The double doors of the Assembly Chamber opened on well-oiled hinges, letting in a hush that settled over the gathered Circle like dust. Veyra stepped across the threshold with the controlled posture of a soldier—but her pulse betrayed her, thudding heavy in her ears. The air was colder here, colder even than the stone halls of Fort Dalen, as though the walls themselves listened and judged.
Twelve councilors sat in a wide crescent, each framed by towering stone pillars etched with the sigils of old Vaereth. Behind them hung banners denoting their spheres of power: law, logistics, external intelligence, internal defense, diplomacy, economics, and more. Each held sway, but none so much as the man seated at the third high seat from center.
Lord Halvern.
He didn't move when she entered. Didn't nod. His fox-sharp eyes, always unreadable to others, flicked once across her form—pausing only briefly at the fresh uniform, the tautness of her bandaged side, and the glint of fire in her gaze.
But Veyra saw it. The brief stillness in his jaw. The subtle tension in his clasped hands. A moment of calculation—faster than most would catch, but not her. Not after a lifetime under his gaze.
He was the master of external intelligence. He had eyes in every province, ears in every court. If anyone could orchestrate a covert attack without leaving a trace—it would be him.
And the thought turned her stomach.
"You've returned," one of the other councilors said—a gaunt-faced woman from the internal defense branch. "Alive, and under circumstances not yet explained."
Veyra inclined her head, voice steady. "I was ambushed outside the Arathiel Pass. My retinue was slaughtered. The assassin knew my movements. Knew them too well."
"The heir of House Halvarin, ambushed on a sanctioned diplomatic route." That was Councilor Elsha, an older Beta woman whose mouth always seemed on the edge of distaste. "Left for dead. Accompanied back by an unknown Beta—no insignia, no title. A lone traveler."
"She saved my life," Veyra said evenly.
"And yet she remains unvetted," said another voice—Captain Verrin, an Alpha and military hardliner. "We've already detained her to the inner rings. If she's clean, she'll stay. If not…"
Veyra's eyes cut to him, sharp as steel. "She stays. Under my name. As my personal attendant."
That caused a few murmurs. Unusual, but not unprecedented.
Councilor Halvern raised a hand and the chamber fell still again.
"We're not here to question your right to name protection," he said mildly. "Only to understand what happened. Begin at the attack. Tell us… everything."
Veyra told them.
Of the quiet road through the low passes. Of the unnatural silence before the assault. Of the arrows laced with scent-disruption powder—rare, illegal. Of the cloaked figures bearing no crest, but trained, coordinated. Mercenary-level precision.
"They meant to finish me. Not rob me. Not ransom me. Kill."
"And yet none of them wore House marks?" Verrin pressed. "You're suggesting outsiders."
"I'm suggesting paid hands," Veyra said. "The kind who don't speak names."
Councilor Elsha folded her arms. "You've made enemies."
"I always have." Veyra let her gaze sweep the chamber. "But few who could plan this without drawing attention. Fewer still who could pay for it."
Silence followed.
Then Halvern spoke again, lightly: "You've been vocal, of late. Your resistance to the Omega reformation laws."
Veyra's shoulders stiffened.
"I have. Because it's overdue."
"And controversial," Elsha added. "Unpopular with… many."
"You think this was retaliation?"
Halvern's smile was small. "I think it's possible."
But Veyra watched him now—not just his words, but the way he folded his hands. Too calmly. Too carefully.
She'd grown up under this man's tutelage. Learned tactics from him. Flanked at his side in council debates. And yet now… something in his stillness bristled against instinct. No hint of worry. No true shock.
A ripple passed through the room. Lord Halvern finally spoke.
"We grieve the loss of your men. But accusations made in grief can be… reckless. Do you bring evidence?"
His voice was even. But his eyes narrowed.
"I bring survival," Veyra said, eyes locked to his. "And suspicion. We all know that's enough to open investigations under wartime security protocol."
Another councilor—a Beta loyalist from the legal seat—interjected, "The matter will be examined. Quietly. But we must ask again: who was with you when you returned?"
"Liora. The beta trader. She found me near death and aided my return." Veyra emphasized again, her voice more firm this time.
Murmurs followed, but Halvern did not speak to push.
He didn't need to.
His silence was a blade of its own.
It was Councilor Merovin who spoke next, voice smooth as an oiled hinge. "You have enemies, Veyra. Particularly among those who find your proposed policies on caste reform… inconvenient."
A pause, deliberate.
"You've suggested Omega conscription. Allowing them into the outer ranks. Even trade freedoms. That alone rouses ire in certain houses."
"And yet," she returned, tone steady, "that does not excuse the murder of a crown-blood heir in open wood."
"Of course not," he said, smiling faintly. "But ambition paints a target. You would do well to recall that."
From the right side, Commander Tareth cleared his throat. The Alpha's voice came low and gravelled.
"Change invites resistance," he said. "But if you stoke fire among the weak, don't be surprised when stronger hands move to smother it."
Veyra's hand curled at her side.
"I want to oversee it," she said at once. "The investigation."
"No," Halvern cut in. "You're to rest. You came back dragging your life by a thread, and we've already had enough whispers of instability in the line."
There was no kindness in his tone, only command. Still, the set of his jaw told her he had not expected to almost lose her. That small flicker of something—shock, perhaps—passed over his face like a shadow before it vanished behind duty.
Veyra inclined her head. "As you will."
But her eyes lingered on Tareth, on the smug tilt of his brow, the way he said nothing further.
She remembered then: it had been Tareth's men who oversaw the supply runners for her southern route. They'd been late, disorganized. She'd passed it off as incompetence. Perhaps there was more to it than that.
It was deep into the night when Veyra returned.
