Private Tales Poisoned Words For the Heart

[Ilir Malennis]

"I think more silver should be embroidered onto the bodice." Ilir sounded bored, sat on a chaise lounge in a way that was not lordly as was expected of him. His presence did not deter the seamstresses, who only giggled and agreed with the Lord Malennis. They had been whispering how handsome the Lord was, and that Imogen was very lucky to be marrying him.

He heard it all, and heard nothing of his wife to be.

"Will you excuse us a moment." It was no request. He set aside the half filled glass of wine and stood. The seamstresses burst out into a fit of giggles, probably thinking the lord wanted a moment alone to marvel at the beauty that was his bride.

Once the doors to the private dressing room had closed, Ilir brushed the back of his hand against the silk. "Do you hate it?"

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Her lashes fluttered as Ilir’s voice dragged her back into the room.

Imogen’s gaze followed the giggling idiots to the door before she turned her head, looking down at him from her perch. Her fingers smoothed over the silk and embroidery absently as her brow furrowed.

“No… of course not. It’s beautiful,” she said at last, but her reflection in the mirror didn’t smile back as she returned her attention to it.

“Pre-wedding nerves, I suppose.” A quiet, almost dismissive laugh left her lips, as if she were embarrassed to have been caught looking less than overjoyed. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, her tone softening but no less careful. “You don’t have to stay. This must be tedious for you.. I'm sure you have far more important things to be doing than this..”

Her words were polite enough, but there was a subtle invitation there, a hint that she would prefer him gone, even if she would never say it outright.

 

[Ilir Malennis]

He eyed her, the suspicion underlying as his dark eyes held an intensity. It was not from heat or attraction, because gods did he want to be attracted to her in that way, but Imogen reminded him too much of Eira. They were different, that much was obvious, but perhaps unbeknownst to both of them, they shared the same stoic quiet.

An escape in their minds.

"Unfortunately for you, I have to keep my eye on you. There are people out there plotting against me, and I would hate for their distaste for me to have any impact on you..." His eyes now met her own in the reflection. "I do not like letting down my friends."

He meant her brother, the Lord Celreos. They both had taken up the role, because they both were right for it.

Eira would have been as soft as their late father. Would have played favourites, just as he had. Who was going to ever doubt he put all his faith in his youngest child to bond with a Moon Dragon when he named Eira after his own fucking bonded, Eirenthe.

"You... look beautiful. I suppose that is a positive outcome to this, that my future wife would be beautiful no matter what she wore... a vacant expression or draped silks." Ilir smirked. His hand came to play with the fastenings of her dress, the laces done not too tight as this was only one of the many fitting before the dress was finalised. "We need to speak of what this marriage will be like. That I require an heir and a spare as soon as we are wed. This heir will also have claim to your family's title, after your brother's own, of course."

Ilir knew what his touch did to her. There were times she could not hide her disgust from him, and it only spurred him to edge that line again.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

She felt the walls closing in with every word, his promise of her safety sounding more like a threat than protection.

“You and my brother plan to babysit me every minute of the day that I am not locked away in my chambers?” she asked, a little bite slipping into her tone despite her best effort to remain poised. Her cheeks warmed, partly with anger, partly with the shame of knowing she was supposed to be on her best behaviour.

Her brother had warned her - had reminded her time and time again of how important it was that she secure this marriage. She’d stopped speaking to Ivan altogether for making her go through it.

“I am quite capable of looking after myself,” she said quietly, her voice sharpening as her green eyes flicked to his in the mirror. “As I think you well know.”

She tensed as his fingers brushed at the fastenings of her dress. A muscle in her jaw feathered. Her reflection stared back at her, pale but proud, even as dread trickled down her spine like ice water.

“Beautiful names for our children. Heir and Spare,” she muttered, forcing a smile that glittered with venom. “By the sounds of it, our marriage will be most romantic. A happy little home.”

She stepped down from the stool, silk whispering against her skin, and moved past him, intent on putting space between them as though her very survival depended on it.

