Private Tales Poisoned Words For the Heart

[Greydon]

After the attack on Thanasis, while the people tasked themselves with the restoration of the city and their livelihoods, the Thunder held many meetings that spanned over days. Whispers and rumours spread, until every member was summoned to the plateau before the Wall. From there, everyone listened to the new plans put together to protect their city. Protect the history and the lives they all had here. Patrols would take place in new routes and for extended periods to mark out where their enemies thought themselves safe beyond the borderlands.

Greydon was amongst the selected.

He was to lead a team, hand selected for his participation in the Defence of the Hatchery. Grey took on this new leadership role with a grimace. Squad Leader wasn't always a dream of his, but he had to admit that he was good at it. That, or his squad had that rare sense of cooperation to make things run smoothly.

They were to go out on patrol on the morrow. Their first outing, and whilst the dragons went out hunting, the riders holed up at Rosita's for a drink. They were loud, they were rowdy, but Grey watched his squad enjoy themselves while he kept to his seat, in the corner where no one had noticed him the past few minutes. He could not shake the dread, for there were too many things going on that called for his focus.

There were plots being carried out within his Mother's family's House, that he shared blood with the Malennis' had always felt like a weak spot in his armour. He hadn't wanted anything to do with them until a Moon Dragon recognised his blood and bonded with him. He hadn't felt like protecting anyone other than his mother until his cousin, Eira, took him in and formed a familial alliance with her. She protected him and his mother, and for that, Grey had sworn loyalty to her. Leaving Thanasis now felt... wrong.

Going after the Jarlax in their territories felt wrong... but the anger the city and Thunder felt from that attack a month ago...

He watched his squad. He watched them laugh and smile, singing drunken tunes with the equally drunken band.

Why must he bear the weight of everything?

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen stepped into the tavern with purpose, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind her. The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Conversations dipped, eyes flicked toward her. In her sage-green and gold attire, pristine and unmistakably noble, she looked entirely out of place. But she paid the stares no mind.

Her eyes swept the room until they landed on the man she'd been searching for.

Ivan was slumped at the bar, shoulders hunched, clutching an empty tumbler like it was a lifeline. The sight of him, unkempt, bruised, already too far gone, drew a quiet curse from her lips. She moved through the crowd, her stride brisk and unflinching, a current parting the sea of bodies.

The barkeep had just reached for the bottle when Ivan slammed his glass against the counter twice, impatient and insistent.

Imogen’s hand landed firmly atop it before the amber liquid could flow. Firewater, really? She fixed the old man with a look that brooked no argument.

“I think he’s had quite enough,” she said, voice smooth but edged like glass.

Ivan’s head snapped up. A fresh bruise bloomed beneath one eye, purple and swollen.

“No, I fucking haven’t,” he snarled, words slurred. “When did you become my mother?” His grin was crooked and mean, the kind he wore when he wanted to wound.

“When you stopped acting like someone who could take care of himself,” she replied coolly. “Now get up. We’re going home.”

She reached for his arm, intent on guiding him gently away. He responded with a shove that sent her stumbling back into a table. Glass toppled, drinks crashed to the floor, and a hush fell over the room like a dropped curtain.

“Clumsy me,” she muttered dryly, regaining her balance with practiced dignity. She pulled a few coins from her purse, placing them on the splintered table, enough for the drinks and extra for the inconvenience.

She turned back to him, voice lower now but no less cutting.

“Ivan, you’re drawing attention. Our family does not draw attention.”

He laughed, cold and bitter. “Our family? You mean you and me?”

“I’m sorry if that’s not enough for you,” she snapped, the strain beginning to crack through her control. “Perhaps if you pulled yourself together, you could manage a decent wife and a couple of children. But right now? You need to stop this.”

Her jaw clenched. Her voice dropped.

“Do you think I don’t grieve?” The words landed heavy. “Stop being a selfish prick and leaving me to deal with this alo—”

His hand struck before the sentence could finish.

The back of it cracked against her cheekbone with a sound that silenced the entire room. Her breath hitched as her head snapped to the side. Pain flared sharp and immediate. She brought a hand to her face, already feeling the swelling rise beneath her fingers. Her eyes shimmered, but she refused to let the tears fall. He would hate himself for it, she knew that, and she would not play the victim and give him such satisfaction.

Around them, chairs scraped back. A few men stood, fists clenched, ready to intervene. Chivalry...

Ivan’s expression twisted with instant regret. “Fuck.. Gen, I’m—”

She didn’t let him finish. Her fist flew, sharp and practiced, and broke his nose with a sickening crunch.

Ivan reeled, stumbling into the bar as blood poured down his face, his stunned apology lost to the roar of pain. The tavern remained frozen, all eyes on the siblings, one bleeding, the other unshaken.

Imogen shook out her hand, exhaling slowly, her voice calm.

“Now,” she said, brushing back a stray tress of silvery hair with trembling fingers, “we’re going home.”

 

[Greydon]

Greydon was on his feet, but not to go to her defence, but to pull back men and women he knew that were rushing to defend her.

