Torin sighed as he slumped back in his chair, staring at the stack of parchment that still awaited his seal.
Statecraft was exhausting work. He’d been trained for it in the broadest strokes—names, etiquette, the theory of governance—but Elrin had all but thrown him out of Serkoth with little more than “Go help your sister.” And so he did, begrudgingly, fumbling his way through the intricacies of trade agreements, wall repairs, and supply lines.
Once, painting had been his solace, the one thing that helped him make sense of his visions. But now, months could pass without him touching a brush, the empty canvas in his quarters quietly accusing him whenever he walked past it. The biggest of his visions had already come to pass, the first part unfolding just as he had feared. And now the second loomed before him.
The child.
He shuddered. A reptile of a child, hatched from an egg as though the world itself had twisted. And yet Rava and Vivienne treated it like any other babe, fussing over it as if nothing was amiss. How could they be so untroubled? Did they not feel the wrongness of it pressing on them, whispering of change?
At least the drudgery of rebuilding left him little time to brood. The outer wall was nearly restored, the burned-out homes were rising anew, and the city itself had steadied into the rhythm of normal life over the past two years. That was something, at least.
Still, his hands ached for more than ink and wax. Gods above, he wanted to paint again. To lose himself in color, in strokes of oil and pigment that carried no political weight, no hidden meaning, no consequence but beauty. Maybe, when the last stone of the wall was set, he could ask for leave. Just a handful of days locked away in his chambers, painting not for visions, not for warnings, but for himself.
He swallowed and pressed the thought down, forcing his gaze back to the papers in front of him. Better to focus on the wall. The wall was safe. Bricks and mortar didn’t hatch from eggs and stare at him with Rava’s eyes.
But even as he scrawled his name across yet another form, his hand itched, craving the familiar weight of a brush instead of the scratch of a quill. Just a few days, he told himself. After the wall was finished. After Drakthar could breathe again without scaffolds propping it up and patrols doubling their shifts. Then he would retreat, lock himself in his chamber, and let the visions spill across canvas until the world’s weight eased, if only for a little while.
That would be nice. A selfish dream, perhaps, but one he clung to like a drowning man clutching driftwood.
Still, no amount of painted escape could banish the shadow of Vivienne.
Even after years of sharing the same clanhall, he found himself avoiding her at every turn. He knew what she was, what she’d done, and worse—how much joy she’d taken in it. He couldn’t bring himself to sit comfortably across a table from that smile. Perhaps it wasn’t fair, but his fear clung stubbornly to him, whispering that keeping his distance was the only way to stay safe.
So he ate his dinners alone more often than not, choosing silence over company. He even skirted around Liora when he could, though the guilt of that decision gnawed at him. She was just a child, yet there was something in her eyes, something of her mother, that made him wary.
At least things with Rava were different now. Their relationship had improved with time—slowly, awkwardly, but undeniably. She carried a steadiness he could lean on, even if she rarely realized it. Unlike Vivienne, she did not frighten him. Unlike Vivienne, she was something close to safe.
A knock at the door. Torin’s heart lurched. He’d been so wrapped up in his thoughts he hadn’t even heard footsteps approach.
It wasn’t as though Vivienne often had reason to speak with him. Most days she was wrapped up with Rava or gone on one of her inexplicable excursions to Serranos-knows-where. He prayed it was anyone else.
“Come in,” he called, forcing his voice steady.
The door opened, and there she was. Vivienne.
Ah, rats, he cursed inwardly, pulse hammering in his throat.
“Hello, brother-in-law,” purred the creature his sister was so thoroughly entangled with.
“Vivienne,” Torin managed, sitting a little straighter. “How can I help you?” He tried to school his expression, but a woman like her could smell fear the way wolves scented blood.
She didn’t answer directly, instead letting her eyes wander across the chamber. “We don’t spend enough time together. A shame, really. Did you know I was a painter, once?” Her tone was smooth, almost casual.
“I… I have been told,” he stammered.
She crossed the room, her claws clicking lightly against the wooden floor. Her gaze fell on the unfinished canvas propped against the wall, and she tilted her head. “Ooh. Excellent use of color theory.”
Torin blinked. “Color theory?”
“The study of how hues work together. How they tug at the soul. Contrast here—very strong. Intentionally unsettling, I would wager.” Her claw hovered over the lines of paint but never touched, tracing them as though she could feel the tension in the strokes.