 

[Ilir Malennis]

Ilir liked to taunt. To watch someone react, to hear his words and how belittling they can be...

"Yes, I have been told of your capabilities." He turned to face where she had gone, his eyes intently watching her. "And yet Greydon Tomyris... looks very alive to me. Perhaps he may die on the front. I hear the jarlax are putting up quite the fight." His lips quirked into a cruel smile.

Was Imogen lazy? Did she need more incentive to see to it that the challenge he set had been met?

Ilir knew how to get that result.

"Perhaps I should turn to Ivan." Ilir dismissed her, turning to look at his reflection and smoothing his attire. "Your brother possesses direction. We knock out my sister's people, then we will be safe. Do you know of a Wing Leader? Nadya Caliar? The Marked Ones, Cullen Morvane and Dane Fedyr? Weakening them starts by taking out Greydon Tomyris." He watched her from the reflected surface, no longer making a move.

If she chooses to leave, then Ilir has reason to turn to Ivan.

If she stayed... then he knew he held her interest.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen froze at the sound of Ivan’s name. Her back was still to him, but the tension in her shoulders was enough to betray her mood. Gods, how she hated this man.

Slowly, she turned to face him, her expression sour, chin tilted as though daring him to push her further.
“How am I supposed to do what you ask of me if you won’t let me out of your sight?” she countered, her tone tense.

She knew the names he spoke of. Gods, she'd never have thought herself capable of siding with a marked one of all people, but the more Ilir spoke, the more she wanted to protect every single one of them simply out of spite. My enemy’s enemy is my friend, she thought bitterly.

Since her father’s death, Imogen had lost something of herself. He had never given her cause to fear him. She had never feared Ivan either, and she had stood up to her brother every single time he tried to bully her. Their bond had for the most part, been a loving one. But now? Now he seemed so terrified of watching House Celreos crumble that he had become someone so cold and calculating she hardly recognised him. He’d taken to frightening her, cornering her, forcing obedience with the weight of his strength and his title.

But how angry could he truly be if his sister reminded him that she was just as strong as he was? That she could stand up to any man, even Ilir Malennis? How angry could he be if she murdered her betrothed rather than submit to a life chained to this man?

Ivan had warned her again and again, his threats plain: if she stepped out of line, he would kill Greydon himself.

And that, that, was what stopped her from doing something very, very stupid. Because for some cursed, ridiculous reason, she cared. Each time she thought of Greydon failing to return from the front lines, something inside her chest ached in a way she could not explain. She barely knew him, and yet in every moment she’d been near him, she’d felt more alive than she had in her entire life.

Her voice softened, though her words were measured and deliberate.

“Your sister is to become a Solherre. Greydon revoked the Malennis name. The House is yours, it will be ours. I will help you keep it safe. I will give you the sons you need…” she said, though her stomach twisted painfully at the promise.

Her green eyes locked with his in the mirror.

“But I think you are making a mistake in having him killed. Eira cares for him, and unless he dies on the front lines, she will know it was your doing. And she will turn on you with the strength of her friends, and of House Solherre behind her. Perhaps it would be wiser to let the jarlax do the job for both of us.”

The words tasted like ash on her tongue, but she forced them out with a calmness that surprised even her.

 

[Ilir Malennis]

Ilir turned to face his bride. She looked like devastation in that dress, worry lightly conducting her expression as she reasoned with him. Perhaps she was not simply reasoning, but rather being smarted about this. Revenge had always been there are the forefront of his mind, fueled by the years of being casted aside so that his younger sister could be brought to light.

It even marred his relationship with his older sister, Sidonie who grew up thankful for siblings so that she would not be left with the responsibility of becoming heir.

"Lord Solherre and I have an agreement. He will keep an eye on Eira and her troublesome nature once she is residing in that home. She is not the saint you think her of, Imogen. Anyone that threatens her, she will kill. She did so to her cousin nearly a year ago now." Slowly, he began to walk forward. Standing tall, powerful in the way he was bold to take power. His eyes raked over Imogen, aware that she was beautiful as ice can be when in it's environment.

