Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Knife Between Us

The door slammed open.

Veyra turned sharply, hand already at the hilt on her hip. Her heart jerked once—then froze.

Liora stood in the threshold, panting. Blood soaked the front of her tunic, sleeves dark to the elbow. Her fingers were curled tight around the dagger still pressed to the ribs of the man she was dragging—no, shoving—forward. The assassin stumbled as he crossed the threshold, arms now bound, face bloodied. But it was Liora who held the room.

Not the guards outside, who stood paralyzed behind her. Not the man she'd nearly killed.

Veyra's breath caught.

Liora looked at her and didn't speak at first.

Just met her eyes—wild, steady, worn down to the bone.

"I caught him," Liora said. "He's the one from the ambush. The first attack."

Veyra didn't move.

Liora's voice shook slightly. "Kellen—Kellen took the blade. He saved me. He's alive, I think. The medics took him. There was…" Her throat worked. "There was a lot of blood."

The dagger didn't waver.

The assassin laughed once, then winced. "Lovely reunion."

Veyra crossed the room in three strides. "Inside," she said, voice low and sharp. "Now."

Liora shoved him forward. He stumbled toward the wooden bench in front of the hearth, nearly collapsing onto it. Veyra didn't help him. She didn't look at him.

She looked at Liora.

Her jaw flexed. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing," Liora replied quickly, too quickly. "He's the one that—he came back. He said I was the target this time. Not you."

"You should not have brought him here on your own."

Liora's shoulders tensed. "What? What else would I do? Let him go and wait for him to try again?"

Veyra exhaled. She stepped past her, toward the hearth. "Back away. I'll handle this."

"No."

The word echoed in the room, a defiant sound of silent rage.

Veyra turned.

Liora's voice was too loud now. Too raw. "I can handle this. I'm not made of glass. I'm not going to just sit down and let you interrogate him like I'm not part of this."

"You are part of this," Veyra said quietly. "That's exactly why—"

"I nearly killed him myself," Liora snapped. Her hand was shaking now, barely. "He tried to slit my spine open. He nearly killed Kellen."

Veyra opened her mouth, then closed it. Her face shifted—just slightly. Something unspoken passed through her expression. Not fury. Not blame. Just… pain. Tight and immediate.

It broke something in Liora's chest.

Her fingers loosened around the hilt. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean—"

Veyra stepped closer. Her voice was low. "Sit down, Liora."

"I'm—"

"Sit," Veyra repeated, quieter, firmer.

The command wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.

Liora froze.

A scent laced the air—pine and spice, deeper than usual, warmer. Not aggressive. Not overwhelming. But laced with something impossible to ignore. Power. Steadiness. A pull at the back of her ribs that made her muscles slacken before she realized what was happening.

Her knees bent. She sank to the small bench beside the hearth without thinking. Her pulse still raced, her breath shallow—but the trembling stilled. Not from surrender. From command.

Veyra crouched beside her for a moment, hand brushing briefly against the bloodied edge of her tunic.

"You're safe," she said quietly. "Let me handle him."

Liora didn't speak. Just nodded once.

Veyra straightened and turned to the assassin.

His head lolled back against the chair. His eyes were sharp, even through the swelling. "Sweet," he rasped. "Didn't think you had it in you—using scent like that. So much for your clean reputation."

Veyra didn't answer.

She crossed the room to the water basin, soaked a strip of cloth, and walked back. She tossed it into his lap without ceremony.

"Clean your face. You'll speak clearly."

The man laughed—then winced again. "What, no torture? I expected fire. Or teeth."

"If you want pain," Veyra said calmly, "I can give it to you. But I'd rather you talk."

He met her gaze. "And if I do?"

"You'll live."

He cocked his head. "What a generous Alpha."

"I've already killed more of your kind this month than I care for," she said flatly. "Talk."

He looked between her and Liora, calculating.

Then he smiled—just a little.

"You were never the mark," he said. "She was."

Veyra's hands tightened at her sides.

"You refuse to control her. And she is too close to power." He looked at Liora again. "You're the soft point. Someone decided the heir wouldn't fall, so they want for you. A quiet end. An accident, if possible."

"Who gave the order?" Veyra asked.

He shrugged, slow. "I wasn't told. But there was a courier drop. Same kind they use in quiet trades. Hidden below the old chapel vaults. Beneath the fortress."

