CHAPTER 214: THREATS

"She’s a walking disaster," Isolde continued, watching Mira’s reactions with satisfaction, feeding on her fear.

"That power inside her is poison. Every time she uses her magic, every time she lets that fire rise, it damages her core further. Cracks it, weakens it, brings her closer to the moment when it all comes apart."

"You’re lying," Mira whispered, but doubt crept into her voice, memories surfacing unbidden.

"Am I?" Isolde’s smile widened.

Mira thought about it indeed. The episodes she had witnessed. The very few moments when Eris lost control, when the fire came without her calling it, when she burned too hot and couldn’t bring the temperature down. The times Eris collapsed after using too much magic.

No. No, that couldn’t be true. Eris was strong, powerful, in control. She’d survived so much, overcome so many obstacles. She couldn’t be falling apart. She couldn’t be,

But Mira remembered. Gods help her, she remembered.

The incident at the temple ruins, when Eris had lost consciousness. She’d caught a glimpse of Eris as Soren took her away. The cracks that formed on her skin, glowing from within like she was being consumed by internal fire.

The episodes back in Solmire, before they’d come north, when Eris would lock herself in her chambers for days and emerge looking haggard, exhausted, as though she’d been fighting a war inside her own skin.

"I can see it in your eyes," Isolde murmured, reading Mira’s expression with cruel accuracy. "You know I’m right. You’ve seen the signs, haven’t you? Watched her struggle. Wondered why she seems to be getting worse instead of better despite all the power she wields."

"Stop," Mira pleaded, tears flowing freely now. "Please stop."

"Pathetic," Isolde spat, shoving Mira harder against the wall. "Both of you. Her for pretending she’s in control when she’s one bad day away from exploding like a supernova, and you for being blind enough to believe her performance."

She released Mira’s throat only to grab her bruised arm again, squeezing the already-tender flesh until Mira whimpered with pain. "Your mistress is dying, little rat. Slowly, painfully, inevitably. That thing inside her that she houses, it’s burning her up from the inside. And there’s nothing she can do about it. Nothing anyone can do."

"You’re lying," Mira said again, but it sounded hollow even to her own ears.

"Am I?" Isolde’s face was close enough that Mira could see the calculation in her eyes, the cold satisfaction of someone twisting a blade in a wound.

"Ask yourself why she came to Nevareth in the first place. Not for love, the Emperor was a stranger to her. Not for power, she already had that in Solmire. She came because she’s running out of time, and she’s desperate enough to try anything, even marrying a man she doesn’t know in an empire that hates her."

The words struck like physical blows, each one finding a mark In Mira’s worst fears, her deepest anxieties about Eris’s true motives and condition.

"Now," Isolde said, her voice hardening into command, "you’re going to keep your mouth shut about this conversation. You won’t tell your mistress that I touched you. You won’t mention what I’ve said. You’ll go about your duties like nothing happened."

"Why would I... "

"Because," Isolde interrupted, her smile turning predatory, "if you say one word to anyone, to her, to the Emperor, to any of the palace staff, I’ll make sure everyone knows about her condition. I’ll expose her secret to the entire court. The nobles, the common people, the foreign dignitaries. Everyone will know that the future Empress is a monster ready to destroy the capital."

She released Mira suddenly, stepping back and smoothing down her gown with practiced movements, erasing all evidence of the violence that had just occurred.

"And when panic spreads, when people demand the Emperor remove the threat from their midst, your precious mistress will lose everything. Her position, her marriage, possibly her life. All because you couldn’t keep quiet."

Mira slid down the wall, her legs no longer able to support her weight. She clutched her bruised arm, feeling the distinct shape of Isolde’s fingers already forming in darkening marks against her skin.

Tears streamed down her face, her cheeks burning from the repeated slaps, her throat aching where Isolde had gripped it.

But worse than the physical pain was the terror that had taken root in her chest, fear not for herself, but for Eris.

Fear that everything Isolde had said might be true, that her mistress was suffering in ways Mira hadn’t fully understood, that time was running out faster than anyone realized.

"I won’t tell her," Mira whispered, the words torn from her throat by desperation and dread. "I promise. I won’t say anything."

"Good girl." Isolde’s voice was almost gentle now, a mockery of kindness. "Now clean yourself up. Compose yourself. We wouldn’t want your mistress asking uncomfortable questions about why you look like you’ve been crying, would we?"

She turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing through the corridor, leaving Mira crumpled on the floor like discarded refuse.

For several minutes, Mira simply sat there, shaking, trying to process what had just happened. Her face throbbed where Isolde had struck her repeatedly. Her arm ached from bruising grip. Her throat felt raw.

But worse than any physical injury was the poison Isolde had planted in her mind, doubts and fears about Eris’s condition, terrible possibilities she couldn’t unsee now that they’d been named.

Slowly, painfully, Mira pushed herself to her feet. She gathered the scattered linens with trembling hands, folding them carefully despite the tears that continued to fall. She couldn’t go to Eris like this. Couldn’t let her mistress see her in this state, couldn’t risk the questions that would follow.

And she couldn’t tell the truth. Not if it meant exposing Eris’s secrets, putting her in even more danger than she apparently already faced.

So Mira did what servants had done since time immemorial when caught between impossible choices: she swallowed her pain, hid her injuries as best she could, and resolved to carry her burden in silence.

Even if that silence might destroy them both.

She made her way to the washing room first, splashing cold water on her face to reduce the swelling, pressing damp cloths to her burning cheeks. The bruise on her arm would be harder to hide, but she could wear long sleeves, claim she’d bumped into something in the dim corridors.

The lies came easily, born of necessity and fear.

But as she finally made her way to Eris’s chambers, fresh linens in hand and her face carefully composed, Mira couldn’t stop the thoughts from circling back to Isolde’s words.

And the most terrifying thought of all: what if it was true?