She was a light, but Ilir didn't have darkness she could illuminate.

"Tell me, Imogen Celreos. What sort of Lady to a House would you like to be? The happy wife, or someone that will match me in leadership?"

A knock came at the door, but Ilir ignored it.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen’s brow arched at the mention of Eira, though she didn’t flinch. She had heard the story, but she also knew that her cousins had been out for blood.

“Perhaps that is why Eira and I are so similar…” she said, letting the words linger, letting him wonder what she meant. Her smile was faint, almost sweet, but it was a shield, not an offering.

Ilir didn’t want a capable woman. He wanted a silent one. Soft, pliant, obedient, something that would bend to his will. She was none of those things, but she knew he would wring what use he could from her regardless.

Her green eyes followed him as he closed the distance, as though each step he took toward her was a reminder that she had been backed into a corner. He wanted to make her feel small, and damn him, it was working. She wasn’t used to this, to having someone else hold this kind of power over her. She didn’t fear him, not exactly, but she knew he could hurt her if he chose to. She hated that her body obeyed the quiet command of his presence, hated that her throat felt tight.

The knock at the door was almost a lifeline. She glanced at it, then back at him. She wanted to be defiant and claim the power he wanted to strip from her, but she could feel the weight of her brother’s command pressing down like a hand at the back of her neck.

Her chin lifted, her voice quiet but steady.

“I…” she hesitated, swallowed down the anger, the bile, the sharp words that might cost her everything. “I will be whatever you wish me to be, My Lord.”

Her own words nauseated her, and her hand curled into the folds of her skirts until her knuckles ached.

 

[Ilir Malennis]

Ilir found pleasure in the moments someone obeyed him.

That was what drew him to Imogen despite having no attraction for her. It was her pride held back, that she could say things such as how alike she and Eira were, but when faced with his undying attention, she melded against his power. "Good." He launched, pressing her against the wall. A feral sound escaped him, one he did not think he was able to make, but it was desperation at feeding on her backing down.

Ilir leaned his face to her neck, where the bodice left ample room for his gaze to roam before drawing his gaze up to meet Imogen's eyes. "You will make a perfect bride, Imogen. As Lady Malennis, you will be the envy of all." The name alone was power, it was privilege.

His lips tasted at her neck, a single kiss that lingered there a moment before the knock came again.

"What is it?" He called out, not moving from his bride to be.

"Miss Caliar was seen leaving the tea house." A male's voice came through the door. Ilir sighed, stepping back from Imogen, but only for his hands to grip her. Pushed her, turned her, until those laces at her back faced him.

He began pulling at them, very capable at unlacing a corseted dress. "You are free to have the afternoon to yourself. I have business to deal with, but I will be seeing you for dinner at your family home. Ivan has invited me." The dress loosened on her frame, slipping from the weight of the skirts. "Give some serious thought about the favour I have asked of you."

And with that, Ilir Malennis quit the dressmaker's shop.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

A gasp escaped her as Ilir slammed her into the wall, the wood shuddering beneath the force. Her body went rigid, every muscle locking tight save for the ragged, shallow breaths forcing her chest to rise and fall. She had nothing — no blade, no poison, no power at all. For the first time, Imogen Celreos felt truly cornered.

Her green eyes burned as she glared up at him, fighting to keep her hatred hidden, to keep from giving him the satisfaction of seeing her break. How dare he make her feel this small? How dare he make her afraid?

His lips brushed her throat, a cold, lingering kiss that sent her heart hammering for all the wrong reasons. A sick dread pooled in her stomach. Was this how it would be? Would he take what he wanted now, or wait until their wedding night to claim her like property? What choice would she have then?

As the news from the other side of the door required his attention more than she, she pulled air back into her lungs. Her eyes stayed locked on him, glassy with suppressed tears as he turned her roughly. She yelped softly, her body jerked and turned until her back faced him. His fingers worked with cruel efficiency, tugging at the laces until the gown slipped from her body and pooled around her feet.