Veyra narrowed her eyes.

"You expect me to believe someone used the chapel archives to pass a kill order?"

"Believe what you like," he said. "That's where I found the second directive. Tucked in the stone behind the reliquary shelf. Half-burnt, but sealed."

She studied him. "You have a name."

He hesitated.

Veyra stepped forward. "Say it."

"I give you the name, you kill me. I know that look."

"You came here to kill her."

He didn't flinch. "And failed."

Veyra looked down at him for a long, silent moment.

Then she said, "You'll give me the name. And you'll go to the dungeon alive. That's mercy."

He snorted. "Could've fooled me."

"I don't let ghosts back into the world," Veyra said. "You're not walking free."

The assassin hesitated—just long enough to show he was choosing. Not bluffing. Not lying.

He looked up. "Serren."

Veyra's eyes narrowed. "Which one."

He shrugged with a grimace. "Didn't say. Just the seal—clean cut, proper crest. Same courier mark I've seen on other internal orders. I've worked with Circle families before. This was polished. Real. And not new."

Liora's voice cracked into the space. "You're sure?"

"Positive." His eyes flicked toward her, then back to Veyra. "Whoever it was needed access to the seal, the directive came through the Serren household."

She stared at him. "When?"

"Four nights ago." His voice was raw. "Last-minute change. Kill the Omega, not the heir. Easier to hide. More effective, I guess."

Silence filled the chamber.

Veyra stepped back once, slow.

Then she turned to the door.

"Guards."

Two soldiers entered. Weapons ready, tense.

Veyra's tone never rose. "Search him fully. Arms, boots, inside the seams. Bind him. Deliver him to the east wing cells. No visitors. No food without my signet."

"Yes, Commander."

The assassin laughed weakly as they pulled him upright. "Hell of a thank you for talking."

Veyra didn't look at him. "You tried to kill her. You don't get thanks."

As they dragged him toward the door, he called over his shoulder—dry and hoarse.

"I gave you the name. Don't wait too long to use it."

The door closed.

Veyra stood still for a moment, then looked at Liora.

Her voice was flat.

"Serren."

Liora nodded slowly. "That narrows it down to two monsters."

Veyra's jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

For the first time in minutes, the room felt still again.

And more dangerous than ever.

Liora sat motionless on the bench. The blood on her sleeves was drying now, stiff at the elbows. Her breath had steadied, but her eyes remained locked on the closed door.

"Serren," she muttered. "Of course it's one of them."

Veyra didn't answer right away. She moved to the basin, poured a clean cloth full of water, and returned. This time, she knelt in front of Liora—not as a commander, but as someone who had seen too much blood in one day.

"Give me your hands," she said.

Liora blinked. "What?"

"You'll cramp if it dries like that."

Reluctantly, Liora unfolded her fingers. The skin beneath the blood was pink, scraped raw in places. Veyra cleaned them quietly, methodically. She didn't speak again until the cloth was red.

"I already have Alric Serren in a cell," she said at last.

Liora looked up. "What?"

"And Castian Thorne," Veyra continued. "I ordered both detained in the east wing two days ago. No contact. No communication. No outside reach."

Liora's brow furrowed. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't want to give them an audience," Veyra said. "Not before I knew how deep the trail ran. The moment I found out about what he did to you—" her voice tightened, but didn't crack, "—I had enough grounds to hold them. They're still under watch."

Liora stared at her. "You think they're behind this?"

Veyra met her gaze. "I know they're part of it. Whether they gave the order or followed someone else's—I'll find out. But I needed evidence before the Council could interfere. Now I have it."

"The courier mark."

"And a name." Veyra rose, rinsed her hands clean. "Serren. It was never random. It was an operation. A quiet kill meant to collapse my position by going through you."

Liora said nothing.

Then—very softly: "If Kellen dies…"

Veyra turned.

Liora's expression was blank. Hollow.

"If he dies," she continued, "I want the first question."

"He won't. Kellen is strong."

Veyra stepped closer.

"We'll interrogate them both before nightfall," she said. "I'll lead it. You'll be there, if you choose."

Liora nodded once.

Then again, slower.

And for the first time since entering the room, her shoulders eased—not in comfort, but in readiness.

Because now she had a direction.

And the knife was still in her hand.