"Stand down!" His voice was every bit of authority. It commanded, louder than the shouts and yells when they all witnessed what just happened. Greydon shoved to the front, hands gripping Ivan Celreos to help him stand steadily.

His dark eyes scanned the man's face, impressed by the clean break. "Balinska." Cutting his gaze across the tavern, he locked eyes with a woman. She had been a medic before joining the Thunder, her expertise an advantage on any squad. "Take our friend to get cleaned up."

Balinska put down her drink, and thankfully did not stumble as she made her way over. Two more from his squad followed, holding the weight of the Celreos man between them as they left.

Grey looked to her.

He had been there at the funeral. Only a small party had been invited, and wherever Eira went in public, so did he. His cousin had shared her sympathies with glistening eyes, for she too knew the pain of watching a loved one pass in battle.

The entire time, Greydon had watched her.

"Imogen." He didn't close the distance. "You need to put something cold on that."

"I've got you, love." Rosita offered a damp cloth, cool from being wrapped around ice. Sooner or later, someone was going to hit their head from falling over.

Greydon, gestured outside, walking out so that they wouldn't have witnesses. Down the street, his squad members were assisting the brother, taking him to the nearest barracks in order to give medical treatment.

"Not much will keep you down." He said once he joined her. Pulling out a raesi root, he held one end to the sconce above their heads, tall enough to reach. He let it get smokey before blowing out the small flame and blew on the embers that clung there. The root was then placed between his lips, resting there so that the smoke would lift to his nose and he took a deep inhale.

It was a good way to relieve his chaotic mind. His squad drank and became merry, Greydon liked to keep to himself and smoke a root.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen winced as the blood spilled. Bright, fast, and all too familiar. It was the third time she’d broken her brother’s nose, but the first time it had been deliberate. And still, it had always surprised her just how much blood spilled from his face. It flowed just like it had from her father's chest, from his lips, pooling and gushing, never-ending. So much blood.

Imogen…

Her name echoed somewhere distant, cutting through the rising tide of memory. She blinked and dragged herself back to the present, her gaze snapping toward the voice. A face she recognised, though she wasn’t sure from where, a man she didn’t know, but who clearly knew her.

She didn’t fight it. Not this time. The damage was done, the eyes were watching. She wouldn’t give them more to talk about.

She watched as Ivan was half-carried from the tavern, slumped between soldiers like a spent marionette. Her chest ached, heavy with a sorrow she didn’t have time for. She lifted her chin instead, smoothing her expression into something cool, composed. When Rosita offered the cloth, she accepted it with a quiet, “Thank you.."

Her gaze followed Greydon as he moved to the door, and when he gestured, she followed without protest—anything to be free of the tavern’s stares and whispers.

Outside, she slipped into the shadow of a stone archway and leaned against it, wincing as the cold cloth stung against the swelling on her cheek. Greydon’s voice met her with a dry observation, and she let out a humourless laugh, short and sharp.

“My brother’s been giving it his best shot lately.”

Her eyes followed his movements as he lit the root, watching the lazy curl of smoke rise between them. Her brow arched slightly, but she didn’t comment.

Instead, she studied him for a quiet moment before speaking again, her voice more level now.

“You’re Eira’s cousin,” she realised quietly.

 

[Greydon]

Greydon looked to her with a lazy smile. "Forget about me, did you?"

But he knew there was no harm in it. He liked that he was not memorable, but her remembering his connection to Eira was a start.

He held out the root for her. "Something to take off the edge? Your brother got you good." It would bruise, despite the cold compression. The raesi root was good for many distractions. Greydon joined her in the shadows, blending in just like a Moon Dragon did in the natural elements.

"Greydon Tomyris. Squad Leader of the Second Talon." Not a Malennis. At least in name. It was important she knew his name. For everyone to know.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen’s brow arched with dry amusement. “If I'd forgotten about you, I wouldn’t know you’re Eira’s cousin,” she shot back smartly, the corner of her mouth twitching in subtle challenge.

Her gaze dropped to the root he offered, watching the smoke curl from its tip. She hesitated just a breath before lifting her eyes to meet his and taking it from his fingers. “Well,” she murmured, glancing down at her bloodied knuckles with a quiet sigh, “I got him better.”

She pressed the root to her lips and inhaled deeply. The smoke filled her lungs like fog rolling into a valley, heady and bitter. She held it for a moment before coughing into the back of her hand, her eyes watering slightly as the sharpness hit. Her head went light almost immediately, the tension beginning to peel away in slow, quiet layers.

“Squad Leader, hm?” she echoed, rolling the title across her tongue. Her lips curled faintly, but she said nothing more of it, just took another pull from the root, determined not to cough a second time. She failed.

A laugh tumbled out of her anyway, unexpected and breathless. “Consider the edge taken off,” she said wryly, handing the root back between short, fluttery breaths.

Her expression softened. “Thank you… And for seeing to my brother. He’s just…” The thought trailed off before she could find the words, her frown returning as her gaze dropped to the ground. The smoke swirled in her lungs and her mind alike, blurring the sharp edges of her grief.

“Fuck,” she muttered, swaying slightly. “That’s strong stuff.”

