Morning After Optics

POV: Malia

The morning light didn't bring warmth; it bled through the dirt-streaked blinds in pale, greasy bands that did nothing to thaw the air.

My knuckles were raw, skin peeled back at the joints from where I had scrubbed the floorboards until the water in the bucket turned grey. My spine felt like a rusted hinge, aching with every slow, deliberate breath I took. I sat at the edge of the battered oak table, pressing a chipped mug of bitter, lukewarm coffee between my palms to keep my fingers from trembling.

Last night had broken something in the house. You could hear it in the silence, heavy, suffocating, and sour with the lingering reek of spilled rum, stale smoke, and fear.

The front door didn't knock. It groaned inward on its iron hinges, letting in a gust of fog and the heavy, rhythmic tread of mud-caked boots.

Reuben Vance stepped across the threshold.

They called him "Rooster," though no one was stupid enough to say it to his face unless they wanted a tooth knocked through their lip. He got the name from the jagged scar running from the corner of his left eye down to his collarbone—a violent, angry streak of pale skin that pulled his mouth into a perpetual sneer, like a cock’s comb frozen in mid-snarl. He wore a heavy wool coat soaked through with river mist, smelling of damp dog, black powder, and cheap tobacco.

He didn't wipe his feet. He just stood in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame, his yellow-amber eyes sweeping over the quiet room before settling squarely on me.

"You look like hell, Malia," Reuben said. His voice was like gravel being dragged across an iron grate.

"And you look like you slept in the ditch, Reuben," I replied, my tone flat, stripped of any politeness. I didn't move. I didn't offer him a chair, nor did I lower my eyes. I lifted the mug to my lips and took a slow sip, forcing down the scalding bitterness even as my stomach churned.

Rooster clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. He turned, kicking the door shut with his heel until the latch clicked home. The sound echoed through the silent house like a pistol shot.

"The optics are bad," he muttered, pacing slowly toward the table. He pulled off his leather gloves one finger at a time, his gaze never leaving my face. "Real bad. Half the boys at the lower docks are talking. They say you let things get out of hand last night. They say you stood there and watched while the northern ledger went up in smoke."

"The northern ledger was already compromised before the fire ever touched it," I said, leaning back into the hard wooden slats of my chair. "If the boys at the docks have time to run their mouths, maybe you should give them more cargo to haul. Or maybe you're just getting lazy about who you let sit at your table."

A faint, dangerous twitch worked at the edge of his scar. Rooster took two heavy steps until he was towering over my chair. He leaned down, placing both palms flat on the wood on either side of my coffee mug, trapping me in the shadow of his bulk.

"Don't get cute with me, girl," he whispered, his amber eyes narrowing to slits. "You think because you carry the old man’s name you get to sit here playing sovereign? You're hanging by a frayed thread. Half the faction wants your head on a pike for what happened by the river wall. The only reason you're still breathing this morning is that I told them to hold their horses until I had a look at you."

He leaned in closer, searching my face for a flinch, a tremor, a single leak of panic. I felt the heat coming off him, smelling the stale iron under his coat. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to brace myself, to pull back, but I forced my posture to stay slack, my expression carved out of wood.

"Look all you want, Rooster," I whispered back, meeting his glare head-on. "You won't find a confession. And you certainly won't find permission to talk down to me in my own house."

For three agonizing seconds, neither of us breathed. The air between us was drawn so tight I could hear the faint drip of water from his coat hem hitting the floorboards.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Then, a ghost of a dark, humorless chuckle broke from his throat. He straightened up, wiping his hand across his mouth, though the cold hostility in his eyes never faded.

"Still got that foul little tongue," he said, shaking his head. "Pride’s a fine thing, Malia. Right up until they're shoveling dirt over your teeth."

"Is that why you came all the way up the ridge in the fog?" I asked, setting the mug down with a deliberate clack. "To deliver a lecture on my manners? Or did you bring something useful for a change?"

Rooster’s smile disappeared instantly. The air in the room shifted again this time; the casual cruelty vanished, replaced by a dark, clinical weight that made my neck prickle with sweat.

He pulled a thick, leather-bound map case from under his coat and tossed it onto the table between us. It landed with a dull, heavy thud, scattering a few loose flakes of dried mud across the wood.

"Kilsyth is moving," he said bluntly.

My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest. "Where?"

"Everywhere," Rooster replied, leaning against the edge of the counter and crossing his arms. "They pulled three full patrols off the southern border at midnight. No lanterns, no supply wagons. Just light infantry moving fast through the lower marshlands. By dawn, their vanguard was sitting less than two miles from the old stone bridge."

"The bridge is neutral territory," I said, my brow furrowing as I dragged the map case toward me. "The treaty signed five years ago clearly states"

"To hell with the treaty, Malia!" Rooster barked, slapping his open palm against the wall. "The treaty was written when your family had six hundred rifles sitting on the ridge. Now you've got three dozen tired old men and a burnt-out ledger! Kilsyth knows the fence is down. They aren't posturing anymore. They're positioning for a clean cut."

I unbuckled the strap on the leather case with numb fingers, pulling out the folded topographical chart. Red ink marks were slashed across the valley routes, scout positions, hidden encampments, supply lines creeping toward our perimeter like spider veins spreading through dead tissue.

"They shouldn't have been able to cross the marsh without triggering the flare line," I murmured, staring at the map. "Unless..."

"Unless someone disabled the tripwires," Rooster finished for me, his voice dangerously low. "Unless someone gave them the patrol schedules and the blind spots along the lower gulch."

I snapped my head up to look at him. "Are you accusing me?"

"I'm sizing you up," Rooster said flatly. "I'm looking at a girl who was seen talking to a Kilsyth scout by the tree line three nights ago. A girl who suddenly lost the ledger right before the boundary lines were questioned. I'm looking at you, Malia, and I'm wondering whose blood you actually carry."

The accusation hung in the room like poison gas. My grip tightened on the edges of the table so hard my fingers turned chalk-white.

"I have bled for this border," I spat, rising slowly from my chair until I was standing inches from his chest. "I have buried my brothers in this mud. If you ever, ever call my loyalty into question again, Reuben, I won't care about the optics. I will carve that scar right off your face."

Rooster didn't flinch. He just stared down at me, a cold, sickening satisfaction creeping into his gaze.

"That's a real pretty speech," he murmured. "Too bad it came five minutes late."

He reached into his inner breast pocket, pulling out a heavy, blood-stained velvet pouch. He held it above the table and turned it over.

A heavy golden signet ring dropped onto the map, rolling twice before coming to a rest right over the ink mark indicating my private quarters. It was encrusted with a black onyx stone, deeply engraved with the crest of the Kilsyth High Council.

"Found that in the pocket of the man we pulled out of the river this morning," Rooster whispered, his face inches from mine. "The man who set the fire to the ledger room last night."

My breath hitched. "Who was he?"

"He was your brother's personal courier," Rooster whispered, his voice dripping with venom. "And inside the band of that ring, Malia? It has your personal wax seal. Signed in fresh silver ink."

Before I could form a sentence, a frantic, shrill scream echoed from the yard outside, followed by the deafening explosion of dynamite shattering the eastern wall of the estate. The window glass imploded inward, showering the room in a razor-sharp rain.