She slumped with it, clutching at the fabric as if it could shield her from his gaze, pulling it against her chest as though the thin silks beneath were not already a vulnerability he had chosen to leave her in. Her head bowed, her hair falling like a curtain around her face as she nodded mutely at his parting words. She could not trust her voice not to break.

When the door shut and his presence was gone, the sob she had been holding back tore free, a sharp sound that made her hate herself even more for giving it air.

The seamstresses returned, their chatter dying at once when they saw her sitting there in a heap of silk and tears. Their faces softened, but Imogen turned her face away, furiously blinking away the wetness from her lashes. Rage burned its way back into her chest, searing over the shame, hardening her spine again.

"We are done for today," she said, her voice sharp, a command rather than a plea. "Help me dress. And if you speak of this to anyone, I will know, and my dragon will see to it that your gossip is punished."

The women exchanged a glance but obeyed without question, lacing her back into green and gold - back into Celreos. As the fabric hugged her frame, it was like putting her armor back on, piece by piece. The Lady of House Celreos did not cry. The Lady of House Celreos remembered who she was.

She lifted her chin, and left the shoppe alone, finally.

 

[Greydon]

It was nearing night, and Greydon had been walking the street at a leisurely pace. Although his injured leg gave him reason to slow, the raesi root he smoked helped the pain ebb away.

He had seen Ilir moments before, but the Lord Malennis made haste towards the small district of restaurants and tea houses, the finer places those in society frequented. For the likes of him, Greydon preferred the tavern. Granted leave, in order for his newly merged squad with another that lacked a leader, each and every one of them suffered somehow. Sand worms, juvenile ones, had found their way to latch onto Drazhan, and then his right leg. It made flying harder, and the loss of altitude put them closer to the sand where the larger sand worms tried to feast on him and his squad.

Lying in the infirmary for the past two days had been hell. A little bit of root and a drink would set him right.

Only, Greydon found reason to pause. He stood still, eyes watching her as people and smaller drakes wandered by him like a current around a rock.

"Imogen." He breathed, smoke curling from his breath like an exhale. It was proof that he indeed had invoked her name.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

The height of a horse and just a little wider, Vaelith prowled beside Imogen like a shadow come alive, his long, sleek body weaving through the street with predatory grace. His kind were the most venomous creatures known to Thanasian, and as usual, people scattered, clutching their children to their skirts, pressing themselves into doorways as the obsidian and emerald creature passed. His low, rumbling hiss was enough to keep even the boldest from stepping too close.

Imogen’s boots clicked against the stones, her chin held high, her shoulders square, and every step measured and deliberate. Her eyes stung, but she would not let them fall, would not give the city the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She was a Celreos. She would walk like one.

She didn’t notice Greydon. She didn’t look at the people who stared or whispered as she passed. She only saw the road ahead, the gates of her home drawing closer as she made her way into the upper courts of Thanasis, the towering shape of the manor looming against the darkening sky.

She didn’t slow as she crossed the courtyard. The guards at the gate moved to bow, but she didn’t acknowledge them. She had no desire to see her brother, to be called to account for anything, not tonight.

Without a word, she took hold of Vaelith’s saddle and vaulted up with practiced ease. The creature climbed, claws sinking into stone as though it were loose earth, carrying her up the sheer wall of the mansion. The wind tugged at her hair, her scarf trailing behind her, until Vaelith landed lightly on the balcony outside her chambers.

Imogen slid down, pressing a kiss to the beast’s scaled cheek before stepping into her room. The moment the doors shut behind her, she let out the breath she’d been holding and collapsed onto her bed, pulling the heavy coverlets around herself. Above, she heard Vaelith settle onto the roof, a silent guardian.

It was only then, with no one to witness, that she let the tears come.

 

[Greydon]

She walked like a wraith haunting the bones of a home that had long forgotten her. The wraith did not mind, seemed to move without any notice of those amongst the living. Did she need to when her flightless dragon stalked beside her and steered her back home?

