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.”

 

[Greydon]

The moment Imogen stepped up close to him, Greydon froze. She stayed there a moment, long enough for him to wonder if she was hesitating to do something to him. Gods knew he wasn't one for such affections, having pushed away plenty of women in the past simply because he had no true interest. He didn't move when Imogen leaned in, a hand raising towards his face.

But she stole the root from him. It had been smoking between his thumb and forefinger at his chest, forgotten, until she claimed it and gave him that smile that lured him in.

Greydon's face turned amused. He was leaning down, playing a game he did not know if there were rules to. His hand caught her own, bringing the held root to his lips and took a drag. "You will remember, darling." Smoke blew out from his mouth slowly, the tendrils dancing in the space between them as he ducked away from the small alcove they sheltered in. Now, he was stood out in the lamplight that guided patrons into the pub.

"I'll promise to haunt you."

---

He was alive, and barely at that.

It had taken three days of siege before his squad could find cover to retreat. Only three made it out alive.

Well, two now.

Greydon stood beside Mallory, three feet between them as they lingered by the pyre that burned in dragon fire. "He made it home, Mal."

"He died." The young rider's voice was hard, even if her face was vacant as fire reflected in her brown eyes.

"You got him home with enough time for his family to prepare for his death. He got time with them before..." But she wasn't listening anymore. Even if he were her superior, she had spent the last two days ignoring his talk of sense. He left her there, turned to return to the base camp just outside the city.

Greydon came to a stop, turning back to his only surviving member of his squad. He had thought this a failure when the ability to retreat came. That if there had been a better Squad Leader, perhaps more of them had made it out. He played it all out in his head, replayed the events and tried to decipher what would have happened if he made a different call.

Death. More death. He couldn't stop that.

Greydon watched as Mallory moved to sit cross-legged on the grass, still staring at the memorial pyre. She, like him, had thought that the pyres beyond their borders would be the last, but now they both watched the pyre for Hamish. Greydon thought it best to stay there, halfway up the hill. To take solace in the quiet, to reason with himself to not feel guilt. There was no time for it, not when his squad will be merged with another.

No... there would never be time to grieve either.

From his pocket, he rolled the raesi root between his thumb and finger. "Fuck this..." He muttered.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen didn’t speak. Her brows lifted faintly in surprise, the smallest hitch of breath at how casually he’d taken her wrist, how his lips brushed the same root she’d just smoked from as though it were nothing at all.

His words lingered longer than the smoke, curling in her mind like the tendrils that floated between them.

You will remember, darling.

Her smirk faltered just barely. A flicker of something else passed through her eyes, something caught between amusement and mild irritation.

I’ll promise to haunt you.

Her eyes narrowed on him as he stepped away from her and into the light, and she smirked as though he hadn’t just left her there with her pulse annoyingly fast and her thoughts just a touch scattered. She stared after him. Jaw tight. Cheek twitching.

Greydon Tomyris...

What a bloody nuisance.

---

The next few days passed like the slow drag of steel against stone, grating and inevitable. Her brother had sobered with the sort of severity that left no room for softness. The man who’d been slurring apologies one night was now silent, stiff, and relentless. He buried himself in their father's study, the scent of aged parchment and old smoke now thick with the weight of decisions made behind closed doors.

Imogen, for her part, found herself running errands, half to stay useful, half to stay away. Much to the staff and guard's protests, she wandered markets alone with aching feet and a forced smile.

It was when she returned from the tailor, the chill of dusk brushing her shoulders and a basket in her arms, that she’d knocked on the door to the study to invite Ivan to supper. Her brother looked up at her properly for the first time in days. That, she had not expected.

"We have guests visiting tomorrow," he said, calm but firm, as if it had already been decided weeks ago. "Ensure you're present. And ensure you're presentable."

Imogen’s brows rose, her gaze drifting pointedly down to the dress she wore, emerald velvet that shimmered with gold thread, cinched at the waist, her curls resting like spun silver over one shoulder. She looked every inch the daughter of House Celreos. Her lingering bruise had been hidden well beneath a dusting of powder, her lips painted like crushed cherries, her green eyes linked with coal, sharp as obsidian.

“Tell me, brother,” she said coolly, “when, other than soaked in the blood of battle, am I not presentable?”

He didn’t answer the jab. “Yes, well. Especially presentable. I need you to make an impression. A good one, Gen.”

She folded her arms, eyes narrowing. “I always make a good impression...What guests?" she added before he could answer.

Ivan’s brow lifted in a way that told her he wasn’t entirely convinced. “Father is gone, Gen. The strength of our name is in question. We are both unmarried, we have no heirs. We need to remedy that.”

