutters. “Always happens at the end of my shift.”
Laryn shoulders past him without waiting for permission. “You want to log my tools, do it after the Crown’s done bathing.”
A beat.
The guard moves to step aside, but he falters. “I won’t log tools. Just a quick pat-down of the new help. The Crown’ll have my balls if weapons are sneaking in from the Outside.”
Fuck.
Elyssara’s breath catches in her throat. Not because she’s carrying weapons, but because she doesn’t trust the Decay to stay leashed inside Kael while this guard pats her down.
Another guard steps forward from the narrow gate, striding toward her with the arrogance of a man used to being in charge. He spits into the dirt about a foot from her, face pulled into one of hunger. Greed. Entitlement. A face Elyssara has seen a hundred times.
He pulls up an inch from her face.
His hand gently pushes her hair back. The hair she intentionally wore unbound so it would conceal her.
Elyssara swallows thickly, but refuses to shrink.
Her emerald-green eyes lock on the man, unyielding.
“Haven’t seen you pass through the gates before,” he sneers, voice a low, entitled claim.
A growl rumbles from Kael’s throat, sliding down Elyssara’s spine like a warning.
“New on the job,” Elyssara explains, forcing her voice into neutrality.
The guard’s hands skim her arms, her waist.
And linger.
Too slow.
Too deliberate.
Fuck.
His fingers press at her hip, sliding beneath the loose fall of linen, testing softness that does not belong to him.
She tries to steady her breath. Because Elyssara can endure the shame, the violation.
But Kael won’t.He can’t.
The horse exhales a nicker—a slow, ominous warning responding to the heightened tension.
Elyssara’s breath catches. Not in fear, but in readiness.
This will not go well. That, she already knows.
