A Weapon That Wounds

(Paige’s POV)

A hush sits where words once were, following that clash over his defiance. Not sharp with tension anymore - just empty. In these wide halls we drift, less than people now, more like echoes. Rooms remember louder times. What he revealed hangs there, unspoken, a gap too wide to cross.

Something Beatrice said keeps cutting deeper now. Could it be that I matter only if someone watches? Maybe all I do is point toward things he won’t face alone. That soft word - “Stay” - echoes less each morning. It fades beneath how he looks lately: stiff, distant, shifting plans like cards meant for someone else.

Proving it to him matters, though honestly, proving it to me matters more. Maybe this ability does belong in his games. Still, it could lift someone up - just because they’re alive. Forget plans. Forget moves.

A shape appears after four days - clean, fast, like something sliding under the skin.

Fingers brush piano keys without thinking. Suddenly, green silk flickers nearby. Air thick with oranges - then gunpowder. A sharp crack splits the quiet. Someone shouts out loud. Down went the man, grey beard tidy, red flower spreading across his shirt. That was the Arcadian envoy. Peace discussions were happening. Dinner tonight, quiet, at the Eversley place.

Clear facts only: one of the staff does it - a young guy, right hand marked by burns. He’ll hand out poisoned pastries first. After that, once the ambassador rises for his speech, a hidden gun fires. This comes from ancient grudges between noble houses in Arcadia. Wisteria plays no part here. A small cruelty with big consequences - trust breaks, treaties crumble, two realms start eyeing each other like enemies.

Something stops inside me. Here we are. One rescue. One person alive. Not for power, not for Noah - only to stop something cruel, something wrong.

This time, walking is what I do instead of running. My feet move slowly toward his study. A knock comes from me at the door.

“Enter.”

There he sits, by that old desk again. Up comes his gaze, face blank like paper - yet every line drawn there was traced by what I once said.

“The Arcadian ambassador,” I say, my voice steady. I recite the details - the time, the place, the method, the assassin’s description. “It happens tonight. At the Eversley dinner. It’s an Arcadian matter. A family revenge. But if he dies on our soil, the alliance fails.”

His gaze stays on me while I talk. After my last word, a quiet nod comes. Then, just two words - “Thank you for the information.”

Up he gets, heading straight for the bell-rope. Then calls for Alex without delay. Speaks fast, voice barely above a whisper. Destination: the Eversley place. Happens tonight. Target: a worker, right hand marked by burns. Carrying something sharp. Stop him - before plates hit the table. Keep that man away from the ambassador. Hold him without noise. Alive is what I need, so we can ask questions

Breathing. That is what matters to him - keeping the killer conscious. For answers. So he can make use of what comes next.

A bit of that old fear creeps back. Still, I shove it deep beneath the surface. His move halts the killing - that’s where things stand now.

Alex nods. “And the ambassador’s security?”

“Increase it discreetly. But the priority is the servant. Take him. Now.”

He walks out. Back at his chair, Noah acts like he just heard today’s forecast. Done. That was it.

“Is that everything?” I say, the question slipping out too soon.

He glances at me. “What else would you have me do?”

It has meaning. This feels right. I’m not just a tool you look through when fighting. A soft word comes - “nothing” - then I walk away.

---

A whisper arrives at the estate just after dawn breaks. The message slips through halls when most still sleep.

Mrs. Greyson brings it in with the tea tray, her voice hushed with macabre excitement. “Terrible business at the Eversleys’ last night, miss. They say an Arcadian assassin was caught right in the kitchens! He had a pistol and poison. They say the Duke’s own men swooped in like shadows and grabbed him. Saved the ambassador’s life!”

Breathing out, I feel it - lightness. The plan held. Someone is alive because of that.

But Mrs. Greyson isn’t finished. “The poor soul they caught didn’t last the night, though.”

The comfort turns sour. "What?"

“Oh, yes. Turns out he wasn’t just some foreign killer. He was one of ours. A deep-cover agent placed in the Eversley household years ago, they’re saying. Worked for… well, for a certain high lord.” She leans in, her eyes wide. “They say when the Duke’s men grabbed him so publicly, it exposed him. At first light, they strung him up in the prison yard. The Arcadians wanted him dead after the failed bid, yet even his so-called patron gave approval just to keep things quiet. Such a tangled outcome

Everything slides sideways. The cup wobbles out of shape.

A person we trusted. Hidden for years. Now uncovered. Dead because of it.

It clicks in my head, cold and sharp. Not just urgency drove Noah - he acted fast, out in the open, pulling the ambassador clear. That speed exposed someone meant to stay unseen. Years deep in silence, now suddenly lit up. This was no lone traitor. The handler? Likely one of those high-born schemers Noah fights. Too risky to hold on. So the lord let him burn - to keep bigger secrets buried.

Noah saved the ambassador.

A life was lost because of him.

A lone figure, standing apart - his loyalty shaped by quiet conviction rather than crowd or cause.

My skin turns cold. A frown pulls at Mrs. Greyson’s mouth. “You don’t look well,” she says, voice sharp but low. “Like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m okay,” I get out, the words faint in my ears. A pause follows - just need a moment to catch up

The door clicks shut behind her. My hands rest on my knees, heavy with stillness.

This happened because of me. Not luck. A quiet push started it all. Driven by wanting to show I mattered. No applause ever came. What grew was darker. Trying to fix things turned into lighting a match near gasoline. One small nudge. Then silence after sunrise, broken only by wind through rope.

Bile burns the back of my throat. Into the sink I stumble, heaving - empty. The sourness left behind tastes like foolish trust.

Time passes. Hard to say how much. The chill seeps through my clothes. Light cuts across the room. No glance needed. His presence fills the space before he speaks.

There he is, Noah, framed by the door. His outfit hasn’t changed - still dressed for horseback, dirt streaked across the soles of his shoes. Back now, straight from the palace. Handling what came after must’ve taken every minute.

I glance toward him.

A stillness sits in his features, like something shaped by silence. Set firm, unmoving. Without reaction. Free of accusation. Empty of victory.

Yet those eyes… they show no clever plans. Instead, they hold graves. Hollow pits where sorrow sits heavy, thick enough to still every breath nearby. Below that ache burns a quiet rage. Not aimed at me. Nor aimed outward. It strikes inward - against the cold weight of decisions forced by necessity. The kind of calculations I pushed him toward, simply by existing as I am.

Across the bright room, our eyes lock. Hanging there, unseen but felt, the shape of someone who didn’t survive lingers where air should be.

A long silence sits between us. Then comes sound - low, even, empty of everything but air.

The ambassador survives. That keeps the trade deal intact. Crisis avoided, at least for now. He names each result like he's counting coins. His eyes lock onto mine, sudden and sharp. Behind the calm, something cracks open. The one they executed at dawn - his name was Kael. He left behind a woman on a farm somewhere. A little girl, her birthday only last week. For thirty-six months he passed along every detail about Lord Branton moving arms behind closed doors

A single stride inside, that is all it takes. The air thickens instantly under the pressure of him there.

He speaks slowly. Each syllable lands hard, sharp as metal struck true. What you give cuts deep. It harms the one who offers it

Hanging in the air, those words - my effort to show I mattered ends with cold truth. Not just a weapon in his fight, that was never enough. Yet here it is: proof arrived, but twisted. Now I’m deeper in shadow.

A tool I turned into - shattering one of his men from within.

A shape breaks apart inside his gaze - me, tiny, split into pieces. Off he walks, shutting the door without noise, just air slipping through cracks. I stay. The quiet fills with weight, each breath a reminder of what giving took.