The words were like cold water down her spine. Her face twisted. “Fuck off. Absolutely not. If I am to marry, I will choose who, and wh—”

“It’s not a debate, Imogen,” he said, louder now, slamming a drawer shut as he rose. “It’s what needs to be done. Do you think I’m pleased about taking a wife?”

She stared at him, this man who once tumbled drunk from rooftop to rooftop, who'd once lifted her onto his shoulders to steal plums from the neighbour’s orchard, who’d laughed with blood on his teeth during their sparring lessons. He looked like a stranger now.

“It is what we must do for the sake of our house.”

She barely managed a whisper. “Father would never have made me—”

“Father is gone. And I am not him.”

With that, he swept past her, leaving the scent of old ink and bitter ash in his wake. Imogen stood alone, trembling with fury, pulse thundering...

"Vaelith. We're going out."

 

[Greydon]

Greydon carried dread for days after.

He did not think he would see Imogen again, even if it had been over a fortnight now. In fact, he had not thought of her in a while, but as soon as the name Celreos had been spoken, his head lifted.

Eira was frowning at him. A look of concern as her brows furrowed.

"Hm?"

"I said if I am to suffer an evening with Ilir, I will have you keep me company."

Greydon groaned.

Eira shot him a look. "Can you blame me for being careful?"

That question got him. "You said Celreos?" He crossed his arms, trying to appear nonchalant.

Eira turned back to her target. Her sword arched through the air and struck the straw filled pouch. "Ilir officially wants to celebrate his union with the new Lord's family."

Greydon frowned. The family only comprising of two...

"Lord Celreos is to marry?"

"And Imogen." Eira huffed, pausing from her training. "She made sure to extend an invitation for me to invite Leovold, but he is needed in the Thunder." Sadness. As if she truly missed her betrothed.

And Greydon couldn't fathom holding affection like that for someone, especially if it was arranged.

"And you want me there?"

Eira narrowed her eyes. "Yes. You are still family whether Ilir believes it or not." And between them, they both knew what made them higher ranked within House Malennis. Their dragons were surety of their purity.

Greydon nodded, turned away, and inspected the different weapons on display. He could not believe his cousin knew how to use most of it, but such was the way of being the once heir of the Malennis' "I will be there, cousin."

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Ilir Malennis.

Of all the pompous, preening pricks in this realm, it had to be him. She didn't know him as much as she knew of him. She knew how terrible he had been to Eira, she had heard whispers of what sort of a man he was. She had begged, but her brother had had enough.

Imogen had rejected too many suitors for Ivan’s liking. Too proud. Too clever. Too unbending. She’d taken one look at a lordling’s overgrown confidence and said no before the introductions were finished. It had become a habit. And then it became a problem.

Ivan, no longer a brother but a figurehead wearing their father's title, had drawn a line. And this time, he did not waver. Guards were posted near her chambers under the guise of protection. Her outings were suddenly supervised. Her letters were read. The cage had been gilded, yes, but it was a cage all the same.

So she spent her days in her room, a thundercloud in silk, staring daggers at the door. The only one who braved her temper was Talia, her ever loyal, ever foolish handmaiden.

“He may yet be a fine husband,” Talia offered gently, her fingers weaving through Imogen’s hair as she pinned it up “He’s…handsome.”

Imogen didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. One pointed glare from the mirror was enough to make Talia’s hands falter.

In a desperate bid for neutrality, Talia brought out the gown. Silver as moonlight, embroidered with ivy and beaded with shimmering drops that caught the firelight like raindrops.. Like tears.. It was stunning. Far too stunning for this debacle.

“I’m not wearing that,” Imogen snapped, already turning to the armoire and picking out another gown. No less stunning, but..

“It’s…black, My Lady,” Talia said nervously as she eyed the gown Imogen chose, a sweeping onyx creation, severe and regal.

“I’m not colourblind, Talia. And it very much brings out the spite in my eyes and the foulness in my mood, wouldn’t you agree?” she said with venomous sweetness. “Now help me lace it. Wouldn’t want to be late…”

“You’re already late,” Talia muttered.

“Am I?” Imogen drawled with mock surprise, stepping into the dress.

She was late. Considerably. She hoped it would sour the wine, crack the pleasantries, and maybe, just maybe, offend Ilir Malennis enough to storm out and break the match himself.

But fate was never that kind.

The grand doors opened and her name echoed through the hall like a threat. All conversation dulled to a hush as attention fell on her. A whisper rose and fell like a tide. The black gown had done its job. Imogen lifted her chin, her smirk more weapon than smile.

Ivan approached with thinly veiled irritation, his gaze raking over her in exasperation. He leaned in, voice low by her ear.

“I had that silver gown made special, you know.”

“Thank you, brother, ” she replied brightly. “It’s beautiful. I’ll be sure to wear it some other time.”

He didn’t laugh. Still, he took her hand and turned her to the room like a prized possession.

