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As the doors close behind them, the weight of the evening's events settles on my shoulders. I know this isn't the end. Wolf's demotion and public humiliation will fester, a wound that will no doubt drive him toward thoughts of vengeance. I must be ready. The game of power we play is never over; it merely pauses, gathering tension like a coiled spring.
Turning back to the room, I meet the gazes of Selene and Niamh. Their expressions are a mix of relief and concern. I am aware of the repercussions that tonight will bring. We need to prepare, to strengthen our defenses and alliances. Tonight, I have maintained my position, but the battle lines have been redrawn, and the next confrontation is only a matter of time.
Victor watches all this with an inscrutable gaze, perhaps pleased with the way the play for power unfolded under his control. As the room slowly begins to murmur again, the sound of conversation rising like a tentative wave, I know that despite the victory, the true challenges are just beginning.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Selene
THE MORNING LIGHT seeps through the blinds, casting long shadows across the floor. I can still feel the emptiness on Diarmuid's side of the bed, the coolness of the sheets where he should be. Last night, after we returned from the gala, I had reached out to him, searching for a connection, something to assure me that we were still us. But his kisses felt mechanical, as if he was there in body alone, his mind miles away.
I lay there, nestled under the blankets, watching his silhouette against the moonlit window. He stayed just long enough to convince himself I was asleep, then slipped away. Where he went, I couldn’t say. It wasn’t the first time, but the sting of his absence never dulled.
The routine of the morning unfolds automatically. Niamh, ever the disciplined one, cuts through the water in the heated pool outside, her strokes steady and strong. I sit at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out before me, the crossword half-completed. My pencil taps against the paper. I miss my grandparents. I’ve continued this tradition here in Diarmuid’s home, but it doesn’t feel the same without the puzzle filled in from my grandfather’s earlier attempt to complete it before I arrived.
The black and white squares fail to distract me from my swirling thoughts of last night. Why did Amira leave with Wolf? Was she happy with him? She didn’t look happy, yet she never did. Niamh's approaching footsteps have me looking up from the puzzle. The familiar sound of her entering the kitchen, the fridge opening, the rustle of her preparing her usual post-swim protein shake—it's comforting, yet today, it feels different.
"Niamh, come join me," I call out, keeping my voice light, casual. It’s a tone I've mastered over the years, hiding the tremble that threatens to betray my calm exterior.
She rounds the corner, a towel draped around her neck, her hair slicked back from the water. "What's up?" she asks, a note of cheer in her voice that grates on my current mood.
I pat the spot next to me on the couch, and she pads over in her bare feet, settling down with her shake in hand. "Nothing much, just thought we could catch up a bit. You know, like old times."
She nods, sipping her shake, her eyes scanning my face. "Everything okay?"
I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. "It’s Diarmuid," I finally admit. The name feels heavy on my tongue. "He's been so distant lately. Last night... I don’t know, it felt like he was a million miles away."
Niamh sets her shake down, her expression softening. "I noticed he left early this morning. Didn’t say where he was going."
The cushions give a soft sigh as Niamh settles next to me, the familiar whiff of chlorine lingering around her like a faint halo. It’s a reminder of her new dedication, a twice-a-day ritual in the pool since Diarmuid bought the house for us. Her transformation is evident, the swimmer's build replacing the delicate lines of her former dancer’s physique. It’s a change I’ve watched with a mixture of pride and relief. Niamh finally has the space to pursue what she loves, free from her mother’s relentless push toward ballet.
She takes a sip from her sports bottle, the thick protein shake likely vanilla-flavored—her favorite. My eyes flick to the notebook on my lap, my fingers subtly pulling a small object from my pocket. It’s a bronze medallion. I set it on the notebook carefully, making sure it’s shielded from any prying eyes. Despite Diarmuid’s assurances of privacy, I’ve never quite shaken off the paranoia that there might be cameras hidden even here, in the cozy corners of our living room.
Niamh's touch is gentle on the bronze medallion, her fingers tracing the inscribed words. “luíonn an dorn ag Sí an Bhrú.” Above this cryptic message, the Hands of Kings is stamped prominently—a forward palm with a crown resting in its center, a symbol that has grown more significant and enigmatic since it first appeared in our lives. Despite its weight, the medallion feels like a key to something ancient and hidden.
We’ve developed a routine for moments like this when the walls might have ears and the shadows might watch. Silence becomes our fortress as we reach for our phones, opening the notepad apps to converse in a way that leaves no room for eavesdroppers.
I type swiftly, the screen’s glow casting light on our hushed faces.
It keeps showing up. There has to be a connection we’re missing.
Niamh nods, her brows furrowed as she taps out her response, the click of her fingers on the screen punctuating the silence.
It’s those symbols again.
I nod, meeting Niamh’s gaze before I refocus on the phone in my hand. I don’t have the other symbols here, but they look exactly like the symbols I found before.
Niamh is quick to respond. Do you have a plan to get to your apartment?
I shake my head. I’m not light on my feet like Niamh, so getting to my apartment unnoticed isn’t something I’m sure I can master alone. But I’m not alone.
I’ll help you get away, Niamh texts, her words a lifeline thrown across the digital divide.
Her idea of "help" is formed from her own escape a few days earlier. She had locked her room, opened her window, and shimmied down to the lawn. Once she was outside, she scaled the wall to freedom. I'm not out of shape, but I’m certainly no Niamh.
Standing on my balcony, I grip the railing, my palms slick with sweat. "This is it. I’m going to die here.” My heart races as I begin my descent. Every muscle in my body protests with fear and adrenaline mingling in a potent cocktail.
By some stroke of divine luck, my feet find the softness of the grass below. The relief is short-lived as I grapple with the wall, my grunts loud in the silent night. When I control my breathing, I glance back up at my bedroom window; Niamh hangs over the sill with two thumbs raised and a smile on her face. I smile back before I cross the lawn, sticking to the shadows. I can’t help but allow some dark thoughts to enter my mind, like, what if Niamh helped me to get rid of me? I scold myself for thinking of her like that when she has been a rock through all of this.
