Rixa bolted from the bath chamber, her wet thong and tan skin disappearing behind the wooden door as she threw on her leather shorts and cropped top with hurried, practiced movements, her bushy tail flicking anxiously as she sped off, her boots thudding down the hall.
The air in the rustic bath still hung thick with cedar and eucalyptus, the water lapping gently in the oak tub where Jake sat, his skin prickling from her teasing touches, his breath uneven as the sudden shift left him reeling.
Lyra lingered near the door, her lace-clad form tense, her glowing eyes darting restlessly as she set a fresh pair of clothes—soft gray tunic and pants—on a nearby stool, her movements quick and distracted.
"Wear those when you're done, pet," she muttered, her voice clipped, her dark hair spilling wild over her shoulders as she adjusted her torn cloak, the black lace of her top barely holding together after Rixa's thrashing.
Her chest heaved with shallow breaths, her magic crackling faintly at her fingertips, and Jake could see it—she was itching to be somewhere else, anywhere but here babysitting him.
Her gaze flickered toward the hall, her thoughts clearly with Tazka, Rixa, and Veyra, the urgency of Ssyra's capture pulling at her like a taut string.
He climbed out of the tub, water cascading down his body, the warmth fading as he grabbed a towel from the mat, its coarse weave rough against his skin as he dried himself fast, the minty scent of Rixa's oil still clinging to him.
He dressed quickly, the tunic soft but loose, the pants cinching awkwardly at his waist, his hands trembling slightly as he pulled them on, his mind racing with Lyra's obvious agitation.
She barely glanced at him, her glowing eyes fixed on some distant point, her lips pressed into a thin line, and he followed her out, expecting she would lead him to the throne room's grandeur—only to find himself back in his own chamber, the dark silk walls and massive bed greeting him like a familiar cage.
Lyra sat across from him on a wooden chair, her lace top shifting as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against her thigh, her toes followed their lead.
She wasn't her usual self—none of the teasing quips or sultry jabs—just silence, her glowing eyes clouded with deep thought, her magic pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. Jake shifted on the bed, the sheets rustling beneath him, and finally broke the quiet, his voice soft but steady. "Lyra—if you're so worried, you should go be part of the discussion. I can tell, you want to be there with them."
Her head snapped up, her glowing eyes locking onto his, a flicker of surprise cutting through her tension. She sighed, her shoulders slumping as she ran a hand through her wild hair, her cloak slipping to reveal more of her obscene attire. "I can't, pet," she said, her voice tight with frustration, her fingers clenching into fists.
"Tazka tasked me with watching you—can't call a maid or lock you in here alone. If something goes wrong, if you slip away or get nabbed, it's my head on the block. I'm stuck." Her gaze darted to the door, her longing palpable, her friend Ssyra's fate gnawing at her.
Jake frowned, leaning forward, his hands resting on his knees as he knew what exactly to say next. "There's a simple fix—take me with you to Tazka," he said, his tone earnest, his hazel eyes meeting hers. "I'll stay close, no trouble—I just don't want you stuck here stressing when you could be helping."
Lyra blinked, her glowing eyes narrowing as she considered it, her lips parting slightly. After a moment, she nodded, a faint spark of relief softening her features. "Alright, pet—let's go," she said, standing abruptly, her cloak swirling as she grabbed his wrist, her lace brushing his arm as she pulled him toward the throne room, her steps quick and purposeful, her anxiety driving her forward.
The throne room loomed ahead, its double doors carved with skeletal motifs swinging open to reveal Tazka perched tense on her bone throne, her silver gown shimmering under the torchlight, her dusky purple skin taut with strain, her tail coiled tightly around the armrest.
Veyra stood to her left, her fair skin flushed with argument, her crimson hair loose and wild, her leather corset creaking as she gestured sharply, her golden eyes blazing. Rixa paced to her right, her tan muscles flexing under her leather gear, her bushy tail lashing, her horns tilted forward as she countered Veyra's points, her voice rising with each word.
The air crackled with their clash, the incense-heavy scent mingling with the tension, the gold-veined walls amplifying their heated exchange.
"It's reckless, Rixa!" Veyra snapped, her voice sharp as she slammed her gloved hand onto the table, the sound echoing through the room. "Throwing everything we have—soldiers, supplies, magic—just to rescue Ssyra? She'd probably laugh if she heard you. This could be a trap set by Kalthar, a way to drain us dry. There's no guarantee we'll succeed, and if we fail... Valthera could be left crippled, and we're already stretched too thin as it is."
Rixa whirled on her, her staff gripped tight, her dark eyes flashing as she shot back, "Ssyra's not some grunt—she's Tazka's right hand, one of the pillars holding this kingdom up! You think Kalthar nabbed her for fun? They'll torture her, break her, use her as a bargaining chip—or worse, parade her death to mock us. We have to get her out before they move her from the border barracks to their capital—once she's in Queen Iris's hands, she's gone!" Her tail lashed harder, her voice thick with urgency, her tan skin glistening with sweat from her earlier sprint.
Tazka's gold eyes narrowed, her fingers tapping the throne's armrest, her silence a heavy weight as the argument raged, until footsteps broke the din.