Chapter 118: Aphrodisiac

Xelvyn was alone in the dining area, the vast hall empty save for her and the piles of parchment that covered the long mahogany table. She had brought her work there days ago, spreading out her documents and ledgers and correspondence until the table looked more like a war room than a place for eating.

The tallow candles had burned low in their holders, their flames guttering whenever the draft from the high windows caught them, and the shadows they cast danced across the columns and the cold stone floor. She had not eaten anything yet—had not eaten properly in weeks, if she was being honest with herself—because she was focused on her work, and her work was the only thing that mattered.

Four weeks she had been at this, four weeks of poring over reports and drafting responses and trying to hold her crumbling court together with sheer force of will. The demon court was going against her, and every day brought new challenges, new accusations, new threats to her throne. She could not afford to rest. She could not afford to eat. She could not afford to do anything but work.

The dining hall had once been a place of feasts and celebrations, its long table lined with silver platters and goblets, its walls echoing with laughter and music. Now it was silent.

The silver had been packed away, the platters are stored in cupboards that had not been opened in months, and the only sound was the soft scratch of Xelvyn’s pen against parchment and the occasional rustle of a page being turned.

The air smelled of ink and old paper and the faint, stale scent of wax, and the cold had crept in from the corridors until Xelvyn could see her breath misting in front of her face when she exhaled. She did not mind the cold. She was a demon Lordess, and the cold had never bothered her.

What bothered her was the silence, the emptiness, the way the vast hall seemed to press in on her from all sides. But she had learned to ignore it. She had learned to ignore a great many things.

Yvaine had never left the Vartuahry. She had been there from the moment Xelvyn had returned from the eastern palace, a quiet, steady presence that Xelvyn had not asked for and had certainly not wanted.

The demon Lordess had learned, over the weeks, to tolerate Yvaine’s annoying presence—the way she hovered, the way she commented on everything, the way she refused to leave no matter how many times Xelvyn told her to go. It was infuriating. It was also, though Xelvyn would never admit it, strangely comforting.

The Vartuahry was cold and vast and empty, and Yvaine’s presence made it feel less like a tomb and more like a place where someone actually lived. She brought warmth with her, a warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the way she filled the silence with her chatter, the way she left cups of tea on the table beside Xelvyn’s work, the way she looked at Xelvyn as though she were something worth looking at.

"Xelvyn, you should probably get some rest," Yvaine said, her voice cutting through the silence of the dining hall. She was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed, her expression a mixture of concern and exasperation.

She had been standing there for a while, watching Xelvyn work, and the sight of the demon Lordess hunched over her documents with dark circles under her eyes and her hair was falling loose from its pins had made something twist painfully in her chest. Xelvyn did not even look at her. She kept her gaze fixed on the document in front of her, her pen scratching across the parchment in quick, sharp strokes.

"I’m fine. I have supernatural powers and I can keep working within one thousand years without resting," she answered, and her voice was flat, dismissive, the tone she used when she wanted someone to go away.

It was a tone she had used on Yvaine a hundred times before, and a hundred times before, Yvaine had ignored it. A smile graced Yvaine’s lips—a small, knowing smile that Xelvyn could not see but could somehow feel.

"Still acting tough, I see," Yvaine sighed, and she pushed herself off the doorframe and walked into the room. Her footsteps were soft on the stone floor, but they seemed to echo in the vast emptiness of the hall.

She sat down on the dining chair next to Xelvyn, close enough that their shoulders almost touched, and Xelvyn felt her jaw tighten with irritation. The warmth of Yvaine’s body was a stark contrast to the chill of the hall, and Xelvyn hated how aware she was of it, how her skin seemed to prickle with awareness wherever Yvaine was near.

"You look pale. Your energy core is probably damaged since you’re not eating or drinking. How about you drink this water?" Yvaine said, and she reached for the pitcher that sat on the table, pouring a glass of water with slow, deliberate movements. The liquid caught the light of the tallow candles, and for a moment, it seemed to shimmer.

Xelvyn wanted Yvaine to shut up so she could continue working. She did not look up from her documents. She did not acknowledge the glass being placed beside her hand. She simply reached for it, her fingers wrapping around the cool crystal, and brought it to her lips without noticing what she drank.

The liquid was cold and smooth, and she drank the whole thing in one long swallow, her mind still on the reports in front of her. But then she paused. Something was wrong. The taste was not water—it was sweet, too sweet, with a bitter undertone that lingered on her tongue. She glanced down at the glass, her eyes narrowing, and what she saw made her freeze.

The color was glowing. It was violet, a deep, unnatural purple that seemed to pulse with its own inner light, and it was most certainly not water. "What was that?" She asked, her voice sharp, her body going rigid in her chair. She turned to look at Yvaine, and the other woman was smiling—a sly, satisfied smile that made Xelvyn’s blood run cold.

"What?" Yvaine asked, her voice was light, innocent, as if she had no idea what Xelvyn was talking about. Xelvyn was taken aback, her mind racing, her heart beginning to pound in her chest.

"You poisoned me," Xelvyn murmured, and the words came out slow and disbelieving. She could feel it now—a warmth spreading through her body, a heat that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

Her head was spinning, her thoughts are scattering like leaves in a storm, and she pressed a hand to the table to steady herself. The parchment beneath her palm felt rough and distant, as though she were touching it through a layer of cloth.