—

Liora stood slowly, the stiff fabric of her tunic pulling awkwardly as dried blood cracked across the front.

"This is ruined," she muttered, looking down at herself. The deep blue linen was soaked nearly to the waist—Kellen's blood, not hers—and the sleeves were stiff with it. The shoulder seam had split in the scuffle. Her collar hung askew, red-streaked and clinging to her skin.

Veyra crossed the room without a word and opened a narrow chest at the foot of her bed. Inside were folded tunics, belts, and travel gear—neatly stacked, all in darker tones.

She pulled one free and handed it over.

"Here. It's cleaner, and it's yours if you want it."

Liora hesitated. "I don't want charity."

Veyra met her eyes. "It's not. You bled for it."

That stopped her.

Liora accepted the folded clothes and ducked into the small washroom behind the chamber's inner wall. When she returned a few minutes later, she looked like someone who had stepped into her next shape—still herself, but steadier. Grounded.

The door to the washroom creaked open.

Veyra looked up from where she'd been refitting the straps on her bracer, not expecting much—perhaps just a cleaner version of the travel worn woman she had come to know.

But when Liora stepped out, the room shifted.

She didn't speak. Just stood there for a breath, adjusting the laces of the leather vest over her ribs, checking the belt where the dagger now rested snug against her hip. The green tunic hung differently on her than anything Veyra had ever seen her wear—draping long past her thighs, split at the sides for motion, its sleeves rolled just below the elbow. The leather vest fit close but not tight, giving her shape without making her small.

And her eyes—gods, her eyes. Steady. No apology left in them. Still red at the edges, yes. Still drawn from exhaustion. But not hollow.

Liora had wiped the blood from her face, but her collar still rested clean and visible at her throat, the silver clasp fastened neatly.

She looked… not like a soldier. Something far more noble.

And for the first time since the assassin was dragged away, Veyra felt the tension in her shoulders ease—not from relief, but from recognition.

Liora wasn't hiding anymore.

Veyra stood slowly. Her voice came quiet, unguarded.

"You wear it well."

Liora didn't smile, not quite. But something flickered across her face—a nod of thanks, or understanding.

"It fits," she said.

"It suits you," Veyra replied with a low chuckle. She meant the whole image, not just the cut of cloth.

Their eyes met across the space between them, full of everything unspoken.

Then Veyra turned toward the door, voice hardening with purpose. "Come. It's time."

Liora followed.

The corridors leading to the healer's wing were quieter now, echoing only with the faint scuff of boots and the murmur of wind through the high-cut stone windows. The scent of poultices and crushed herbs thickened as they neared the heavy oak door.

Liora said nothing as they walked. Her new tunic whispered against her legs—still unfamiliar on her skin—but she kept her stride even. Steady.

Veyra had said only two words since they had left her chamber: "We'll check." She hadn't needed to say more.

At the door, a guard straightened. Veyra didn't pause. One look and the man stepped aside.

Inside, the healer's room was dim, lit by a few oil lamps and the fading edge of daylight through the narrow window slats. The air was warm—too warm—and still smelled faintly of blood.

Malen looked up from where he was seated near the cot. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, stained and wrinkled. His eyes met Veyra's, then shifted to Liora.

"He's alive," the healer said quietly.

Liora exhaled. It came out too fast—too loud in her ears.

"How bad?" Veyra asked.

Malen stood. "Bad. Deep puncture, lower back. Barely missed the kidney. He lost too much blood, but the blade was clean. No poison. He's unconscious. Stable, for now."

Liora stepped past them, slower now, and approached the cot.

Kellen lay pale and still, his chest rising in shallow, even breaths. He looked smaller out of his uniform—barely older than he had the right to be, his bandages stark against the long lines of muscle and bone.

The sheets were clean. The blood was gone. But her hands remembered it. Her knees. The weight of him.

She stood over him without speaking.

Veyra didn't approach. She remained a few steps back, silent.

"He was lucky," Malen murmured. "Or stubborn."

"That sounds like him," Liora said softly, almost to herself.

She reached out—hesitated—then gently rested her fingers against the edge of the blanket near Kellen's arm. Not touching skin. Just presence.

"He is your oldest friend," she said quietly, "Is he not?"

Veyra's voice came from behind her. "He would call that an exaggeration."

"But it's true."

A pause.

