Violet Chains

Like Smoke In A Lock Room

Duskmere’s skies wept again. It wasn’t rain that fell—it was memory. Cold, lingering, unrelenting. Iris sat by the window of the herbal shop’s attic room, chin resting on his hand as fat droplets streamed down the cracked pane like the ghosts of old tears. His breath fogged the glass slightly with every quiet exhale. The shop below was closed for the day. Cera had gone out for errands, giving him the rare gift of silence. But silence never meant peace. Not in Iris’s head. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Almond since the confrontation at the Drevar gate. That man’s voice had tangled itself around his ribs like ivy. Smooth, quiet, invasive. His words hadn’t threatened—but they hadn’t needed to. Almond’s presence was the threat. His interest came with shadows attached. Iris hated that he’d gone to the mansion in the first place. Hated that part of him had wanted Almond to chase him, to pull him in, to mean something to someone powerful—even if it was dangerous. That night at the alley had meant something. He just didn’t know what yet. He caught his reflection in the window—pale skin, disheveled dark hair, lips that looked too soft for the words that often came out of them. There were shadows under his eyes and an old scar across his collarbone that never faded. That scar reminded him: he wasn’t soft. Not really. But Almond had seen something else in him. And that unsettled him. A knock on the door shattered the quiet. Iris tensed. Then came Cera’s voice: “It’s me.” He exhaled. “Come in.” She entered, arms loaded with a basket of vegetables and dry roots. Her boots were muddy and her hair damp from the rain, but her eyes sharpened the moment they landed on him. “You’re still thinking about him,” she said simply, setting the basket down with a sigh. “Is it that obvious?” Iris didn’t look away from the window. “You don’t pace when you’re fine. You stare at nothing. That’s worse.” He stayed quiet for a moment. Then, without turning around, he said softly, “He looked at me like I was a puzzle. Not a poor boy with callused hands. Not some street trash. Not a tool. He looked at me like... like I was real.” Cera sat beside him slowly. “Sometimes the ones who stare like that are the ones who’ll undo you.” Iris smiled without humor. “Too late.” Cera reached over and placed a firm hand on his. “You’re not broken, Iris. You’ve just been used too many times. That’s not the same.” His throat tightened. He looked down at their hands. “Do you think it’s possible to be... seen? And not just wanted?” Cera didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she said, “If you’re asking that, then I’m guessing Almond Drevar didn’t just look at you. He saw through you.” “He asked about my name. Mocked it. Said it was a flower.” “You’re thornier than any flower I’ve seen.” Iris finally laughed—a small, fractured sound. He leaned into Cera for just a second, letting himself feel safe. “I’ve never been scared of men like him,” he whispered. “You’re not scared now. You’re drawn. That’s worse.” --- That night, when Cera was asleep in the lower room, Iris lit a single candle and sat on the attic floor. The warmth flickered across his sharp cheekbones and tired eyes. He pulled out the leather-bound notebook he hadn’t opened in months. Pages of rough herbal sketches filled the earlier sheets, but tonight, he flipped to a blank page. He began to write. Not potions. Not poisons. But memories. “He told me I looked better angry. Said it made me honest. I didn’t ask what he looked like honest—because I knew I wouldn’t survive the answer.” He closed the notebook and stared into the candle’s flame until his vision blurred. The fire reminded him of a night long ago—a fire that hadn’t been kind. --- Years ago. He was ten. The streets had no names, just curses. His father had left when he was four. His mother had turned to drink, then to anger, then to nothing. When she died, no one cared. Not even him. He’d survived by lying, stealing, running. Then came the merchant. A man who promised food in exchange for errands. It wasn’t food he wanted. Iris didn’t like to remember that part. But the bruises didn’t forget. He ran again. This time he didn’t stop. He lived in an abandoned carriage for three weeks. Ate from trash bins. Got sick. Nearly died. Until a girl found him. Cera. She brought him broth, then books. She taught him about herbs, medicine, and how to build walls taller than words. Iris never asked her why. She never answered. Now, ten years later, she was still the only person who knew everything. Everything—except what Almond had made him feel. --- Across the city, Almond Drevar stood on the marble balcony of his private study. Rain pooled at his feet. His gloves were off. The symbol of House Drevar pulsed faintly beneath his collarbone, but it wasn’t magic he was thinking of tonight. It was a boy with haunted eyes and fire in his voice. A boy who hadn’t flinched when most men would kneel. “He’ll ruin you,” came a voice from behind. Lord Vaynor, his father, stepped into the room, his robes immaculate despite the weather. “I know,” Almond said. And yet his lips curled into a quiet, reverent smile. “You think this is romance?” Lord Vaynor’s voice was sharp. “You think you can pull some gutter rat into this house without consequence?” Almond turned slowly. “I think... I’ve never seen anyone quite like him.” “Then burn the image before it infects your mind.” “I’d rather feed the fire.” Lord Vaynor’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve always been reckless. But I won’t let your whims undo this House.” “You can try to stop me,” Almond said softly. “But you’ll lose.” Silence stretched. Then Vaynor left, cloak sweeping behind him. Almond turned back to the rain. The candlelight from Iris’s attic would be visible from here, if he looked hard enough. And he did.