Silk & Sabotage

Part 2: Seduction in Silence

Two years ago – Auriel, City of Lina Loas

For someone who was supposed to be unremarkable, Kael Venric had a way of occupying space without apology. He never spoke unless necessary, yet his silence held weight. In meetings, his eyes traveled to the things that mattered — body language, shifts in tone, unguarded slips.

By the end of his first week, most dismissed him as harmless. A quiet observer. A polite foreigner who asked odd questions but posed no threat.

Mia Veyra wasn't most.

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The Coffee Incident

It began subtly.

One afternoon, she stepped into the War Room — the palace's second-floor strategic chamber. She hadn't expected Kael to be there, certainly not seated at the long oak table with a steaming cup in hand, already reading through defense reports with the ease of someone born into classified rooms.

"Access to these files is restricted," she said sharply, stepping across the threshold.

Kael didn't look up. "Then you might want to speak to Colonel Vex. He handed them to me."

She stiffened. Colonel Vex had always been lax with protocol — a soft-bellied loyalist who mistook courtesy for strategy. She made a mental note to deal with him later.

Kael finally met her eyes. "I was curious about Lina Loas' post-war troop deployment in the southern archipelago. Your structure reminds me of Rica's during the Talar Rebellion."

She stepped closer. "Interesting comparison. Especially since Rica claimed the rebellion never happened."

A flicker passed across his face — not guilt, not fear — something else. Recognition.

She placed her hands flat on the table, close enough that the space between them felt deliberate. "You're awfully well-read for a trade envoy."

"And you're awfully defensive for someone with nothing to hide."

Mia smiled without warmth. "You think I'm defensive?"

"I think you're watching everyone, all the time. Even yourself."

He sipped his coffee. Black, no sugar. Of course.

"I'd offer you a cup," he added, "but I think you'd rather interrogate me."

She stared at him for a long moment. Then, shocking even herself, she pulled out the chair opposite his and sat down.

"I'm listening."

The Garden Path

Over the next few days, Kael became more visible.

Not louder. Just… nearer.

He passed her in corridors without speaking. Stood in her line of sight during strategic assemblies. Lingered near the back of the court library when she worked late. Never interrupting. Never overstepping. Just… present.

It should have unnerved her.

Instead, it made her more alert — to his pace, his rhythm, his silences.

One evening, after a long council session discussing border incursions, Mia needed air. She walked alone through the moonlit paths of the palace gardens — her safe haven, where diplomatic masks could loosen.

She didn't hear him until she was already halfway down the central path.

"You walk like you're being followed," Kael said behind her.

She didn't turn. "Maybe I am."

"Or maybe you're hoping for it."

She glanced over her shoulder. He leaned against the stone arch, hands in his coat pockets, moonlight silvering the angles of his face.

"You're projecting," she said dryly.

He walked forward, slow, measured. "Am I?"

She stopped near the fountain. "Why are you really here?"

"Peace festival. Cultural diplomacy."

"Cut the bullshit."

He stopped beside her. Close. Too close.

For a second, the air changed.

Mia's voice was low. "You've been here two months. You've accessed files, charmed guards, and gotten my father to invite you to the private war memorial. That takes more than diplomacy."

Kael looked at her, unreadable. "And yet, here we are. You, alone. Me, unarmed."

"I'm never unarmed."

"I know."

His gaze dipped briefly to the small blade strapped to her thigh — just visible in the slit of her midnight-blue gown. A deliberate detail. She didn't flinch when his eyes traced it.

"You're a strategist, Mia Veyra," he said quietly. "You let me near because you want to know what I am. You could've had me detained. You didn't."

Her voice was cold. "Because I want to know what game you're playing."

Kael's voice dropped. "What if the game is already playing us both?"

She hated the way that made her pulse jump.

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Her Father's Warning

That night, she sat across from her father in the War Room — a rare quiet moment over a decanter of brandy.

General Diego Veyra was a force of nature — sharp-jawed, silver-haired, the sort of man whose silence made entire rooms shut up. He was both father and commander to Mia, and the line between those roles was always blurred.

"You've been watching the Venric boy," he said.

Mia didn't answer immediately.

Her father continued, swirling the amber liquid. "He's not a threat. I've vetted him myself."

Mia frowned. "Or he's very good at hiding what he is."

Diego raised a brow. "And you think you're the one to find out?"

Her voice was steady. "I know how men like him move. He's too controlled."

Diego leaned back, assessing her. "Be careful, Mia. You're my strongest weapon. I won't have you distracted."

She looked into her father's eyes — the man who had raised her to be precise, logical, immune to emotion. "I'm not distracted. I'm hunting."

He smiled faintly. "Then don't fall into his trap."

She lifted her glass. "Maybe he's already in mine."

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The Illness Excuse

A week later, Kael fell sick. Or so he claimed.

He withdrew from all meetings, citing a fever. Guards confirmed he'd locked himself in his room. Staff delivered soup and herbal remedies, but none reported seeing him.

Mia found it suspicious.

She arrived at his chamber without warning.

"Kael," she said through the door. "Open it."

A pause.

Then the click of the lock.

The door creaked open to reveal him in sweatpants and a half-buttoned shirt, hair disheveled, skin pale.

It caught her off guard — the vulnerability.

She stepped inside. "So you do bleed."

He chuckled hoarsely. "Unfortunately."

"Faking illness won't get you out of my watch."

He moved back to the bed. "If I were faking, I'd make it look sexier."

She smirked. "I doubt you could."

He coughed. "Is that a challenge?"

"I don't flirt with ghosts."

"You think I'm a ghost?"

"I think you're not what you pretend to be."

Kael looked at her, this time softer. "Maybe I'm tired of pretending."

The silence that followed was unlike the others.

Mia turned away. "Rest. You'll need your strength."

"For what?"

"For the questions I'm not done asking."

The String of Moments

After that, something shifted.

They didn't talk often, but when they did, it was with fewer masks.

A game of chess left unfinished in the library. A shared silence during an afternoon briefing. A moment of mutual disdain for an overeager diplomat.

And always, that undertow.

At night, Mia would find herself remembering Kael's laugh — rare and quiet, like he wasn't used to joy. She told herself it was strategic — that knowing your enemy's softness made them easier to crush.

But she started hesitating around his name.

She started reading the notes he left behind — brief comments on policy drafts, quotes in the margins, lines of poetry scribbled in ink and crossed out violently.

He was trying not to leave traces.

And that made her want to chase them.

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The Fireworks Night

On the night of the Unity Festival, fireworks tore across the sky.

The courtyard was full of music, bodies swaying, half-drunk officials laughing beneath lanterns.

Mia stood on the edge, dressed in crimson — silk draped over her shoulders like blood and fire. Her eyes were distant.

Kael found her on the terrace.

"You're not dancing," he said.

"I don't perform for amusement."

"You perform all the time."

She turned, sharp. "You think this is a performance?"

"I think everything is. You just do it better than most."

There was no music between them. No celebration. Just space, full of heat.

Kael took one step closer. "You've built walls out of command and silence. But you forget — walls keep things in as much as they keep things out."

She hated how close he was.

She hated how right he might be.

He whispered, "What are you afraid I'll see, Mia?"

And in the pause before she answered, she almost said it — that she was afraid of herself around him.

But she didn't.

She stepped back. "I don't let men disarm me."

He smiled softly. "You already did."