The night is silent, and that suits Den just fine.

His planning, his timing, they have to be perfect--and Den works better with silence.

When he stalks into Iralaae's study, Fleauira House is quiet, all its denizens out at the end of week party or with various clients. Only Iralaae remains, scribbling something in her red leather book. She looks up at Den and frowns.

"I didn't summon you. What do you think you're doing?"

Den walks forward and drops Yemia's banknote on her desk. Iralaae arches a copper brow at it and scoffs.

"What's this nonsense, then?"

Den taps twice on her book, where she keeps a tally of the debts owed her. Her brows furrow before she understands, and bursts out laughing.

"You really think it's that simple? Poor little Dairin." She smirks, waving him off. "You can't pay me with money that's already mine."

Den shakes his head. Not hers. That money is not hers.

She gives him a pitying smile. "I don't understand what you're saying, Dairin. You have to speak up--oh wait. You can't. Too bad."

She thinks she's insulting him, but his silence isn't forced--it's a choice. And he will not give her the honor of his words.

Not one of them is deserving. Not a single one.

"Goodbye," Iralaae says, waving a hand toward the door, dismissing him. Den doesn't leave, and she scowls. "Are you deaf now, too? Get out."

Den smiles. It isn't a nice smile, or like any smile he's ever given her before. It isn't like any expression he's ever worn before--full of an empty void, tinged in the bloodstains on that paper.

Iralaae frowns, the barest flash of wariness in her eyes. She doesn't fear him, but she knows where he comes from. Knows his lineage well enough to be on her guard. Good.

"That was your last warning, Dairin," she snaps, one hand beneath her desk--doubtless to snatch the dagger she keeps there. Her shale black eyes flicker again, this time with triumph as her hand closes around the hilt of the blade she finds. She doesn't even notice that it's slightly slicker than it should be.

Den places his hands on the desk, leans closer to her. She smells of sweat and perfume and ash, and when she swallows it's so loud he thinks it might call to the ghosts. Good. He feels very much like a ghost in this moment.

"I told you to leave, Dairin," Iralaae says. "You would dare disobey me?"

He thinks he isn't the first. He thinks Yemia did too, and that's why Iralaae had her killed. But Den isn't so easy to get rid of. 

And Den is not the forgiving kind.

He just stares at her, still smiling. She won't attack unless he attacks first, he knows. She just sits there with her hand around the hilt of that dagger, and Den stands there and watches as the minutes tick by on the watch he's wearing--the watch she hasn't noticed is unusual for him.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Iralaae shifts, sweat beading on her forehead. She swallows as if she can't get enough moisture in her mouth.

Den looks into her eyes and sees the moment she realizes what's going on. When she stands, he doesn't stop her. He doesn't move from his place as she brings the dagger around, shale black eyes wide, curses on her lips.

He catches her wrist, knows well enough the way she moves, the way her body is put together. He's touched every inch of her, after all.

Her chest heaves and she struggles, tries to move, but she doesn't have the strength. Den moves around the desk and pulls her into his arms. He holds her as she fights, as the dagger falls to the ground, as her body continues to weaken.

He holds her as the poison he put on the hilt of her blade works its way through her system from where she absorbed it into her skin. He holds her as she screams for help, but her cries are muffled against his chest, and there isn't anyone to hear her, anyway.

Den holds Iralaae as her heart stops beating. He holds her until she is limp and her skin begins to turn blue, and then he sets her carefully in her chair, places the dagger back in its place, and brushes a strand of hair out of her terror-stricken eyes so he can close them.

He glances at her ledger, flips over three pages to something she never got a chance to see--something she never wrote, though it's an exact replica of her handwriting, the ink dry enough that it was obviously written long before she died.

That afternoon, in fact,  when Den poisoned her blade and paid his debts with her own money--money she stole from Yemia.

Den slides the banknote into her file cabinet, and when he leaves her study the only sound is the click of the door latching into place.

~~~

By the time the maids find Iralaae the next morning, Den is already gone. He isn't running, though, oh no. The edge of the world is too far and too pointless--and it would be disrespectful to Yemia if he let himself die.

Yemia wanted him to be free, so freedom is what he'll have--at any cost.

He knows his father will try to force him into the household again once he learns that Den is free, and Den is still a minor so he will have no power to stop him.

But if Den is the property of the government, his father will be the one with no power.

As the city guard rushes around in a frenzy and Aradia's underworld mourns the loss of Fleauria House's Mistress, Den sits at a desk and takes an exam. As they take Iralaae's body to the morgue to be examined, Den runs through a physical stress test.

By the time they diagnose the cause of death as heart failure, Den is sitting in the office of Felic Mar'sen as the tall vren goes over Den's results.

After several minutes of silence with which Den is perfectly comfortable, Felic grins easily and nods at Den. "I think that's everything. Welcome to Aradia's Military Academy, Den." He holds out a hand for Den to shake, and Den smiles.

He doesn't know what sort of man he is--a murderer, a thief, a liar, a whore.

He doesn't know what sort of man he'll become--a killer, a soldier, a failure, a monster.

He doesn't know much of anything beyond the void in his chest, but as he takes Felic's hand, he decides what sort of man he wants to become, what sort of man he wants to see when he looks into the mirror.

A man who doesn't fail others. A man who stands on his own two feet.

A man who listens.

And a man who does what is necessary--no matter what it takes.

THE END