CHAPTER 219: THREADS IN THE DARK [1]

Kyle watched Elizabeth’s retreating figure until the crowd swallowed her up.

He let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair, feeling the tension drain from his shoulders in uneven waves.

That had been nerve-wracking, more than he’d admit to anyone.

The words he’d chosen had been deliberate, carefully placed like pieces in a game he intended to win.

But it didn’t change the fact that Elizabeth Duvain, no, Veyl, for now was a dangerous person to dangle bait in front of.

Now came the waiting.

The hardest part.

She’d either take the lure or she wouldn’t.

Either way, she wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it. About him. About what he claimed to know.

Eventually, the question would outweigh her caution. She would decide to believe him. If only enough to see how far she could pull on the thread.

And she’d realise soon enough that he wanted something in return. That there was a price for truth.

For now, they were still in that delicate, unspoken space.

Neither rejecting the other, neither committing.

An awkward, precarious truce in which neither of them wanted to disappoint the other too soon.

Especially her, who had to keep up appearances for her oh-so-beloved father.

A soft weight landed in his lap, breaking that train of thought.

Kyle glanced down.

A small, round, black cat was now sitting there, paws tucked neatly under her, golden eyes half-lidded in smug satisfaction. Her fur gleamed like midnight silk, her tail curling lazily against his stomach.

Zalrielle now in her mochi form.

"Cake."

The single word rang in his head like the toll of a tiny, insistent bell.

Kyle’s eye twitched. ’You’re really getting addicted.’

Zalrielle tilted her head, the faintest shimmer of amusement in those golden eyes.

"And you’re really getting stingy."

He sighed.

’Do spirits even need to eat?’

"Need?" she echoed, her voice warm and purring in his mind. "No. Desire? Absolutely."

She blinked slowly, as if that settled the matter.

Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose but raised a hand to catch the attention of a passing waiter.

"Two chocolate pastries," he said, "and one chocolate latte."

The waiter hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. But it was enough for Kyle to notice.

His eyes flicked from Kyle to the small black cat now sitting primly at the edge of the table. As if trying to figure out how she’d gotten there without him seeing.

Kyle met the man’s gaze with the cool. Unhurried expression of someone who’d long since stopped caring if others found his life confusing.

The waiter gave a quick nod and retreated without another word, though Kyle didn’t miss the subtle glance over his shoulder.

Leaning back again. He undid the top two buttons of his shirt and messed up his styled hair.

The noble attire he’d chosen for tonight was cut well. But the collar was too tight for comfort now that he could finally breathe.

Zalrielle’s gaze flicked down at the movement, her whiskers twitching.

"You should just wear looser clothes. You’d be less grumpy."

He gave her a flat look.

’Or you could stop harassing me for dessert.’

Her tail swayed lazily, utterly unrepentant.

"Where’s the fun in that?"

Kyle exhaled through his nose, letting the murmur of the cafe wash over him.

He’d made his move. Now, all he had to do was wait for Elizabeth Duvain to make hers.

——————

The study was steeped in quiet.

Not the stillness of peace. But the kind that weighed in the air like a velvet shroud.

The late afternoon light slanted through tall windows, sunlight spilling across polished oak and the deep green of the carpet.

Dust motes drifted lazily in the shafts of sun, turning in slow spirals as if reluctant to settle.

The man behind the desk did not move.

Marquess Raylan Veyl leaned against the polished edge of his desk.

One hand rested lightly on the surface, fingers drumming a slow, irregular rhythm against the polished wood.

The other dangled at his side, holding a glass of dark liquor he had yet to taste.

Black hair, perfectly combed. Green eyes steady and calculating.

His posture was flawless, chin lifted slightly, the way one might present themselves to an artist painting their portrait.

Only there was no warmth in him, just a kind of stillness that made the air feel heavy.

On the rug before him, three men knelt.

Their clothes were fine enough for minor nobility, but wrinkled.

The faint stink of sweat clung to them. Their faces were swollen from weeping, eyes red, cheeks blotched, lips cracked.

They stared at the floor between them, as if afraid to lift their gaze too high.