“I… see. Thank you.” His throat was dry. “Is there something I can do for you?”
She gave a soft laugh, dismissive. “Oh, no. I’m simply tidying up the clanhall. It gets so messy when I’m away. And what sort of wife would I be if I didn’t keep a clean home?” She smirked, a cruel glint in her many eyes. “Not that I subscribe to that sexist nonsense, of course.”
Before Torin could respond, her arm elongated in an unnatural ripple, claws stretching across the room like shadows made solid. They snapped shut around something in the corner. When she pulled back, she held not dust but a man, clad in navy leathers, her talons locked tight around his throat.
The intruder gagged, clawing uselessly at her grip.
“Ah. Found a speck of dust,” Vivienne said pleasantly, her lips curling into a vicious, hungry smile. “Well, that will be all. Have a good evening, brother-in-law.”
And with that, she dragged the struggling man out of the chamber, her tail leaving faint scratches in the floorboards as though nothing at all were out of place.
There was far too much to unpack here.
First—there was a spy in this room with him, and he hadn’t noticed. Not the shift of air, not a shadow out of place, not even the faintest footstep. How long had they been standing there, close enough to slit his throat before he even dipped his quill again? He never took to combat training, and now the lack of it burned like shame in his chest. His instincts were dull, soft, the instincts of a man who hid behind canvas and pigment.
Second—Vivienne had known. Not only that someone was here, but where they were. She hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t even paused to look around. She’d pointed straight at the corner as though she could see through the wall itself. Did she hear something he couldn’t? Smell them? Or was it worse than that—something deeper, stranger, the kind of knowing that belonged to monsters rather than people?
And third… the way she’d said it. Casual. Unhurried. Like this wasn’t a threat at all, just an inconvenience she was already prepared to crush.
“There’s been more lately,” said Rava, her voice low, watching the man writhe against his bindings.
“Mhm. Indeed.” Vivienne’s tone was light, almost distracted, as her talon traced a slow, deliberate line down the spy’s torso. Flesh parted beneath the obsidian edge, blood welling in a thin stream. The man grunted, a strangled sound caught between pain and defiance.
“Have you got any information from them?” Rava asked, brow furrowing.
Vivienne tilted her head, her black eyes drinking in the crimson bead that slid down her claw. She looked amused, as though Rava had just asked something quaint.
“Information?”
“Isn’t that why you’re torturing him?” Rava pressed. “If you were going to eat him, you would have already.”
Vivienne’s lips curled into a small smile, sharp and unreadable. She leaned closer to the spy, her voice a whisper that carried easily in the still air.
“Sweetheart, I’m not torturing him. I’m playing.”
The spy shuddered at her words, straining against the ropes as if he could somehow vanish into the shadows.
“I see. I have more work to tend to,” said Rava, straightening to her full height, gaze flicking once more to the bleeding captive before turning back to Vivienne.
“Okay, sweetheart. Give me a kiss before you go?” Vivienne’s tone was casual, playful, but there was a sparkle in her black eyes that made it clear she meant it.
Rava rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide the tug of a smile. “Fine.” She bent low, stooping nearly in half to meet her smaller wife, and pressed a quick peck against Vivienne’s lips.
“There,” she muttered.
Vivienne beamed, tail swaying lazily behind her as if she had won a prize. “Don’t have too much fun,” Rava warned, giving the bound spy one last grim look.
“No promises!” Vivienne replied in a singsong lilt, flashing her needle-lined grin. Her claw drifted teasingly close to the spy’s cheek, and the man flinched at even that feather-light motion.
Rava shook her head, amused despite herself, and turned to leave, her heavy footsteps echoing down the hall while Vivienne’s laughter lingered behind her.
“Well, time to have more fun, I think.” Vivienne’s voice came light and airy, like she was suggesting a game of cards. Her black eyes glittered with amusement. “So what will it be? Give me information, or we increase the intensity.”
The man’s reply was muffled by the gag, low, garbled words pressed through clenched teeth.
Vivienne tilted her head, horns catching the candlelight, then giggled as though he’d told a joke. “Oh, right, silly me. Can’t have you chanting and trying to wriggle away. Not that you could escape, or even hurt me.” She leaned close, her claws sliding behind his head with slow deliberation, the faint scrape of obsidian against leather making him flinch. With a careful tug, she loosened the knot and pulled the gag free.
