There is nothing wrong with you

Veylira studied her, eyes flicking to the bandaged arm. "Tell me everything."

Lara hesitated only a second. She'd always trusted her mother with pain and pride, wounds of both body and soul.

So she told Veylira about the duel how she'd faced Vaelen, the ease of the match, and then, suddenly, that sick, alien coldness curling through her mind.

The way her body had felt hijacked, as if her arm was not her own. Her voice dropped lower when she described the strike, how Vaelen had stumbled, how the practice blade had drawn blood.

Veylira's face betrayed nothing. She listened, unblinking, as Lara spoke of the headache, the biting guilt, and the cold echo left behind.

When Lara finished, her mother rose smoothly, gliding to the little cabinet where she kept her healing supplies.

She pulled out fresh bandages, salves, and a small crystal vial of clear liquid one she'd used often in Lara's reckless childhood. The faint scent of pine and nightshade filled the room.

Wordlessly, Veylira unwrapped the bandage and examined the arm with practiced, gentle fingers.

She pressed and prodded, humming under her breath, then placed her hand lightly on Lara's brow, feeling for fever, for unnatural chill.

There was a long, considering silence. Then Veylira let Lara's hand fall, stepped back, and raised one perfect brow.

"There is nothing wrong with you," she said, with clinical certainty. "No poison. No curse. No old dragon magic clinging to your blood. Your body is clean. The bite's healed—better than I'd expect, actually."

Lara blinked. "But—"

Veylira's mouth twitched, the faintest sign of amusement.

"Unless you think I missed something? Because, Lara, as your mother and the only person in this world who's ever been able to keep you in bed for a fever, I would know."

Lara stared at the scar, now faint and silvery. "So you're saying… what? I did that to Vaelen by choice?"

"Did you?" Veylira's tone was light, too light. "I'm just saying, sometimes when a woman loses control, it's not because of a curse, but because of what she feels—or refuses to admit she feels."

A flush crept up Lara's neck. "Mother—"

Veylira grinned, the sharp glint of the warlord in her eyes.

"Come now, Lara. Maybe you just don't like that Sarisa is about to marry another. Maybe you lost your famous composure at the thought of Vaelen dancing with her, putting rings on her fingers. You wouldn't be the first demon in the family to lash out over jealousy."

She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a teasing, dangerous purr. "Was it a sword or a fit of temper?"

Lara rolled her eyes, more to cover embarrassment than real irritation. "I'm not jealous of Vaelen. Or Sarisa. I just—something was wrong."

"Of course." Veylira's smile lingered. "But for the record, losing a duel to jealousy is at least more interesting than magical poisoning. Just admit it: you don't want to see Sarisa marry anyone but you."

Lara snorted, trying to sound unaffected. "Sarisa's made her choice. I'm not going to stand in her way. It's not like that."

Veylira shrugged, unconvinced. "If you say so. I suppose all those nights you spent talking her to sleep, all those mornings you brought her breakfast when she was too tired to leave her study… that was nothing?" She let the question hang, watching Lara's face carefully.

Lara bristled. "She's Aliyah's mother. We're—"

"Co-parents," Veylira finished, waving a dismissive hand. "If that's what you want to call it." Then, softer, "Don't be a fool, Lara. Don't let stubbornness cost you more than a duel."

The room felt suddenly smaller, air charged with things unsaid. Lara pulled her arm back, flexing her fingers as if the memory of the fight lingered there.

The truth was harder to face than any wound—a simple injury would have been easier to cure.

But Veylira was done with seriousness. She repacked her supplies, shooing Lara toward the door. "Go rest. Or go apologize, if you're brave enough. But don't invent ghosts in your blood when it's your heart that's aching."

Lara grunted, grateful for the release. "Thanks, Mom."

Veylira only grinned, a little smug. "Anytime."

Lara left the room, winding through the quiet, lamplit corridors of the old castle, mind spinning with confusion.

No curse. No magic. Just… me? It didn't make sense. But Veylira was rarely wrong about the body or the heart.

She found her way to the teleportation circle, pressing a palm to the cool runes. She pictured her room at the Celestian palace, the familiar sprawl of papers, the rumpled bedding, the battered sword on its rack.

She needed sleep. Maybe tomorrow, with the ache faded, everything would make more sense.

The world shimmered, twisted and dropped her, not in her room, but somewhere else.

She knew it the instant her boots hit the thick carpet, when she opened her eyes and saw soft golden candlelight, deep blue walls, and the scent of roses. It was Sarisa's room.

Sarisa's room warm, elegant, full of scattered books, the faint aroma of magic clinging to the air.

And Sarisa herself, standing by the bed, entirely naked, long moonlight hair tumbling down her back, golden tattoos aglow across bare arms and shoulders.

Her eyes—one silver, one blue were wide in surprise, her mouth half-open in the middle of a startled exclamation.

For a heartbeat, Lara's mind blanked.

Everything the pain, the guilt, the questions faded in the blinding, utterly embarrassing realization that she had teleported into Sarisa's room at exactly the wrong moment.

Sarisa's cheeks flushed, quick and vivid, but she did not move to cover herself.

She simply stared at Lara, caught somewhere between outrage, amusement, and something else something neither of them would name.

Lara swallowed, the air suddenly thick. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words tangled and died.

And that was the moment everything changed.