The corridor outside her chambers had fallen to silence, save for the rhythmic hush of torches crackling in sconces and the faint sigh of wind slipping past high-cut stone windows. The heat of day had long faded, leaving the air cool enough to bite through the linen bindings under her uniform.
She entered quietly.
Inside, the room was cast in muted shadow—lit only by a small oil lamp left burning near the writing desk. The golden flame danced low, throwing flickers of warm light across the shelves, the old weapons mounted neatly along the far wall, the worn boots tucked beneath the bench. Familiar. Grounding.
And there, curled like a breath held too long, lay Liora.
She'd made a nest of the cot in the corner, the same one Veyra herself had once slept on as a girl, during months of early training. Liora had pulled a thick wool blanket halfway up her side, though one leg remained curled against her chest, as if sleep had taken her mid-watch. She looked to have bathed while Veyra had been away. The navy-blue tunic hung loose across her shoulders, unmistakably one of Veyra's—frayed a little at the cuffs, patched at the hip where an old sparring match had ended poorly.
Her damp hair had dried unevenly, a pale sweep against the pillow. Her boots, as ever, were arranged with a kind of instinctive precision near the wall, her satchel folded atop them, as though she meant to leave quickly. But she hadn't. Her brow had smoothed in sleep, mouth softened, shoulders no longer braced in suspicion or wary poise.
Veyra stood still, caught by the quiet of it.
It was a rare thing—to see Liora without that thin veneer of control. She was so guarded even in her kindness, as though any moment of ease might be stolen from her if she lingered too long. But now, with the fort at rest and her own body pushed past the point of vigilance, Liora had simply… dropped her guard.
Veyra didn't speak. She crossed to the opposite side of the chamber, careful not to disturb the floorboards. The pain in her side had dulled to a constant throb, but she ignored it, lowering herself onto the narrow bench beside the hearth. She poured herself a half-glass of the cold tea the healer had given her hours earlier. It had gone bitter with time.
She drank anyway.
Her thoughts wandered back—to the chamber, to the Circle, to the man whose blood she shared and whose silence had cut deeper than any blade. Commander Tareth's face rose unbidden in her mind: calm, practiced, and unreadable.
Not enough to act. Not yet. But enough to watch.
Veyra exhaled slowly, placing the glass aside. Then she leaned her head back against the stone wall behind her and closed her eyes—not to sleep, not yet. Just to rest. Just long enough to gather the edges of herself again.
Liora shifted faintly across the room, caught in some dreaming place.
Veyra didn't open her eyes at first. But the sound rooted her here, steadied her in the dark.
Then, Veyra's eyes opened again, half-lidded, drawn not to the flame nor the window, but to the stillness across the room.
Liora hadn't moved much—her breath rising slow and deep beneath the old practice tunic, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. The lamplight caught at the ends of her hair where it spilled like softened rose-gold against the grey wool of the blanket, and for the first time Veyra really looked.
It wasn't the polished, deliberate beauty of the court Alphas so prized in their arm-candy Omegas—no powdered lashes or adorned wrists, no fragrant oils meant to entice. It was something subtler. Less rehearsed. The faint curve of her jaw against the pillow, the natural shape of her mouth softened in sleep, the low rise and fall of her ribs beneath the loose fabric.
In another life, Veyra thought, she might've said Liora was the most beautiful Beta she'd ever seen. That's what she still believed her to be. And yet—
There was something else. A quiet grace no drill or discipline could teach. Even half-buried in fatigue, Liora held herself with an awareness, as though part of her refused to fully surrender to the room's safety. Her features were fine, but not fragile. Worn, but not worn down. Lived in.
Real.
And in that stillness, Veyra found herself wondering—not for the first time—how a simple trader could carry such hidden poise. Why her presence felt like a thread pulled taut, whispering of something unseen.
It wasn't scent. Not exactly. Not anything she could name. Just a feeling. An instinct that stirred quietly, watching her from beneath closed lashes.
Her thoughts would not still. They shifted back.
The gate.
The scent-testing checkpoint.
Liora's silence had stretched taut in that moment, her posture rigid, her eyes fixed forward like a prisoner walking the edge of a blade. Not defiant. Not proud. Afraid.
Veyra had seen it. The subtle twitch of her fingers at her side, the way her breath had drawn shallow, her gaze refusing to meet the guard's. And so she had stepped in.
It had been instinct more than strategy. But now, in hindsight, she recognized it as a shield thrown too quickly. An action driven by something deeper. Something she hadn't dared name.
Because there was only one reason a person might fear the scent-test so acutely. One reason to dread being identified.
Not a fugitive. Not a thief.
An Omega.
And if Liora was hiding that truth—if she had been all this time—then every word, every breath, every glance between them since the woodline took on new meaning.
Veyra's brow furrowed as she looked toward the low rise and fall of the woman's sleeping form.
Omegas were rare. Controlled. Monitored. Conditioned to serve a role in society she herself had never agreed with. Liora had moved through the world as though it would devour her if she stepped too loudly. And yet—she'd fought to survive. Not begged. Not clung. Fought. Quietly. Fiercely.
If the truth of her nature lay buried beneath layers of fear and suppressant, then that truth had never tamed her. Never broken her.
Veyra didn't move. She only watched her for a moment longer and let the thought settle in her chest like coals beneath ash.
If Liora truly was an Omega, then she was also the most defiant one she had ever met.
And Veyra… didn't know if the thought unsettled her more—or if, in some quiet place within herself, it filled her with something closer to awe.
She turned her gaze to the dying fire, letting the silence stretch once more. There would be time. For answers. For reckoning.
But not tonight.
Tonight, she would let the storm sleep a little longer.
Veyra's fingers curled loosely on her knee, the ache in her side throbbing in slow pulses. She turned her gaze away at last and leaned her head back again, exhaling in the hush.