The art of braiding Nyxvalis hair was not as simple as it appeared. Its silk texture was the least of it. Every strand carried current. The energy that flowed from the Wells expressed itself through hair as surely as through flesh and bone. It did not weaken, fall loose, or dull with age. And it would not hold shape simply because a knot had been tied tighter than the last. One needed to understand current—how it manifested, how to guide it into stillness. Only then would the braids hold.
Of the few Nyxvalis who had mastered the ceremonial craft, Violet was among the even fewer who had learned it herself rather than acquiring someone who could. Pointless, some said. Not to her.
Her fingers moved through each silver strand with practiced quiet. The room's silence did nothing to quiet the noise in her head. He showed no interest in beginning whatever conversation he'd kept her here for.
So she did. Why, she wasn't entirely sure.
"The Exodus," she said. "What clarification were you after?"
His head turned—not enough to be an answer. Just enough to confirm she had his attention.
"Your Envoy's Commission," he said. "Where have you been assigned?"
Her brow twitched. She was a breath away from telling him that was none of his concern when something slipped from his cloak and landed in her lap.
A folded square of midnight parchment. A Commission seal pressed into the corner.
She went still.
You're not—
"I've been sent South," he said, before the thought could finish itself. "I won't be around for a while."
She unfolded it. Scanned it once. A single conclusion settled in her chest, quiet and certain.
He's been sent to die.
She didn't let it reach her face.
"And?" she said.
His head tilted slightly. She pulled a section taut—more than strictly necessary.
"You need my help, or something."
"No." A beat. "You do."
She paused mid-braid. "…Pardon."
"My advice about your flock," he said. "Do you remember it?"
"I remember." Suspicion threaded through every syllable.
"I doubt I was the only one who noted the flaw, don't you agree?"
Something in her pulse went quiet. Not dread, exactly. The particular stillness of realising you'd left a door unlocked.
She said nothing.
"Find out where they've been assigned," he continued. "And do what's necessary."
Her fingers slowed. She turned the words over, set them down, picked them up again.
Friendly advice…
Concern, maybe…
No.
A bargaining chip. Without doubt.
How profoundly irritating.
"What's your price?"
The crooked smile arrived almost on cue.
She understands me so perfectly.
"Later," he said softly. "Let us be through with this ordeal first."
Her lips pressed together. The sneer she almost formed didn't quite make it. Her fingers compensated with a sharp, procedurally justified yank.
---
Just like that, the chamber returned to silence.
Not even the occasional sidelong glance or a pull a shade too forceful could crack him. He simply sat, unhurried, as though the quiet were something he had furnished himself.
She let it run its course until she couldn't bear it.
"Why did you ask me to do your hair?"
Her voice came out softer than she intended.
A beat.
"How did you even know I could?"
His head tilted slightly. She expected nothing, and received something close to it.
"I have no servants." His eyes tracked briefly upward—not quite to her face. "And you just… seemed the type."
"Seemed the type," she repeated flatly, fastening one of the chains into place. "What is that supposed to mean?"
He hesitated. Did not appear eager to clarify.
"Hm," she said, fingers continuing their work, coaxing the silence rather than pushing it.
His eyes caught hers briefly.
Why not. This might well be his last real conversation either way.
"You just seem like the type who can't survive on their own."
The frown arrived instantly, followed by a pull at his roots entirely disproportionate to the situation.
"I've managed just fine." A beat. "And what does that have to do with my question?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Her frown deepened. "If you didn't want to talk, just say so. No need to deflect."
"I wasn't talking about the clan's kind of survival." A pause. "The more difficult kind." Another. "The lovers' kind. I assumed you'd learned the craft for such."
Her hands went still.
The embarrassment was immediate, total, and deeply unfair.
Isn't she something.
"Nonsense," she muttered, resuming with studied composure. "Forget it."
Another bead slid into place. He tilted his head away slightly—granting her the dignity of a few seconds.
Then—"But would you?"
Her brow twitched. "Would I what."
"Do this for your lover."
Her fingers stiffened.
"…Depends."
"On?"
"On whether I like them or not."
A brief pause. "If you like them—doesn't that somewhat contradict the being-lovers part?"
She released the strand she'd been holding, tapping lightly against her chin. "Not if you look at it from my position." She resumed working. "I'm Nyxvalis. I'm also female. I can't petition for a Noctis, or draw some vassal into my orbit, without two thousand whispers of a hostage situation or worse." A pause. "You see my point."
He glanced sideways. "Not quite. You learned the skill, did you not?"
She sighed. Then spoke plainly.
"If he understands my position, respects it—and is capable of giving me an heir, should I ever decide I want one—that's sufficient." A faint, distant note entered her voice. "I don't have to like them to perform intimacy."
He simply looked at her. Said nothing.
The silence stretched.
"What about you, then?"
"What about me."
"Is there a lover somewhere behind all…" She paused, scanning him with something approaching scholarly precision, searching for the right word. None arrived. "…all that?"
His gaze drifted. "Don't you think that's quite irrelevant in my case?"
"Not relevant?"
"I'm twelve years old."
She gasped. He felt her grip tighten considerably.
"Bastard."
"Kindly calm yourself, Violet."
The grip eased. Marginally.
"I've simply never had the time, nor had reason to think about it. I was raised under the Wing. The First Wing. Old men. Occupied scholars. No peers. No one my age." He paused. "When I entered the academy, I was placed directly into the upper classes."
Another pause.
"Not that I could have gotten along with the other ten-year-olds either way."
A breath.
"And I'm quite certain you can conclude the kind of regard the upperclassmen held for me."