Raylan’s eyes moved over them slowly, like a merchant assessing wares he didn’t intend to buy.

"You’ve had... ample time," he said at last, his voice smooth but flat.

"Ample time. And yet..." He tilted his head, as if studying a curious insect, "...you come to me empty-handed."

One of the kneeling men. The eldest, swallowed. His voice shook when he spoke.

"M-my lord... the harvest failed. We—"

"Failed?" Raylan cut in.

The word rolled off his tongue like he was testing its weight.

"Do you think the weather exempts you from your duties to your liege? Or perhaps you think the sun and rain answer to you?"

The man’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. His hands clenched in the fabric of his trousers.

Raylan let the silence stretch. He liked the way it made them twitch.

"Taxes," he said finally, "are not a suggestion. They are the blood in the veins of this territory. Without them..."

He smiled faintly. "...things wither."

The second man dared to raise his head, his face flushed.

"We beg your grace, my lord. Only a little more time—"

"A little more time," Raylan echoed softly.

He set his glass on the desk without looking, the crystal making a small, sharp sound on the wood.

"Do you think me a fool? That I do not see the truth under your excuses?"

They all flinched.

"You’ve squandered what little you had. Mismanaged your lands. And now you hope to crawl here, cry at my feet, and escape the consequences."

His green eyes narrowed slightly.

"You insult me."

The third man’s breathing hitched. "Please, my lord... the people—"

"The people," Raylan said, and there was something dangerous in how softly he spoke now,

"...are mine. Their land is mine. Their lives are mine. Do not pretend to speak for them."

The first man’s forehead touched the carpet. "We will pay, my lord. We swear it. Just... one more month."

Raylan’s smile returned, thin and sharp.

"One more month," he murmured. "Yes. That will be amusing."

They looked up, just a little. Hope sparking in their swollen eyes.

"In one month," he said slowly, "you will bring me every coin you owe. Every scrap of gold. Every silver. And if you do not..."

His voice dipped into a quiet, almost intimate tone.

"...I will take your land. All of it. Your titles, your homes, your little estates with their charming gardens. I will sell the stones, strip the timber, and burn the rest. Do you understand?"

They nodded quickly, murmuring their gratitude.

"I wasn’t asking for gratitude," Raylan said, his voice suddenly flat again. "I was asking if you understand."

"Yes, my lord," they whispered in unison.

He studied them for a moment longer, as if considering whether to change his mind.

Then, with a faint flick of his fingers. He made a small gesture toward the side of the room.

The butler, silent until now, stepped forward.

A tall, thin man in immaculate black, his face expressionless. Without a word. He moved to the first kneeling noble and gripped him by the shoulder, hauling him up.

The others followed, stumbling slightly as they were dragged toward the door.

Raylan did not watch them go. He was already turning back toward his desk, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.

The heavy double doors closed with a muffled thud behind them, and the room was quiet again.

The quiet didn’t last.

Ting—

A shrill tone cut through the stillness.

A phone on the desk, its polished black surface reflecting the lamplight.

Raylan glanced at the screen. The corners of his lips curled upward.

Elizabeth.

His dear adopted daughter.

His tool.

The message was short:

Kyle Valemont has not rejected me.

’Good.’

He picked up the phone, read the words again, and let a small chuckle slip from his throat.

It was the sound of a man who saw pieces moving exactly where he wanted them to go.

Before he could set the phone down, another sound joined it.

CHIMMM—

A faint, crystalline chime. The communication crystal on the desk pulsed with a cool blue light.

Raylan’s gaze lingered on it for a moment.

Then he reached out, brushing a finger across the carved runes.

The crystal flared, and the image resolved in the air above it.

Duke Alistair Ignaris.

His father-in-law.

The man’s face appeared, sharp and stern, every line of it carved by years of command.

The Duke’s expression was unreadable, though the faint flicker in his eyes suggested the call was not merely social.

Raylan’s own expression shifted smoothly. His green eyes brightening, lips settling into the polite curve of greeting.

"Duke Ignaris," he said, his voice silk once more. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

POP—

The fire popped in the hearth.

And Raylan Veyl smiled, already playing the next move in his mind.

——————