CHAPTER 408: BENER AND THE TEMPTRESS

The wind that swept through the shattered windows of Marquina Manor carried the scent of blood. The banners had changed—Estalian blue torn down and replaced with the golden eagle of the North—but Carles was still holding its breath. Smoke lingered in alleyways. Blood had not yet dried on the stones.

In Bener’s bedroom—one of the few rooms not desecrated by the Zurans and Estalians—he stood by the window, his armor unstrapped, a goblet in hand, though he’d not drunk from it. His mind was still on the battle: the way Merlin had risen in the chaos, the crack of Aldrin’s armor splitting under Odin’s final blow, and the silence that followed. A silence louder than war.

"I must say," came a voice behind him, velvet-soft and edged like silk over steel, "you Northems clean up rather well—once the blood’s washed off."

He turned. "You..."

Briella.

She leaned against the carved doorway as though she still owned the place, her silhouette framed in the amber glow of the morning sun. Draped in a dress of deep crimson that clung to her like a lover’s grip, she looked like a figure out of a painting—dangerous, decadent, and utterly at ease. Her black curls cascaded over one shoulder, and a chain of rubies caught the light at her throat, glowing like drops of fresh blood.

"You shouldn’t be here," Bener said, his tone even. "Estalian collaborators were ordered to report to the town square for questioning."

"’Collaborator’ is such a heavy word," she murmured, stepping into the room with the grace of a cat. "I prefer... survivor."

His hand tightened on the goblet. The guards stationed outside tensed but made no move. She was unarmed, after all. Or appeared to be.

The door to his bedroom closed.

"I’ve come to offer congratulations," Briella said, circling slowly toward the table between them. Her fingers traced the edge of the goblet he had set down, her nails painted the color of dried wine. "And perhaps... a gesture of good faith."

He said nothing. He watched her with narrowed eyes and he waited.

"Carles is yours now," she said. "But it’s been infiltrated by spies from both Zura and Estalis. You need allies. Nobles who know the old bloodlines. The merchant factions. I can help." She moved closer. "I can be... useful."

Bener chuckled once, low and humorless.

Briella stepped in until only inches separated them, her fingers brushing his wrist with featherlight precision. Her perfume—intoxicating, sweet and spiced—drifted into his senses, too thick, too heady. His vision flickered. His skin flushed.

He took a step back.

"I don’t make alliances with snakes, Briella. Or with women who use men like stepping stones to claw their way upward."

She smiled sweetly, though her eyes glinted with something darker. "Such cruel words, my dear. You fought like a lion. Surely even lions need warmth when the battle is done."

There was no mistaking the intent in her eyes—simmering heat, slow-burning desire, or maybe just cold calculation masked as it. Bener had seen enough court intrigue to know the difference.

Her lips moved closer to his ear. Her breath was warm—and wrong. There was something in her scent, something cloying and unnatural. Beneath the sweetness, it reeked of something unmistakable, of something that could ruin him.

Bener’s heart pounded. His vision blurred at the edges. He shook his head hard, trying to banish the fog creeping over his mind.

"What did you do to me?" he growled.

Briella’s eyes gleamed with wicked satisfaction.

"Something I should have done long ago," she said softly, approaching again, her hips swaying with exaggerated elegance.

His hand went to the dagger at his thigh—but before he could draw blood to shock himself back to clarity, something snapped. A thin, silk-like cord coiled around his arms, pinning them tightly to his sides.

A whip.

Briella did not pull the whip but she continued advancing to Bener with deliberate slowness, until she came face to face with him. Bener’s breath was ragged. Still, he turned his face from her, resisting the touch of her fingers as they trailed along his cheek.

"Oh, Bener," she murmured. "Don’t you miss me? You used to."

He lashed out with his knees, kicking her thigh. She stumbled and fell, the whip slackening its hold.

"You... you kicked me?" she gasped, voice shrill with disbelief.