"I didn’t poison you, Xelvyn. I am just forcing you to work on something else," Yvaine smiled, and she reached for the pitcher and poured herself a glass of the violet liquid. She held it up to the light for a moment, watching it shimmer, and then drank it herself, her eyes never leaving Xelvyn’s face. The message was clear—it was not poison. It was something else. Something far more dangerous.

"You! How dare you!" Xelvyn yelled, and she tried to rise from her chair, but her legs would not cooperate. A sudden, unnatural warmth bloomed right beneath her sternum, spreading outward until the heavy velvet of her collar felt entirely too thick against her throat.

Her lungs felt strangely tight, demanding deeper breaths that did nothing to cool the flush rising along her collarbones. Every slide of her sleeve against her wrist became loud, heavy, and impossibly sharp.

She could feel the fabric of her dress against her skin in a way she had never felt before, every thread a separate sensation, and she shuddered, her hands gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles went white.

The ambient light of the tallow candles seemed to pool and fracture, casting long, gold shadows that felt almost heavy. The distance between her chair and the edge of the mahogany table shrank to nothing; the universe had narrowed down to the sharp, bitter scent of crushed cardamom lingering on the rim of her glass.

She could smell everything—the wax of the candles, the ink on the parchment, the faint, sweet perfume that Yvaine always wore. It was overwhelming. It was intoxicating. It was terrifying.

"What did you give me?" Xelvyn demanded, her voice was coming out rougher than she intended. She forced herself to look at Yvaine, to meet her eyes, and what she saw there made her breath catch.

Yvaine was not gloating. She was not triumphant. She was watching Xelvyn with an expression that was almost tender, almost afraid, as though she had done something she could not take back and was waiting to see whether it would be forgiven.

"Something that will make you stop pretending," Yvaine said quietly. "You’ve been killing yourself, Xelvyn. Four weeks. Four weeks without eating, without sleeping, without letting anyone close enough to help you. You think I haven’t noticed? You think I haven’t been watching you fade away piece by piece?" Her voice cracked on the last word, and she looked away, her jaw tight.

"I couldn’t just stand by and watch you destroy yourself. So yes, I gave you something. And yes, I drank it too. So if you’re going to be angry with anyone, be angry with me. But don’t pretend you didn’t need this."

Xelvyn stared at her, her thoughts were a tangled mess of fury and confusion and something else, something she did not want to name. She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell Yvaine that she had no right, that she had overstepped, that she would pay for this.

But the words would not come. The warmth inside her was growing, spreading through her limbs, pooling low in her belly, and it was becoming harder and harder to think about anything else.

Yvaine slowly approached her, her movements were unhurried, her eyes are dark and intent. Xelvyn watched her come, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps, and she knew she should push her away, knew she should fight, but her body would not obey her commands.

Yvaine stopped in front of her, close enough that Xelvyn could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, and then she leaned down and pulled Xelvyn into a kiss. The kiss was soft at first, gentle, a question rather than a demand, and Xelvyn melted into it before she could stop herself.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her hands coming up to grip Yvaine’s shoulders, and for a moment, there was nothing in the world but the taste of cardamom and the warmth of Yvaine’s lips against hers. But then the panic set in. She pushed Yvaine away, her hands flat against the other woman’s chest, her breath ragged and uneven.

"What did you do?" Xelvyn asked, her voice was strained, her whole body was trembling with the effort of holding herself back. The warmth was still there, burning beneath her skin, and she could feel it pooling low in her belly, a need that she did not want to name. Yvaine looked at her, her expression soft, almost tender, and she reached up to brush a strand of hair from Xelvyn’s face.

"Do you trust me?" Yvaine whispered, her voice was barely audible, and Xelvyn could see the vulnerability in her eyes, the fear that she had gone too far, that she had pushed too hard. But the fear was buried beneath something else—determination, perhaps, or hope.

"No!" Xelvyn answered, and the word was sharp, cutting, a shield against the feelings that were threatening to overwhelm her. Yvaine smirked, her eyes were glinting with something that might have been amusement or might have been pain.

"Good," she said again, and she kissed Xelvyn once more, her lips are insistent and her hands gentle on Xelvyn’s face. Xelvyn kissed her back for a moment, her body arching into the touch, but then she gathered all her strength—all the supernatural power she had claimed to possess—and used it to push Yvaine back, pinning her against the wall.

The stone was cold against Yvaine’s back, and Xelvyn could feel the rapid beat of her heart through the fabric of her dress. She leaned in close, her lips brushing against Yvaine’s ear, and her voice was low and dangerous.

"You’re gonna regret this," she whispered, and the words were a promise and a threat all at once. Yvaine shook her head, her eyes bright and defiant, her smile never wavering.

"No~" she breathed, and the word was a challenge, a dare, an invitation. Xelvyn looked at her for a long moment, her breath mingling with Yvaine’s, her hands still pressed against the wall on either side of Yvaine’s head.

The warmth inside her was still burning, but it was no longer a fire she was trying to put out. It was a fire she was learning to accept. And so she leaned in, and this time, she led the kiss, her lips meeting Yvaine’s with a hunger that she had been denying for weeks.

And Xelvyn led this time and kissed Yvaine.