"Yes."

Liora nodded once. "He knew exactly what he was doing."

Veyra didn't argue.

"I'm sorry," Liora said. Her voice was barely audible. "He jumped in front of me."

"I know," Veyra replied. "That's who he is."

Another silence.

Then Liora turned to Malen. "Will he wake?"

Malen hesitated. "Eventually. But not tonight."

Liora looked back at Kellen, jaw tight.

"I didn't thank him," she whispered.

"You did," Veyra said. "You saved him and yourself, as I understand it."

That quieted her.

After a moment, she stepped back.

Veyra waited until Liora stood beside her again before turning to the healer. "Have him moved to the inner watch ward. New guard rotation every six hours. I want a Beta posted at all times."

Malen nodded. "Understood."

Veyra turned to Liora. Her voice lowered. "Are you ready?"

Liora looked one last time at the cot.

Then she said, without hesitation: "Yes."

And together, they turned for the hall.

The lower halls of the east wing were colder than the rest of the keep—built from older stone, curved and thick with a damp chill that clung to the skin. The torchlight barely reached the corners. This part of Fort Dalen had been built for containment, not comfort.

Liora followed a step behind Veyra, her boots silent over the stone floor. She was starting to become accustomed to the feel of the new clothes; the fit. She barely noticed the ache in her side anymore. What stayed with her was the still image of Kellen—bandaged, unmoving.

Two guards waited at the bottom of the corridor. Veyra gave a nod. One stepped forward to unlock the first door, his key rasping loud in the silence.

The heavy metal bar slid back.

The door groaned open.

Inside sat Alric Serren.

He looked up from the bench as they entered, calm and composed as ever, dressed in fine navy layers that didn't match his surroundings. His hands were shackled at the wrists—but his posture was perfect. One leg crossed over the other, the picture of curated nobility in a cell.

Veyra entered first. Liora stood in the doorway behind her, visible. Watching.

"Commander Halvarin," Alric said smoothly. "What an unexpected pleasure."

"Spare me," Veyra said.

Alric smiled faintly, eyes flicking to Liora. "And the Omega, too. Did you miss me that much?"

Liora didn't react. She met his gaze without blinking.

Veyra stepped forward. "A courier mark bearing your family seal was found in connection with a failed assassination attempt this morning."

"Which family member?" Alric asked, calm. "We are not interchangeable."

"The document was unsigned," Veyra said. "But the seal was clean. Noble stock. Yours."

"I imagine many things in the kingdom bear the Serren crest," he replied lightly. "Most of them legal. Most of them boring."

Liora spoke for the first time.

"You tried to have me killed."

Alric turned his head slightly. "I didn't say that."

Liora took a step forward. Her voice was flat. "He didn't give us your name. Just 'Serren.' We're here to find out which one of you is the coward."

Alric looked at her—truly looked. His smile didn't fade, but something colder settled beneath it.

"Coward?" he repeated, as if testing the word. "No. If I wanted you dead, Liora, you would be."

Veyra's hand twitched near her belt. Liora didn't move.

"I'd never waste a blade on something that valuable," Alric continued, eyes lingering. "Omegas don't need to be destroyed. They just need to be… managed."

"You set a collar on me," Liora said, her voice low and sharp. "You want to claim me."

"And I would've given you everything," Alric said, as if it were generosity. "Status. Protection. A place at my side, not in a cage. You would've lived very well."

"I would've lived as your possession," she snapped.

He gave a slight nod. "And that's better than what's coming."

Veyra moved before the air could settle—one step forward, fast, and sharp. Her presence filled the cell.

"Watch your words."

Alric's expression didn't waver. "I didn't give the order. I wouldn't have her killed. Why destroy what you can own?"

Veyra's voice dropped to something colder than steel. "You never owned her. And you never will."

He shrugged once, still playing the part. "Then it must've been my father. He doesn't share my appreciation for subtlety."

"That's your defense?" Veyra said. "Throwing him under the blade first?"

"It's not the first time," Alric said simply. "He would've done the same."

Liora stared at him, her hands curling at her sides. "You talk like this is a game."

He looked at her, head tilted. "It's power. You're just learning how the board works."

Veyra stepped back. "We're done here."

Alric smirked. "I'd advise caution, Commander. If you come for him, you'd better not miss."

She didn't answer.