"You...how could you kick a woman?"

His body faltered. His knees hit the floor. His limbs were sluggish. His thoughts were flickering like dying embers.

"Guards!" he managed to shout, but the heavy door remained shut. No one heard.

Briella stood from where she had fallen. Her eyes were now radiating hatred. "I’ll ruin you, Bener. If I can’t have you, then nobody can."

From her bodice, she drew a small velvet pouch. Before Bener could react, she hurled it at his face. A fine, white powder exploded into the air.

Bener staggered back. He turned his head, closed his eyes, held his breath—but only for a moment. His lungs betrayed him. The powder burned its way down.

"I wonder," Briella said with a smile, "what the world will say when they find the great General Bener Norse... drugged, and found atop a noblewoman’s torn dress?"

Bener slashed his arm, and the pain kept him grounded. He could not lose consciousness. No, not now. His grip tightened on the dagger. If Briella came close, he would just stab her.

"What great control you have, Bener. I can’t believe you lasted this long. I really admire you." Briella sashayed towards him, her hips swaying exaggeratedly.

When she was close enough, Bener crumpled to the floor, and the knife slid from his grip.

Briella chuckled and kicked it away. But before she could do anything, the door opened.

And with it came a silence so absolute, it stole the air from the room.

A woman stepped inside—not a guard, not a soldier.

She was clothed simply in flowing grey silks, her hood pulled back to reveal a face that didn’t belong in the ruins of war. Pale as morning light, with hazel eyes—that looked golden because of the sunlight streaming through the window. She looked young, dressed as a servant, but she carried a grace and poise not belonging to a servant.

"You dare enter unbidden?" Briella snapped. "You—worthless thing!"

The woman ignored her. Her gaze swept to Bener, crumpled against the bedpost.

"You’re about to make a mistake, My Lady," she said quietly. "If you don’t leave now, this will be your ruin."

Briella’s rage erupted. "You insolent brat! If not for me, you’d have been ruined in that alley two years ago!"

"And for that," the woman replied softly, "I have served you faithfully for two years. But I will not let you destroy yourself here. It is also because I am indebted to you that I want to save you." The servant kept her head down all the time.

She stepped forward, handed Briella a folded servant’s dress.

"There’s a carriage waiting at the southern alley. Put this on, now, My Lady."

"You’re not coming with me?" Briella asked, stunned. She needed a servant who was as loyal as a dog.

"If I come, My Lady, they will look for the person who harmed him. I will pretend to be the one to buy you time."

Briella hesitated. Then turned her last glance to Bener. Whatever hope she had of chaining him to her was gone. Without a word, she slipped into the servant’s garb and fled into the dusk.

The woman closed the door behind her and left in a hurry.

The servant knelt beside Bener, helping him sit up, then guided him carefully onto the bed. Her hands were gentle but strong—stronger than they had any right to be. From beneath her tunic, she withdrew a small vial and tipped it into his mouth, lifting the jug from the table to wash it down.

The antidote stung like fire.

He coughed, blinking as the fog began to clear.

As she turned to go, his hand caught her wrist.

"Who are you? What did you feed me?" Bener said in a hoarse voice. He was already conscious when the woman fed him medicine. He was still feeling awful. Did Briella poison him?

"An antidote, Sir," she whispered. "Nothing more."

"Lift your head and look at me," he said. His voice, though rough, held command.

She turned—and their eyes met.

He expected fear or meekness. But he saw the most attractive eyes in Northem. It stole the breath from his lungs.

Her eyes were a rare blend of green and gold, fierce and calm all at once. Not eyes born from servitude, but something mysterious, something royal.

"And your name?" he asked, his voice suddenly softer.

She hesitated.

Then, almost too soft to hear, she said:

"Shaya"

...

A/N: I dedicate this Chapter to my top fan, Shay4496. Thank you for giving me so many of your Golden Tickets in the past months. This new side character is named after you.