Chapter 11 · Pre-Ball Bloodbath

"Still wearing my jewelry, I see." Silas’s voice was a low vibration against the shell of my ear. "I didn't realize you were so fond of the leash."

I didn't flinch. Couldn't. He had me pinned against the cold marble of the dressing room vanity, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping the mana-dampening cuff on my wrist. The metal bit into my skin—a freezing reminder that my System was screaming behind a locked door.

"It's tight," I snapped, wrenching my arm. "And your breath smells like old parchment and secrets. Back off."

Silas chuckled. It didn't reach his eyes. He leaned in closer, chest nearly touching my shoulder. I could smell the sharp, metallic scent of Inquisitor’s ink and something darker. Ozone. Like the air right before a storm.

"You're remarkably bold for someone who could be in the Iron Spire by sunrise," he murmured. "Tell me, Alice. Does the fear not hit you? Or are you just that good at lying to yourself?"

"I'm not lying. I'm calculating." I met his gaze. His eyes were obsidian shards, weighing me, measuring exactly how much I was willing to bleed for revenge. "You want the vault.