“There you go,” she purred, tossing the gag aside like unwanted ribbon. “Feel free to try and escape. I do so love a good hunt. A few of your compatriots tried that, and it was ever so much fun.” Her claws clicked together in a sharp rhythm, like applause.
The spy coughed, lips curling into a snarl. “Praxus curse you.”
Vivienne’s smile widened, a neat row of too-many teeth flashing. “If Praxus were able to curse me, darling, I think he would have done it already.” She leaned in closer, her breath cool against his cheek. “But please—do go ahead and pray. I want to hear what your god sounds like when he ignores you.”
“You will be stopped, monster,” the spy snarled, spitting through blood-smeared teeth.
Vivienne smiled like someone hearing a quaint joke. “Want to hear something curious?” she asked, voice almost conversational. “Torture is a poor method for information. It yields answers, yes, but the wrong ones. People tell you what they think will make the pain stop, not what is true.” She circled him, obsidian claws drawing faint arcs in the air. “I have other reasons for leaving you alive.”
She stopped and leaned in until the spy’s breath steamed in the cold air. “I have been conducting experiments.”
He blinked, confusion cutting through the fury for a moment. Vivienne’s black eyes shone with a hard, clinical light. “Aetherbeast blood is not blood as you understand it. You can transfuse between people when types match. Aetherbeasts have something that looks like blood, and many even a pseudo-heart, but they do not rely on circulation in the same way. Their fluids are more like stored aether. When I bleed,” she tapped one claw tip where a sliver of black ichor clung, “I do not bleed out like a mortal. I do not lose life so much as I expend aether. It leaks. It fades.”
Her voice dropped, instructional and cold. “That means if you try to graft aetherbeast fluid into a human, it will not behave like blood. It will not pump properly. It will destabilize. It warps what it touches. I have seen it. I have watched what happens when the wrong kind of aether meets a human vessel.”
The spy’s bravado faltered into a shudder. Vivienne straightened, eyes distant for a beat as though recalling a private experiment, then smiled again. “So, you see, I have no need for simple brutality tonight. I wanted to learn. And you, my unfortunate friend, are quite instructive.
“Then I offer you a choice,” Vivienne said, her voice syrup-smooth and patient. She leaned close so the spy could feel her breath, cold as the snow outside. “Tell me what powers that blasted barrier and I will give you a quick death. Or I continue my experiments.” She let the word hang between them, soft and clinical. “The latter will be… enlightening. And very, very painful.”
The man’s jaw worked. Blood slicked his lips where her talon had nicked him. He spat a gobbet of crimson at her boots and snarled, “I will never tell you anything, creature.” His voice cracked on the last word, equal parts fury and fear.
Vivienne’s smile widened until it was almost blithe. She straightened and drew back, tracing a lazy circle in the air with one black-clawed finger as if sketching some private amusement. “Brilliant,” she breathed, delighted in the way a child would be at the prospect of a new toy. Her eyes glittered with an odd, bright hunger. “Oh, I so hoped you would choose the latter.”
She stopped a breath away from him, so near he could see the faint black sheen on the edge of her claws. Her smile was all teeth and daylight and something very hungry behind it.
“Well,” she purred, voice layered in that uncanny harmony he had not learned to ignore, “last time I made a spy drink my—let us call it ichor.” She wagged a fingertip as though flicking away a memory. “It killed them slowly. Very entertaining to watch, yes, but not useful. They wasted away like candle wax in a draft. Their mind frayed first, then the rest went quiet.”
The man’s eyes went wide. He tried to wrench his head back from the ropes but there was nothing to grab. Blood ran slow along his jaw.
Vivienne’s tone shifted, bright as a schoolmistress discussing lessons. “Another, I injected the ichor straight into her veins.” She tapped the side of his temple with a claw as if to punctuate the point. “Faster. Spectacular in its efficiency. Not much left to study when it ends that way.”
A wet rasp escaped the captive. He spat, a string of red and black on the floor.
She laughed softly at the sound, pleased as if he had offered an agreeable suggestion. “Then there was the one I bathed in it.” Her eyes glittered. “Their body began to warp. Flesh bent around foreign currents. Limbs grew wrong and useful, mouths opened where mouths do not belong. That one changed, and that was… enlightening.”
She drew back and let the memory settle in the room like smoke. Vivienne merely clicked her claws together, delighted at the lesson she had catalogued. “You see,” she said, almost kindly, “there is so much to learn, and you have volunteered for my next experiment. Let’s have fun, yes?”
The spy paled.