 

[Greydon]

A small laugh was loosed past his lips, a hand moving before he himself thought better and held her elbow to help keep her up. "It's better to inhale from the nose, it actually hits you slower that way." He was grinning, as he always did whenever someone tries raesi root without prior experience.

"Oh, but you did forget about me. You recognised me before it all clicked for you, darling."

Raesi was a slow hitting substance when he enjoyed it, but he had been taking drags of it all night. There was no need to be weighed down with anticipation for the morning, but drinking was not his cup of poison.

"Eira respects your family. If I didn't go out of my way to help you, she'd have my neck for it. Favourite cousin and all..." Greydon dropped his hand to take back the root. What had been pressed between her lips now touched his again. "I watched her after... what happened to her father."

There it was. That weight. He inhaled the smoke deeply, held ot a moment, then exhaled the smoke through his mouth. He aimed for above Imogen's head, as if he were a dragon too.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen’s brows shot up, her expression cutting sharp as the word darling slid from his mouth. The audacity. Her lips twitched. “Well, then clearly you need to work on becoming more memorable, sweetheart,” she fired back, the mock-endearment dripping with cheek as she flicked him a sideways glance.

She pulled the cloth from her cheek and pressed it to her knuckles instead, a soft hiss escaping her as the sting set in. Still, her expression softened as Greydon spoke of Eira, and she couldn’t help the fond smile that curved on her lips.

But when he declared himself the favourite cousin, Imogen straight up snorted, the sound inelegant and genuine. Her face scrunched with the ache of the smile, her root-induced laughter breaking through the haze. “That’s not much to brag about,” she said with a wry smirk. “It’s not exactly an elite list she has to choose from, is it?”

Her head tipped back to rest against the stone behind her, a long breath drawn in as the floating sensation settled through her bones. Light. Quiet.

But as Greydon spoke of Eira’s father, the weight returned. Not crashing, but quiet and certain, like a tide she couldn't stop. Imogen’s smile faded. Her gaze dimmed, glassed with unshed memory, and she stared at nothing for a moment too long.

A soft noise from above drew her gaze upward, a low, rhythmic churr that she recognised instantly.

Vaelith.

The sleek, six legged dragon had slithered onto the tavern roof with the kind of silence only something ancient and dangerous could manage. Now he peered down, head tilted, golden eyes fixed on Greydon with pointed scrutiny.

Imogen arched a brow, the corners of her mouth twitching. "I think he heard you call me darling," she murmured dryly.

 

[Greydon]

He craned his neck to follow her line of sight, spotting her dragon. Greydon smile. "He knows I don't say it often. Hells, it could be the last time I say it."

Grey inhaled the raesi root through his mouth, leaning against a wall Imogen hadn't taken up. That thought had sobered him up faster than anything, undoing the work he had slowly been accumulating smoking the root. "We fly out tomorrow. Taking the offensive and attacking the Jarlax... half the time I wonder if I became Squad Leader so that it ensures I am to go out and di—"

He caught himself. He took a moment of silence before exhaling the root smoke through his nostrils. "I hate to leave her here. You're a friend of Eira's, are you not? You would know of the animosity in that family." Greydon looked up at the dragon again, his face clean of any attempts of keeping his face void of emotion. "I can say I am her favourite cousin when our other cousins have made attempts on her life simply because a Moon Dragon chose her." Eira was more like the sister he never had. How strong of a woman she was now was because of the family she was born into and raised to be calculating. Even with the death of her father and the colossal loss of Moon Dragons on that eclipse, his cousin showed just how much strength she had in order to lead House Malennis.

What she could do as a Solherre too...

"You... should go." His head remained still but his dark gaze flicked to her, the torchlight catching them and they glistened with it's reflection. "See to your brother if you must. The barracks are just down this street."

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen watched him as he spoke, her brow tightening ever so slightly with each word. He thought he might die. And maybe he would. The recent attack on the city had rattled her in ways she hadn’t admitted aloud. For the first time in her life, she had known helplessness. Real, gut-wrenching helplessness. She had accepted her own death.

The Jarlax were not like the squabbling lords of court or the petty, political games she'd mastered. The attack had proven that. Had burned the truth into her bones. She had never felt so useless, so unmade. She was rebuilding now, one piece at a time, but the weight of that fear still lingered behind her ribs.

She was getting over it, of course. What other choice did she have? But she knew the weight that sat behind Greydon’s voice now. The fear that lived behind casual words and easy smiles.

So when he told her to go, her answer came softly, with a touch of laughter curling at the edge.

"Don't tell me what to do," she said, a note of amused defiance in her voice. Her eyes met his, steady in the flickering torchlight. "Besides, I’ve no interest in seeing my brother right now. Let him sleep it off."

She stepped closer. Too close. Close enough for tension to spark in the air between them, for breath to mingle. For a moment, it might’ve seemed she was going to kiss him, a shadow of something unspoken hanging between their proximity.

But then she plucked the root from his hand with a mischievous little smirk, brought it to her lips, and drew in deeply, her gaze still fixed on him. She held the smoke a moment, then exhaled upward, eyes glinting.

“Don’t die, Greydon Tomyris. I’d hate to go to the trouble of remembering your name just to forget it again.”