House BlackWing: Awakening

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter 14

The House carried the rhythm of anticipation. Banners unfurled, boots struck stone in unison, and the air itself seemed to sharpen as preparations for the Lunar Eclipse consumed every corridor. On Earth, eclipses were common enough. Here, under two suns, they were rare. Rare meant sacred. Rare meant every eye watched more closely, every word carried more weight.

Ciara walked beside me, the Black Disc at her throat drawing whispers like iron to a magnet.

“Disc wearer.”

“Marked.”

“She should’ve been cast out.”

She never broke stride. Chin high, eyes forward. But her throat flushed red, the tension in her shoulders coiled tight. Her hands stayed disciplined at her sides, never rising to shield the collar. Pride was her shield, shame her shadow.

I walked close enough that the crowd parted without command. The guards at each post watched her first, then me, then straightened into salute. They didn’t dare linger.

The Doctor’s chamber door opened. His voice was as cold as his gaze. “Inside.”

She bowed and obeyed.

I waited outside, the silence heavy. Minutes later the Doctor emerged, sleeves rolled, muttering: “Horsewhip the bastard myself.” His eyes cut across me like glass, then moved on.

When Ciara returned, her steps were lighter, her shoulders freer. She said nothing. Neither did I.

At first, the guards who shadowed her were stone.

“Keep moving.”

“Stay in sight.”

“No delays.”

Clipped. Impersonal. Suspicion carved into their tone.

Ciara’s answer was always the same, soft but steady. “Yes, Sir.”

One afternoon, when I returned to our quarters, I found her at the stove, flour dusting her apron, honey clinging to her fingers. She glanced at the doorway, where two guards leaned stiff against the frame.

She placed a tray on the small table near them. “For your patience, Sirs.”

They looked at each other. One frowned, the other shrugged. He lifted a square, sniffed, then bit. His eyes widened. The second followed, quicker this time.

“You made these?”

“Yes, Sir.” She folded her hands neatly. “There are more, if it pleases you.”

The tray emptied before it cooled.

The next day one cleared his throat before entering. “Is the lady baking today?”

I hid my grin in the pages of a book.

By the third day, another guard edged closer to the doorway with his chair angled just enough to feign vigilance while reaching for seconds. Ciara caught him in the act.

“Eat slowly, Sir,” she said gently. “The sweetness lingers if you let it.”

He froze, caught off guard by the instruction. Then, almost sheepish, he did as she said.

It wasn’t just the cakes. It was the way she met their eyes when offering them, the way she bowed her head slightly, never too much, just enough to honor their rank without demeaning herself. She addressed each as “Sir,” even the youngest among them, and thanked them as if they were protecting something precious.

The men noticed. Helmets came off when they stepped into the quarters. One guard, parched after a long round, set down his canteen untouched until she’d had hers. Another snapped at a recruit whose tone carried too much edge.

“Watch your voice. Show respect.”

For her. A Black Disc.

It wasn’t sudden. It was a slow weaving of courtesy, sugared crumbs, and quiet strength. By the week of the Eclipse, standing guard over Ciara was no longer duty. It was privilege.

The kitchen became alive in a way I hadn’t seen before.

Flour dust floated in the air, turning the light soft and hazy. Honey oozed thick into bowls, clinging to spoons, dripping onto fingers that were quickly licked clean. Butter snapped against hot stone, filling the room with a sharp hiss before melting into a golden, nutty smell that made the guards shuffle their boots as if they could push closer without moving.

Holley arrived in the middle of it, basket tucked against her hip. She was hard to miss — barely five feet tall, curvy in all the right places, brunette hair streaked with bold green that caught the firelight. Her smile could soften anyone, but her eyes were bright and daring, already sizing up the room.

Derek gestured. “Ciara, this is Holley, my submissive. She’ll help you with the cakes and learn the recipe. Holley, meet Ciara. Ignore the Black Disc. That’s an order.”

Holley gave him a quick nod. “Got it.” Then she turned to Ciara with a smirk. “Looks like I’m your kitchen shadow today. Just don’t expect me to stay quiet while I measure flour.”

Ciara’s lips curved slightly. “So long as you stir gently, I think we’ll manage.”

Holley laughed, grabbing a spoon. “Gently’s not usually my style — but I’ll try not to start a war in the mixing bowl.”

The guards chuckled under their breath.

Ciara guided Holley’s hand. “Fold, don’t stir. It’s not about strength — it’s rhythm. Keep the air in or the cakes will sink.”

