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“You are already engaged?” Duke Velen’s voice leaves a tingling chill in the darkened room as his eyes narrow at Milena, the tips of his fangs gleaming in the flickering gaslight. “How surprising, my dear, as I was assured you were not previously entangled when I approached your father several days ago. Was this a recent arrangement?”
Milena desperately keeps her breathing even. “As my father and I are no longer on speaking terms, your Grace, I did not see fit to inform him.” Shoulders back, she reminds herself, chin level, hands placed calmly on her lap.
The easiest way to lie to a vampire, she knows, is to lie with the truth.
“Yet you see fit to inform me,” the duke remarks, oddly calm despite his sharp gaze.
Milena’s stomach twists. “I believed you would prefer to know if your fianceé was considered… ‘spoiled goods,’ your Grace.”
Duke Velen rises, turning away from Milena to face the rich tapestry displayed behind his desk – a gorgeously woven scene of a pale, young woman standing on a stone balcony, facing the first hints of the rising sun. If Milena were anywhere else, she would have gladly gone to examine the tapestry herself, possibly even asked about its origins.
“Ordinarily, you would be correct. However, as you will not be the mother of my heir nor even my third wife, I am willing to overlook such indiscretion this once, provided it will not happen again.” He turns back to face Milena, eyes glowing an inhuman red. “You will end this engagement and enter into an agreement with me, as per your parents’ wishes.”
His will washes over her, a rising tide of iron and ash that reaches with clawed fingers into the corners of her mind and begins to scrape –
A door slams open behind them and Velen recoils from the sharp clack of heels on marble, each hollow thud ringing like a hammer against the anvil.
“ Witch ,” Velen snarls.
“Vampire,” the newcomer replies, unequivocal.
Velen draws himself up, his voice throbbing with power. “This is a private discussion, witch. Your welcome is rescinded. ”
The exhaled rush of magic only barely ruffles raven curls as Yennefer of Vengerberg smiles at the old Vampire. “I’m afraid you’re only half right, your Grace. While you have so astutely realized my magical designation, you neglect to remember my societal profession. Thus, as long as you continue to pressure my client into breaking binding magical contracts, I have every right to intervene, private discussion or not.”
Milena finds herself gripping the folds of her skirts, the embroidery biting into her skin from how tense she has become. Yennefer stalks in front of Milena, breaking Velen’s line of sight, and Milena can breathe again – gasping silently in the cold, dusty office, the taste of ash on her tongue.
“An engagement is not a binding contract, magical or otherwise.” Velen sneers.
“If two or more parties enter into a contract where the requesting party receives goods and/or services from the requested party wherein the price for said goods or services is marriage ,” Yennefer recites, looking bored, “Then the contract is binding, especially if the requesting party has already received said goods or services. Unless, of course, you wish to navigate your new fiancée through the vagaries of the contract courts.”
Yennefer settles back on her heels, her professionally patronizing smile in place. Behind her, Milena wills her heartbeat to settle, swallowing back the fear that broke free when Velen –
Milena shudders, still tasting the remains of iron and ash. She doesn’t think about the anger that burns in her throat, or the sudden itch at her fingers to unweave that beautiful tapestry behind Velen and refasten it into a noose. Instead she stands, eyes downcast, playing the penitent victim.
“And who , precisely, would this child have approached to ‘provide goods and services?’”
Yennefer turns to look at Milena, who says the first name that comes to mind, “Lambert Wolfe.”
Velen hisses, “A Wolf .”
“Yes,” Yennefer agrees. “You remember the Kaer Morhen pack, don’t you, your Grace? My client’s fiancé is third only to the White Wolf himself, and would likely be happy to remove any vampiric stalkers threatening his intended.”
Velen draws himself up, fangs bared, “I have done nothing of the sort–”
“On the contrary.” Yennefer waves a hand, and a thick file of paper slams down on the desk between them. “My firm has evidence of repeated encounters between your agents and my client’s security team at her home, place of work, and several public locations.”
“You have nothing.”
Yennefer smiles, and Milena is gratified to see even Duke Velen take a wary step back.
“I have enough for a restraining order and a Writ of Protection. Which is enough to convince the mortal authorities to leave this conflict between your House and the Kaer Morhen pack.” Yennefer’s smile turns cold. “Tell me, your Grace, how well did your House fare the last time the wolves were at your door?”
Silence stretches between them.
“Leave, both of you,” Velen finally snaps, and the doors fly open behind them..
Yennefer wastes no time ushering Milena out of the Duke’s mansion. Stepping into the noonday sun is blinding, but as Milena’s eyes adjust, she sees Lambert pacing, snarling , beside the sleek, black town car that likely brought Yennefer there. As soon as Milena’s foot touches the gravel, Lambert is in front of her, his hands gentle as they check her for injuries, despite the near feral look in his eyes.
Yennefer rolls her own. “Not here, lovebirds. Get in the car.”
Lambert inhales to respond with his usual snarky retort, but Milena collapses forward, linking her arms around his waist and just… clinging. Her dearest friend sputters into a shocked silence, but he bundles her into the back of the town car without dislodging her grip and settles her into his lap, stroking her back worriedly.
Yennefer waits until the car is past the gates before flicking purple fire at the car’s dashboard and turning to face them while the car drives on.
“Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, Lambert, Milena,” Yennefer remarks, her voice dry as red wine. “I’ll provide you with a backdated prenuptial agreement just so we have one on file. We can adjust the actual terms later.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, witch?” Lambert growls. “Milena and I are friends –”
Yennefer pinned him with an arch look. “Your friend just claimed to be your fiancée in front of the Duke of Velen . Unless you want him to call Challenge for her lies and claim her, I suggest you make it the truth very quickly.”
Beneath Milena’s cheek, Lambert’s breath stutters, his heart racing.
“Lena?” he asks, lowering his voice to the murmur he only ever uses when it’s just them talking. “You told him that?”
Milena doesn’t lift her head, knowing he can hear her mumbled responses anyways. “He asked who I was engaged to. You were the first person I could think of.”
“You– I–” He swallows, his gulp audible through his chest. “We don’t have to go through with this. You know I’ll protect you, no matter what, I–”
“I want to,” Milena whispers, her grip tightening. “I will choose no other.”
Lambert pulls her tighter, burying his nose in her hair. They finish the ride in silence, broken only by the low roar of the engine and the tires on the road.
Milena sends a picture to her sister Marika a week later: her left hand, bare except for her sewing calluses and a simple silver band, carved with a lone wolf curled around a single, blooming rose.