Masquien said nothing. His hands gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles white. Whatever secret had reached him—whatever explanation for Brusk's failing strength—he had not shared it. And he wouldn't. Not now. His silence was the silence of someone unraveling.
But Venara? She let the silence breathe.
She stared at Caelvir's figure—battered, bloodied, unbroken.
How she had scoffed.
How she had doubted.
And how just moments ago, her mind had settled on the certainty of his failure—on a wasted bet, a foolish boy sacrificing his life for rats.
But now, the ground beneath her feet had shifted.
Her smile—the ever-false, ever-elegant thing—finally faded. Something deeper moved in her chest, unbidden and unwelcome.
It wasn't pride. Not yet.
But it was close.
Her eyes narrowed, unreadable as the wind that cut through the desert. "So," she whispered under her breath, "not wasted after all."
Not wasted.
The words echoed in her mind, as if mocking the woman she had been only minutes ago.
But now…
Her investment bled. It suffered. It defied death.
And it won.
In a world where gold bought power and titles meant survival, he had no right to still be standing.
And yet he did.
Below, Caelvir lifted his eyes—those same fire-lit eyes she had doubted—and for the briefest second, Venara thought they were looking at her.
And her heart, cold and cunning as it was, stirred.
She would not show it. She would never speak it.
But she would remember.
That not all miracles came dressed in light.
Some, like this, rose from the dust, cloaked in blood, and carved in defiance.
Not wasted, she thought again.
Not wasted at all.
Her gaze finally slid to her side where Lord Masquien sat frozen. A shadow had crept into his face, one that hadn't been there before. The lines at the corner of his mouth twitched—too subtle for most eyes to catch, but not hers.
She turned her head, just slightly, and offered him a gentle, knowing smile.
"A pity," she said, her voice silk-wrapped steel. "Your warrior fought well. Ninety-nine kills, wasn't it?" She let it hang there before her smile sharpened. "All that blood, only to fall short of one last breath. How tragic. So close to a hundred. So close."
Masquien's jaw tightened. His eyes did not meet hers. "You win some, you lose some," he muttered, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "There are more important matters in House Hollowmere than a single brute's outcome in a pit of sand."
"Oh, of course," Venara said lightly, her voice like wine with poison stirred in. "It must be difficult, keeping up with such… secret matters."
Masquien shifted in his seat. The smirk that tried to form on his lips faltered under the weight of her tone.
He rose. "I've stayed longer than intended. A Lord's time is not best spent among blood and beasts."
Venara tilted her head, lashes lowered, lips parted in a polite, amused curve. "Well, perhaps next time, choose a beast with a bit more breath in him. Or teeth."
Masquien did not reply. He gave her a stiff nod, turned on his heel, and swept from the balcony with his guards at his heels, the gold stitching on his cloak trembling ever so slightly with the weight of his stride.
Venara watched him go. And this time—
This time, when her smile returned, it was hers.
Not a mask. Not armor.
No lie held behind it.
Just a soft, small curve at the corners of her lips. A flicker of something true. Something earned.
Only hers.
Venara's gaze remained on the arena, but a sound beside her—light, familiar—pulled her attention.
Elowen had stepped forward from the shadows, where she'd stood vigilant all throughout. Her lips were pressed into a line, but there was amusement tucked in her eyes.
Venara turned her head slowly, the smugness already blooming across her face. She didn't have to speak.
Elowen sighed, folding her arms. "Fine," she said with mock defeat. "You told me."
Venara raised a brow, satisfied. "Mm. I usually do."
Elowen allowed herself a faint smile. "Lady Venara's foresight is worthy of song and silver. Truly, I shall commission a bard at once."
Venara chuckled under her breath. "Make sure they don't skip the part where you doubted me."
"Of course not." Elowen glanced back toward the blood-soaked arena, where Caelvir now stood half-slumped over his sword, the victor, yet barely so. "So… will you brand him when he reaches his hundredth?"
Venara was quiet for a moment. The wind pulled at a loose curl of her blonde hair, brushing it along her cheek. Her voice came low and thoughtful.
"As I told you before, Elowen… he must choose that for himself." She looked back down at Caelvir. "I won't brand a man out of obligation. Or for repaying a debt. The mark must mean something to him. If it doesn't—then it's nothing more than a temporary chain. I want one which is permanent."
Elowen nodded, though her gaze lingered on Caelvir's hunched figure. "He's in bad shape, my lady. Worse than last time."
Venara exhaled, brushing her gloved fingers against the balcony's railing. "Yes," she said, soft. "Quite dire."
Then, with a glint in her eyes and a deliberate glance toward her,
"Well, it seems we'll need to host another quiet little celebration at the estate."
Elowen blinked, then smirked faintly. "Shall I begin the arrangements?"
Venara offered her a nod—the kind that was both command and companionship. "See to it. I want him in the east wing again. Same precautions. Better wine. He'll wake to something softer than blood and sand this time."
Elowen bowed. "As you wish, my lady."
Venara turned her gaze toward the sands once more, her voice calm but firm."Send word to Sylvenna," she said, naming one of the finest healers in all the kingdom—renowned not just in House Goldmere, but whispered about in noble circles far beyond. "Tell her I want Caelvir treated as if he were kin to the house itself."
Elowen blinked. "Sylvenna? The White Vein of our House?"
Venara nodded. "Yes. Bring her at once. If anyone can mend the kind of wounds he carries—wounds of flesh, bone, and will—it's her. Her healer's magic has pulled men back from the edge of the grave. Let her do so again."
Elowen inclined her head, her tone brisk with understanding. "Yes, Lady Venara. I'll see to it."
And with that, she turned, already issuing instructions to the shadows beyond.
Venara remained, watching Caelvir from high above—the storm of applause fading, the arena growing still. And though her face had long returned to its practiced calm, the corners of her lips lingered with the truth of her smile.
A quiet flame. A private triumph.