Greydon followed, forgetting the drink he needed. Seeing Imogen made him not want to drink, not when the last they had met it was drinks that pushed them to do the worst thing possible. They could have stopped, could have walked away from what they had started, but the interruption of Ivan Celreos only made Grey want Imogen more.

She is to marry your cousin.

Those words should have made him feel guilty, made him feel as if he needed to be punished for taking what would never be his.

Imogen was not the property these nobles believed in. She was...

Sad. He didn't need to look at her face to know that something was breaking within her. That he had seen it the night they first exchanged words when he was newly made Squad Leader. Grey was fool enough to think he could fix that. Provide solution on how to heal. He had been there for Eira when her father and his dragon were ripped apart before her eyes. Had been there to lend his strength when she could not bring up her own. Although she was not completely healed and happy, Eira had told him that without his support and understanding, she was afraid of what would happen to her... to her dragon too.

Did Imogen have anyone? The Celreos family were near extinct, and that same night they first spoke to one another, Imogen had been there to support her drunken brother.

Who was there for her?

Her dragon. He thought, watching the two climb up the walls like no other dragon could with such fluidity. It was a marvel to watch, that Imogen chose to bypass all other contact of those that lived inside that home.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen allowed herself only a few minutes. A few ragged breaths, a few hot tears spilled into the pillow before she forced herself to sit upright. Enough.

Her mother had always told her that crying was an indulgence a Celreos could not afford, and she had abided for the most part, her mother and father's passings the only rare exception. It was that feeling of hopelessness that she was not well equipped in dealing with, and now it threatened to consume her if she allowed it. She couldn't.

She rose, wiping her cheeks with the heel of her hand, and crossed to the basin in her bathing chambers. Cool water stung her eyes and she lingered there, breathing deeply until her reflection no longer looked like a stranger. The redness would remain for a time, but at least her face was clean.

Her green and gold dress lay discarded where she had let it fall. She stepped out of it, traded it for a silken nightdress and a soft dressing gown. When she opened her bedroom door, the hallway was quiet. Mikael stood sentinel at the stairwell, and he straightened immediately upon seeing her.

“Mikael,” she said, her voice rasping, and coughed quietly against her wrist. “Please instruct my brother that I am feeling under the weather and will not be attending dinner this evening. I am retiring early and am not to be disturbed.”

“Of course, My Lady,” he replied, but hesitated, glancing down the corridor to make sure no one was near before his voice softened. “You alright, Gen? I can fetch Margo for you, if you’d like.”

Her lips twitched into the faintest smile, fragile, but real. “No need. I just need rest.”

Mikael nodded and returned her smile, though it held a hint of worry, before she closed the door again and leaned against it for a moment, letting her head rest against the wood.

Then she crossed to her shelves, plucked a book from her shelves, and sank onto her bed. The words blurred before her eyes, but she turned the pages anyway, needing something to fill the quiet.

Above, Vaelith stirred. His claws clicked softly against the tiles as he shifted his weight, golden eyes scanning the grounds below. The ridge of his back bristled, tail lashing once before it stilled again, a silent warning to anything that might come too close.

 

[Greydon]

He was a fucking idiot for doing this, but scaling the gate the way she had done had been too easy to replicate. The stone and brick exterior that cladded the wall of the balcony she disappeared onto looked smooth and not at all flexible in climbing. No wonder she needed the aid of her dragon.

The same dragon that now kept keen eyes on him the moment he cleared the gate.

Those drakes were poisoinous, that much he knew. It was enough to keep his distance from them.

Under the dragon's scrutiny, Greydon did his best to ignore it and size up the wall he needed to scale. "I just want to check in on her..." He whispered, as if the dragon ought to hear his ridiculous ideas. The balcony was certainly at a reachable height, but there were barely any footholds and crevices his hands could grip to.

After ten minutes and with scraped palms with beads of blood forming, Greydon was ready to turn around and leave. He was sure a guard would have heard his grunts and come to investigate, but none had come.

"Last time, and then I will go."