“May I present my sister, Lady Imogen Celreos.”

She did not curtsy. She met Ilir’s gaze without flinching, her spine straight and defiant, the ghost of a smile on her lips. Let him know exactly what he was getting.

 

[Greydon]

Grey turned at the sound of her name gracing the tense silence that filled these walls moments ago.

He saw Eira look at him suspiciously from the corner of his eyes, but chose to not say a word as she moved forward to meet her friend. Grey watched them both, as Eira steered Imogen away the moment Ilir gave her a brief look before turning back to Ivan to discuss... Lordly duties.

He stiffened, realising Eira was returning back to where he stood.

"My lady." He bowed, and offered a grim smile as he straightened.

He could not smile, even at the sight of her in such poisonous black. Silver would have done nothing favourable to her, but the black... The smile held to his lips a moment longer.

"I promise my cousin is a good man of conversation to replace the absence of my betrothed." Eira smiled, taking pride in poking fun at him. "I also hope that this dinner could keep his mind off from having to return to duty come the waning crescent night."

Greydon stared, at Imogen. Words were failing him, unsure of how to even respond to Eira's words when he had only one thing to say.

"Your dress..." He paused, exhaled and caught himself staring at the midnight work. "You look lovely, Lady Imogen." His eyes caught her own, and there, he decided, to happily drown. "Perhaps we shouldn't let your Lord brother overhear..."

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen felt the tension in her chest loosen the moment Eira’s hand curled around her arm. She let herself be steered with little resistance, only sparing Ilir the briefest flicker of a glance as he turned away, already speaking with Ivan in his dull, droning voice about matters no doubt more important than the woman he was about to marry.

“Thank you,” she murmured low enough that only Eira heard it, a rare sliver of sincerity buried in the bitterness.

But then she saw who she was steering her toward and her brows rose. A smirk tugged instantly at her lips. Of all the people she expected to endure this night with, he was the last she expected.

“Ah, the favourite cousin,” she said, a glint in her eye as she stepped forward. “Griffin, wasn’t it? I’m pleased to see you’re still in one piece.”

Her gaze dropped low and she gave an awkward, apologetic look.. "At least, from what I can see.”

So she might have had a little wine already. One cup. Or two. Possibly three. But it was her 'engagement' dinner, and she hadn’t murdered anyone yet, so all things considered, she felt entitled.

Her smile faltered briefly at Eira’s mention of his upcoming departure, but she blinked it away and glanced around with theatrical disdain. “Surely it will be a reprieve from this nonsense. Give me a room full of jarlax and rabid wyverns any day,” she snorted. “At least they don’t try to marry you.”

And then his gaze dropped to her gown, and for a moment, there was something in his expression that wasn’t mocking, wasn’t sharp or clever. It warmed her, unexpectedly. She let out a soft, breathy laugh.

"I do, don’t I?” she agreed, her voice low, wicked. “Though I’m quite sure, Gideon, that I very much look like I’m attending a funeral.”

She tilted her head. “But then again… perhaps I am.” A shrug, nonchalant and full of venomous grace.

Her eyes glittered as they met his again. “And who better to mourn with than my dear cousins to be?"

 

[Greydon]

Greydon smiled far too easily.

Her game of forgetting his name made him forget the depressive mood that he clung to in these weeks. He chuckled beside Eira, who looked between the two with recognition registering in her eyes.

"Yes, I do not know if I should rejoice that we may yet become sisters, or offer my condolences to you. Well, either way, he does not deserve you." She turned to peer at Ilir, who had given Imogen two seconds of acknowledgment before ignoring her to speak with another Lord. Eira had told Greydon that Ilir had been hoping for a wife from a more powerful family, even willing to marry a rich daughter, but one measured whisper to an ally and the rest of the society viewed Ilir to be too power hungry.

Nobody wanted to make a wrong bet by marrying their daughter to a Lord who usurped his father's first choice.

Ilir clearly thought of the Celreos' to be lower. What a fool.

"I say, if Eira cannot be the Lady of the House, than I am glad to see someone else deserving of it to save us all. Imogen Malennis." Greydon clicked his tongue. "That poor bastard doesn't know what he is in for."

Because he knew Imogen based off the one meeting prior. She remembered his name, and he wanted her to say it. She was a woman that knew her strength, that did not yield so easily.

Grey looked to Eira. When she turned to him, catching his movement, unspoken words exchanged between them.

Imogen wouldn't become the next Lady of House Malennis, not when the cousins were putting together a plot to rid the House of the likes of him.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

And wasn’t that smile of his trouble?

It wasn’t the performative kind that men wore to impress, or the strained one she often got from Ivan when he was pretending not to seeth. But a real, easy smile that softened something stern in Greydon’s face and set fire to something in her.

