Io | Mistreci

Io did not turn from the window. Her reflection in the dark glass was a ghost—sharp cheekbones, eyes the color of tarnished silver, lips pressed into a line that had never once smiled for him. She wore a gown of deep emerald that pooled at her feet like liquid shadow.

“Debt cleared,” she said. “But Elias?” mistreci io

“Mistreci Io,” he whispered, the archaic title feeling like broken glass in his throat. Io did not turn from the window

Elias nodded, though she could not see it. “Three years. Three favors. You saved my sister. You buried my debt to the Cassadors. And last spring… you gave me back my name when the Council tried to erase it.” “Debt cleared,” she said

Mistreci Io

She turned back to the window, the key glinting in her palm. And somewhere deep in the penthouse, behind a gilded frame and a painted lie, a lock began to tremble.

“If you ever owe me again… I expect interest.”