But the dragon had come down, lowering down to the point Greydon had always failed at getting past. Somewhere on the second floor, and his eyes watched as the strangest thing happened. The dragon began mapping out a path, scratches on the stone showing where to hold onto.

Don't question it. He told himself, springing into action and going for the climb once again. Fuck, it was working. His fingers held on for dear life but with quick work, Greydon was able to reach over to the balcony and pull himself up with his considerable strength. Swinging his legs over the iron railing, Greydon took a moment to breath before moving towards the double doors that must lead into Imogen's room.

Something compelled him.

His hand rose, a light rap against the glass.

 

[Imogen Celreos]

Imogen blinked at the soft tapping, her brow furrowing as her head lifted from her book.

“What is that dragon doing..?” she muttered under her breath, swinging her legs off the bed and padding across the room, her bare feet silent on the carpet.

“Vaelith, I s—”

The words died in her throat with a startled yelp. Someone was on her balcony.

She almost struck out on reflex, almost, but caught herself just in time.

“What are you doing!?” she hissed, her voice sharp but quiet enough not to carry, rushing forward to grab him by the arm and drag him inside. Her eyes flicked toward the courtyard below, half expecting to see guards patrolling below.

Once he was safely inside, she whirled on him, shutting the balcony doors firmly behind her. Her arms folded over her chest, cheeks warm despite herself, standing before him in nothing but her dressing gown was hardly the reception she’d have chosen.

“Have you completely lost your mind?” she whispered harshly, her green eyes flashing. “Climbing my balcony?”

She drew herself up, trying to reclaim some measure of composure. ".. When did you get back?.." her throat cleared awkwardly.

 

[Greydon]

He didn't really get a look at Imogen once she dragged him in, his eyes going to the interiors of what he learned to be her quarters.

Greydon turned slowly, taking it all in before rounding back to Imogen. The way her arms had crosses, it really framed her shape nicely, his eyes focused there a moment before her question registered to him. "Two days ago." He murmured. "On medical leave. Drazhan is in on condition to fly right now."

He hid his own injury, the limp almost burning with inflammation by now, but Greydon refused the tonics the medics wanted him to take to soothe his body as it heals. He had been too out of it the first day to decline, and waking from that stupor had been unsettling.

"I came..." he said slowly, realising he may be reusing words he had said from that night, "... to see how you are doing."

 

[Imogen Celreos]

There was an unmistakable sinking in her chest at his words — two days ago. As though some foolish part of her had expected him to come straight to her the moment he was able, as though she had some right to be the first thing on his mind.

He was the only place her mind went when she needed to escape, which was...always. The dark cloud that hung over her every waking hour, the dread of what lay ahead, she could only bear it by thinking of him. And of that night. Of the way he made her feel reckless and alive. She had thought about him so often it left her flustered.

And now he stood here, flesh and blood, and it hurt all the more to know he had been back two whole days.
Her throat tightened as heat rose to her cheeks, thoughts of their last time together flooding back and making her want in ways she hated admitting to herself. She hugged herself a little tighter, realising once again how inappropriate it was to be in a man's company in such attire. A man who was not her husband.

Then she realised he'd said medical leave and her attention sharpened on him, her brow creasing with sudden worry.

“Shit… I’m sorry,” she murmured, not only for what he’d gone through but for her own selfish disappointment. Her head tilted as her gaze searched him, sharper now as she studied him, taking a step closer. “Are you hurt?” He had just managed to scale her wall onto her balcony without the aid of a dragon...

But then his reason for being here sank in, and something in her melted and bristled all at once.

It was likely still obvious she’d been crying, the pink around her eyes hadn’t faded, but she cleared her throat and lifted her chin, as though sheer will might erase the evidence.

“I’m fine,” she said, too quickly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her gaze flicked to her chambers' door as though reminding herself of just how dangerous this was.

“And you should stop caring about how I’m doing,” she added, softer, the words sounding more like a plea than a command.

Her sigh was a quiet surrender. “…You really shouldn’t be here, Grey.” Now, she 'remembered' his name.