Chapter 9: Trust

I sat beside Zion, my pulse a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs that felt loud enough to echo off the vaulted stone ceiling. Usually, I was a shadow—a ghost slipping through locked doors to seize steel and secrets before the dawn could catch me. But a single misstep, a snapped twig in the forest, had dragged me out of the comfort of the dark and thrust me into the unforgiving gold of the candlelight. I was "with the flow" now, drowning in the current of his hospitality, and I silently vowed that if I ever made it back to the familiar grey mists of Silvermere, I would never let my guard slip again.

"So, where are you from, Diana?" Zion asked, breaking the silence with a voice that rumbled like a distant storm.

I took a slow, deliberate sip of wine, letting the tart liquid buy me a second of composure. The truth—Silvermere—was a death sentence, a confession of espionage. I blinked, the silence stretching a beat too long as I watched the way the firelight played across the sharp angles of his face.

He laughed, the sound surprisingly warm and far too disarming for a man who held my life in his hands. "Is that a 'need-to-know' type of deal? Or is the mystery part of the charm?"

"I’m from everywhere," I pivoted, forcing a bright, rehearsed smile as I set the glass down with a delicate clink. "A nomad at heart. My roots don't go deep enough to name a single patch of dirt."

"Do you travel a lot, then?" He leaned back, swirling his own drink, his ink-dark eyes never leaving mine.

"Constantly. I can’t stay still for long. It’s... addictive. The feeling of the road changing beneath your feet."

He nodded slowly, his gaze searching mine with a terrifying clarity. I couldn’t tell if he was buying the lie or simply enjoying the performance, like a cat watching a bird preen before the pounce.

"You’re a woman of many mysteries," he said, leaning in until the scent of pine and old parchment grew stronger. "Will you ever tell me your real secrets? Or do I have to guess them all?"

"I could," I teased, my voice light even as my skin crawled with the urge to bolt. "But then I’d have to kill you." I kept the smile fixed, a porcelain mask, hoping he couldn’t see the cold, jagged sincerity behind it.

As he laughed heartily, a sound that vibrated through the table, I went back to the map burning in my head. I needed to get to his armory, to see if the rumors of the dark steel were true, but being his "guest" made every hallway a gauntlet of watchful eyes and polite nods. I cursed my luck under my breath. What unsettled me most, however, was his silence as we ate. How could a man accused of plotting a massacre against my people look so... peaceful? His kindness felt like a trap, a velvet glove over a mailed fist, designed to make me forget the predator beneath the silk.

"Why are you still being nice to me?" I blurted out, unable to stomach the civility a moment longer. The words were sharp, cutting through the pleasant atmosphere like a blade.

Zion’s gaze deepened, the playful spark vanishing into something more profound and unreadable. "Because I want to be. Is it so hard to believe that I might simply enjoy your company?"

"There’s no such thing as a truly selfless deed," I countered, leaning forward, the ocean-colored fabric of my borrowed gown rustling. "Everyone wants something. A favor, a legacy... a distraction."

"I disagree," he said calmly. "I believe there is beauty in doing something simply because it is right, or because it brings a moment of light to a dark room."

"Do you feel good about yourself after you do them?" I pressed, my voice dropping.

"Well... yes, because I—"

"Then it’s selfish," I cut him off, my bitterness leaking through the cracks of my disguise. "You’re just buying a clean conscience to balance the scales of whatever else you do in the dark. It’s a transaction, Zion, nothing more."

"Have you always been this cynical?" he asked, a hint of sarcasm dancing in his tone, though his eyes remained soft.

I rolled my eyes, looking away toward the tapestries that lined the walls.

"Well, have you? Or did someone teach you to see the world as a counting house?"

"Ha. Ha. Very funny. I’m a realist, not a bookkeeper."

"Don't you believe in anything, Diana? Happiness? Love? The things the poets waste their ink on?"

"Love is just a hallucination," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. "A story we tell ourselves to dull the sharp edges of reality. It’s a chemical trick to keep us from noticing how alone we really are."

"So you've given up on it entirely?" He sounded less like a hunter then, and more like a man genuinely saddened by the weight of my words.

"It’s a glass house, Zion. It looks beautiful from the outside, but it eventually shatters and leaves you bleeding in the shards. I prefer stone. It’s cold, but it doesn’t break."

"What about family?" he asked, his brow furrowing as he set his glass aside. "Do you feel that way about them? Is that a glass house, too?"

"I love my parents," I snapped, the defensive walls of Silvermere slamming up in an instant. The air between us turned brittle. "But 'being in love'? No. Never. I don’t plan to start. It’s a liability I can't afford."

"Why not?"

"Because trust is a vulnerability. In my world, it’s the quickest way to get a knife between your ribs."

"You trust your parents," he pointed out, his voice quiet, almost a plea for me to see the contradiction.

"I..." My tongue felt heavy, a sudden, sharp ache blooming in my chest. Memories of home—of the soft light in my mother's eyes and the weight of the mission they had sent me on—threatened to break my composure. I couldn't shatter here. Not in front of the enemy. Not while he looked at me with that cursed, gentle understanding.

"We don't have to talk about it," he said softly, his voice retreating from the edge of the wound he had accidentally opened. "Not if you don't want to. I didn't mean to pry into your sanctuary."

"Thank you, Zion," I whispered, the name feeling strange and heavy on my lips.

I offered a small, fragile smile—the first one that hadn't been practiced in front of a mirror. For a fleeting, dangerous second, his sincerity felt real enough to touch. I didn't trust it—I couldn't trust it—but the mask he wore was more than just silk and stone. It was beautifully, terrifyingly human.