Imogen drew in a breath, catching a cup of wine from a passing server without taking her eyes off either of them. Her gaze flicked to Eira as she spoke, and her smile came, slow and curved with a certain bitterness.

“Nobody deserves me,” she murmured, lifting the cup in mock toast. She tried to thread smugness through the words, but it snagged on the weight behind them. Self deprecating, perhaps, but true all the same.

She sipped.

But then Greydon—Gideon, Griffin, Graham—whatever she was pretending to call him—spoke again, and reminded her exactly who she was.

Imogen fucking Celreos.

Her chin lifted. Her eyes sparked with renewed mischief, and her smile curled at the corners like the smile of a woman who’d just remembered she had teeth.

“Oh, I’m certain he’ll find out soon enough,” she said, the words like silk. Her gaze flicked across the room to where Ilir stood talking in her brother’s ear, and then back to Greydon.

“Maybe I should make him take the Celreos name,” she added, arching a brow, her voice laced with dry amusement.

The idea of it made her grin.

Let the vultures whisper. Let Ivan scowl and Ilir grind his teeth.

Let them all try.

 

[Greydon]

Greydon raised his own glass, a silent toast before placing the glass rim to his lips and drank. Heartily.

Eira had taken a small one, her eyes darting between Greydon and Imogen but remained silent.

"I have had to keep my disdain for the Malennis name to a minimum in the presence of my dearest cousin. Out of respect for her and the vision she had for our family." Yet another thing Ilir ruined.

If he wanted to be truthful, the idea of Imogen bearing the name Malennis brought him a sense of bitterness. Some part of him wanted her to fashion it, to be part of the Great House, but only at his side. It was indeed foolish, the type of thinking made when one was deep in whisky prior to attending this dinner. He could not help but think he deserved such happiness. Greydon was a defender, a warrior.

He could not have Imogen. He did not bear the name Malennis, and for the way his cousins, besides Eira, had treated him... he detested the name. Claimed himself Tomyris the moment he was bonded to a dragon and brought to the Thunder. Did that mean giving up his chance to be Lord?

"Ilir simply cleared the board before the game could end. He didn't realise the same pieces fell to a new board, and that he promised me to an even more powerful ally." Eira murmured quietly. It was meant only to the ears of Imogen and Grey, and no one else. He supposed Eira held impeccable trust to Imogen to speak so freely before her. "Ilir rushes forward in every game because he thinks he has the power to be intimidating." Her dark eyes move to settle on Imogen. "If he gets too ahead of himself, then he needs to learn the hard way what the rules are."

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Her gaze lingered on Greydon a moment longer before shifting to Eira, and then, to Ilir standing across the room. She listened, wine glass balanced lazily between her fingers, and let a smile play at her lips as she turned back to Eira with an indifferent shrug.

“Rules?” she echoed, voice light with mischief. “How terribly dull.”

She tipped her head back and drained what was left in her cup. Another pair of lords passed by, offering brittle compliments on her attire, their smiles tight, eyes lingering too long, like they’d enjoy getting her out of the dress but were equally pleased not to be in Ilir’s shoes. She returned their ‘pleasantries’ with a hollow smile of her own, wondering idly how many of them would still grin with such false charm if she slipped something interesting into the decanter. There were antidotes enough for her very, very few friends….

Her gaze grew distant for a long, dreamy moment before a sigh slipped from her and her eyes landed on Ivan. His glare was sharp, silent. Behave, it warned. Play your part. Smile. Be tame.

She raised her brow at him, bold and unrepentant, and ,predictably, he moved toward her, Ilir in tow.

“Wonderful..” she murmured. She supposed she’d be required to speak with the man at some point this evening..

“Lady Malennis,” Ivan greeted, dipping his chin with all the warmth of a frostbitten blade. His green eyes swept to Greydon, cool and appraising. “Forgive me. I don’t believe I know your friend here… I had expected your betrothed to accompany you..”

 

[Greydon]

Greydon loved and adored Eira. Despite being the smallest amongst majority of people, she made up for it all in presence. She had strength, and commandjng power she was not born with, but learned and conquered. She did not miss a beat, a smile plastered on her lips as Ivan pointedly made comment on Greydon.

"My cousin, Greydon Tomyris. Squad Leader. I thought it best to invite him along seeing as Leovold is occupied on the front." And that was reason enough.

Greydon did not offer a hand to shake, but bowed and dipped hjs head. "You have a beautiful home, Lord Celreos. I am glad to be here as a guest."

His eyes fell on the steeled stare kf Ilir. His face was tight, staring as if to get under his skin. Was it a good thing Eira was not alone with him tonight? Greydon had been there that day at the Caliar Country Estate. Had been there standing on the side of two Marked Ones and an irate Wing Leader.

"It is good news for our Houses that a union is the reason we are all joined here tonight." He smiled.