Holley exaggerated the motion. “Like this? Or am I summoning something instead of baking it?”

One guard barked out a laugh before he could swallow it down. Holley’s head snapped toward him, green streaks swinging. “Told you — worse than children. You’ve been drooling since the butter hit the pan.”

The man flushed, caught with honey on his fingers. Ciara arched a brow at him. “She’s not wrong.”

Holley grinned. “See? We’re already a team.”

Steam rolled up as the first tray came out, carrying sweetness so thick it clung to the walls. Ciara plated two cakes and handed them toward the guards. “For your patience, Sirs.”

They didn’t hesitate. One groaned in approval, the other closed his eyes as if the taste alone could keep him standing.

Even Ciara laughed then — soft, unguarded. For a moment she wasn’t the woman with a Disc around her neck. She was just herself.

Sir Derek had brought chalk-dusted knives to my quarters once, tossing one at my feet. “On your feet.”

The man was built like the barracks wall itself—well over six feet, broad through the shoulders, red hair cropped to a military cut, beard thick but trimmed close. Scars marked his skin in lines and patches, each one a map of places I’d never seen. His limp should have slowed him, but it didn’t. Not a fraction.

He smelled of cigars and gunpowder, a battlefield aura that cut through the chalk dust and sweat.

The first s***h across my ribs left a white streak. The second tapped my throat before I even reset my stance. He moved fast, faster than a man his size had a right to, the limp more feint than flaw. The smell of smoke trailed with every pivot, clinging to him as if it had sunk into his skin long ago.

By the time I lunged, my chest, thigh, and groin were already striped in chalk. I swung harder, desperate to land a mark. He pivoted clean, and another cold streak ran down my back. Laughter followed.

Later, peeling off my shirt in quarters, I saw it in the mirror: a giant “D” chalked bold across my shoulders. Derek’s humor cut as sharp as his knives, and the smell of cigars lingered on the fabric long after he’d left.

Now he filled the doorway of my quarters, scarred face set in faint amusement, his presence announced by that same sharp mix of smoke and powder.

“Well, my young friend,” Derek said warmly, “how’s your submissive holding up? That old quack’s had her long enough.”

I looked to her. “Well? Has there been?”

She bowed. “Sir Derek, my joints ache less than they have in years. My appetite has returned. I can move again. With respect, Sir — the Doctor is no quack.”

Derek’s laugh boomed, startling one of the younger guards. “Sharp tongue, sharper mind. She puts me in my place, Wildcard, and I can’t even fault her for it.”

“And loyal,” I added with a smile. “And she plays chess like it’s war.”

“Good.” Derek’s eye glinted. “Then see for yourself.”

At my door, five guards stood under crates and sacks, nearly staggering with the load.

“Ciara gave me her list,” Derek said. “So I filled it. And I’ve sent for Holley — she’ll help, and learn.”

Ciara’s eyes widened. “Sir Derek, this is too much. I only need enough for a couple hundred cakes. This could feed a thousand.”

Derek glanced at the pile as if noticing it fresh. “If it feeds ten or a thousand, I care little. Hungry mouths are never wasted.”

“It matters, Sir,” she said quickly. “To waste food would be wrong.”

“You told me once it’s no harder to make more than less. So — make more.”

“But the waste—”

His hand rose, final. “Make all you can. Take what’s needed for the celebration. Leave the rest to me.”

She pressed one last time. “What will you do with it?”

The door creaked open as guards carried the supplies inside. Derek’s smile returned. “I’ve got a barracks full of hungry men. Not a crumb will be wasted.”

The kitchen swelled with laughter again. Holley teased, Ciara countered, the guards joined in without shame. Ciara’s laugh surprised even herself — light, unguarded. For a heartbeat she felt weightless, as if the Disc at her throat didn’t exist. And for that moment, she let it be true.

I sat back and took it in. The warmth, the smell of sugar and spice, the ridiculous sight of armed men arguing over crumbs. This was the sort of room worth protecting. I should have savored it more — the ease, the normalcy. Because if Derek was right, it wouldn’t last.

Derek’s attention slid to the chessboard in the corner. “You play?”

“I know which piece jumps what,” I said.

“Good. Then we’ll play. And talk.” His voice dipped lower, smoke hanging heavy around it. “Too many banners hang in this House, Wildcard. And not all of them are loyal to Raven.”

I sat across from him, the laughter still echoing faint through the doorway. My grandmother’s words rose unbidden: If you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen.

But the heat wasn’t coming from the oven. It sat across the board from me, scarred and smiling, ready to place truths where pawns once stood.