Silas Thorne's gaze remained fixed on the lacquered gift box in his hands, a veneered sea of silence stretching between them.
Cedric's unease solidified. "No summons today. So you tracked her?" The accusation bit like winter wind.
Silence. More damning than words. Cedric knew his childhood friend too well.
"Is your mind rotting?" Cedric hissed, stepping closer. "When she trailed your shadow like a lost pup, you froze her out. Now? When you belong to Elena by oath?" His knuckles whitened on the medicine box. "Harm either sister, Thorne, and I bury our brotherhood here."
A cold snort escaped Silas. He raised his eyes, glacial scorn piercing Cedric. "How noble this defense. One might think her well-being truly weighted your conscience."
The blow was precise, deep. Cedric choked on his building rage. He was the blade carving Joanna open?
"And you are blameless?" Cedric spat. "You stood witness! Her hatred carves us both!"
Silas finally stirred. "I know." His voice, low and rough as grating stone, held a buried edge. "The carriage. Pastries untouched. The hand-warmer… cold." Not a crumb disturbed. Not an ember claimed.
The refusal to feign ignorance gouged deeper. That first brittle phrase echoed—My Lord General. Where was the warmth? The breathless "Silas, wait!" that once trailed him?
Cedric blinked. He'd braced for scorched earth rage from her—how she'd always roared fire when injured before crawling back at the faintest thaw from Silas. This glacial disregard? New. Sharper. Deadly.
The map of scars on Joanna's arms flashed behind his eyes. Fury, hot and impotent, surged again. The Royal Steamworks rats! How dare they lay hands on Silverwood's—
Is she still? The thought froze, poisoned. Of course she was! Name. Blood. His. No lye-soaked laundress altered that! Or had the palace forgotten Silverwood's reach, emboldened by Elena's whispers? His heart hammered—a frantic drum against the cage of his ribs.
He glared at Silas. "The medicinal resins… the battlefield balsam… Do you carry it?"
Thorne's Balm. Harvested at bone-break cost from the ghostly peaks above Valeridge Valley. Healers spoke of it in whispers.
"None." Silas's voice remained toneless iron, yet he produced a small azure vial. "For the ankle. It will soothe."
Cedric snatched it. "Debt settled." He turned, then pivoted back abruptly, fingers curling violently into Silas's collar. "Stay. Away."
Silas endured the grip, his expressionless facade cracking into the faintest, most dangerous arch of a brow. A silent promise hung between them: My path is not yours to rule.
Cedric shoved him aside. Fine. Let Silas chase shadows. He controlled Silverwood. He controlled Joanna. He stormed toward Lilywater.
Silas adjusted his collar. Smooth. Unhurried. He beckoned a distant scullery maid. "For the Dowager." He pressed the box into her startled hands and vanished.
Outside Silverwood's oaken gates, Lieutenant Jing Yan waited by the mounted escort. "General? So soon?"
Silas ignored him, pulling another vial from his doublet—deep violet glass engraved with Thorne's crest-snake. "Deliver this. Lilywater."
Jing Yan frowned. "Miss Elena Shaw is injured?" He faltered under Silas's razor-slash glance. "Both... sisters live here, General." Understanding dawned, chilling. He snapped a salute. "Lieutenant moves!"
——
Lilywater's firelight painted shifting shadows as Brenna dabbed a gentian tincture onto Joanna's arm. The maid sniffled, tears an unbroken stream.
"You weep enough to float this manor downstream," Joanna murmured, weariness softening the words. "I bear these marks, not inflict them."
Brenna scrubbed her eyes. "My lady… your suffering…" She choked.
Joanna studied the girl's profile, a ghost of tenderness piercing the numbness. Silverwood's loyalties were treacherous swamps. Brenna's tears tasted real. Dangerous.
"You champion the wrong banner," Joanna said, almost gentle. "Lord Cedric—"
"He is dung!" Brenna hissed, sudden viciousness startling. "His injustice festers! How he excuses her… shields her! Shielding poison!" Her tears transformed into scalding anger. "The Viscount… his honor's rot!"
The venom was startling. Real? A staged storm meant to pull Joanna into treacherous rapids? Joanna turned away. Trust was a luxury drowned long ago.
Her gaze snagged on movement beyond the half-open window. Two figures crossed the frosted lily pond bridge. One, Cedric's man. The other—broad-shouldered, long-strided, a hawk among sparrows.
Jing Yan. The Thorne fortress's iron fist.
Why? What whisper had drawn him?
"Brenna."
"Sir?" Brenna followed her glance, startled. "Lieutenant Jing?"
Joanna nodded, the pulse at her throat quickening against her will. "Their purpose?"
Brenna hurried out. Through the glass, Joanna saw the exchange—words condensed into winter breaths, a vial passing hands. Jing Yan looked toward the window. Their eyes locked across the frozen air. The Lieutenant offered a crisp, battlefield-sharp salute before vanishing back toward the gate.
Brenna returned holding twin promises: an azure vial and a deep violet phial etched with a coiled serpent. "From the Viscount. And the General." Her voice wobbled between disbelief and outrage. "Military issue! Both!"
Indeed. Thorne and Valeridge. Bound by Cedric's borrowed duty.
What currency were they paying? Gilt-edged guilt? Ammunition against future accusations? Or Cedric's old script—strike offered honey?
The chill in Joanna's marrow deepened. "Discard them."
Rejection flowed cold and certain. Brenna opened her mouth—perhaps to argue loyalty's price—but met Joanna's frozen stare. The words died. She clutched the vials, bitterness etching lines into her young face, and slipped them into her apron.