"Bring out Thorne," she said again, to the guards.

The door opened behind them. Liora followed Veyra out without a word—but the tension in her jaw, the weight in her stride, said everything.

The second cell door unlatched with a dull metal clunk.

Veyra entered first. Liora followed, one step behind—calm, composed, alert.

The moment she crossed the threshold, a familiar scent hit her nose.

Heavy rose. A sharp edge beneath it—champagne or something like it, overripe and arrogant. Liora's stomach turned. She didn't say a word, but her nose wrinkled instinctively. Recognition struck before reason caught up.

It was the same scent that had stained Veyra's door.

Castian Thorne was sitting on the cot like it was his private salon—one wrist loosely shackled to the wall, collar open, expression smug.

He noticed them instantly.

"Well, well," he drawled, eyes sweeping from Veyra to Liora. "Didn't expect both of you. Thought the Commander liked to do her brooding alone."

Veyra didn't rise to it. "You know why we're here."

"I assume it's not to share wine."

"You marked my chamber door," she said.

He gave a crooked grin. "That was a bit of fun. You can't prove it was me."

Liora said nothing. She didn't need to. She knew. Her nose had confirmed it the second she walked in.

Her voice was quiet. "You reeked of it that day."

Castian tilted his head, amused. "Do I?"

"You do now," she said. "I knew it before you opened your mouth."

His grin faltered just slightly.

Veyra stepped forward. "You assisted Alric Serren in a targeted act against an unclaimed Omega under my protection. And you're connected to a courier path tied to an assassin."

"I'm flattered," Castian said. "But let's not pretend I'm that organized."

"You don't have to be organized to be dangerous," Veyra replied. "Just stupid enough to get caught."

He leaned back against the wall. "Look—I didn't order anyone to die. I didn't write any contracts. Alric doesn't confide in me like that. I just… help with distractions."

"You call that a distraction?" Liora asked coldly.

He looked at her again—longer this time. "I thought it might shake things loose. The Commander here's been… tight-lipped about her attachments."

"And you thought humiliating me would make her crack?" Liora's voice was razor-thin.

Castian shrugged. "Did it?"

Veyra stepped closer. Her shadow crossed his boots. "Enough."

His grin slipped again.

"I'll give you what I know," he said, voice flatter now. "I didn't see a name on any message. But I saw Alric pocket a sealed note three nights ago."

"Where's the note?" Veyra asked.

"Gone. Probably in the Serren archive or burned after use. But I know the seal was Serren. Clean wax. Not tampered."

Veyra's gaze was hard. "You'll give a formal statement."

Castian nodded once. "I will."

Liora's eyes hadn't left him. "You knew they were coming for me."

He didn't answer.

"You knew," she said again.

"I suspected," he muttered. "And I didn't stop it. That's on me."

Veyra turned to the guards. "Take him back. Keep him separate."

As they pulled him to his feet, Castian looked back at Liora. His smirk had softened—not gone, but dimmed. Something like regret flickered there. But not remorse.

"I didn't think it would go that far," he said.

Liora's voice was flat. "You didn't think at all."

The door closed behind them with a hard clang of metal.

The heavy door sealed behind them with a final metallic thud.

Liora exhaled slowly, her face tight but unreadable. Veyra didn't speak right away. The chill in the corridor air settled on both their shoulders like dust.

Footsteps approached.

Ryven, clean-cut and sharp-eyed, came to a crisp stop at Veyra's side. "Commander. Both prisoners secured. Eastern cells sealed. Rotations adjusted as ordered."

Veyra gave a nod. "Good."

Then, quietly: "Any word from my father?"

Ryven dipped his head slightly. "A message came through the war desk about twenty minutes ago. He'll receive you within the hour—in his map chamber."

Veyra's jaw tightened, but she nodded once. "Send a runner ahead. Tell him I'll come directly."

Ryven hesitated. "Should I send escort?"

"No," she said. "Just make sure the corridor is cleared."

Ryven turned on his heel and moved off with silent efficiency.

Veyra looked back to Liora.

"We'll speak to him. Then check the chapel."

Liora raised a brow. "No rest?"

"There's no time," Veyra said. "They wanted you dead. They failed. But they won't wait long before trying something else."

Liora nodded. "Then I won't wait either."

They turned together, boots echoing down the stone hall toward what came next.