Chapter 5 Ivanca Questions Duty

The castle corridors were quieter than usual, the torches casting long, wavering shadows that stretched like fingers across the stone floors. Ivanca Mace walked steadily, her boots clicking against the cold stone, each step measured, deliberate, disciplined. Yet despite her training, the weight of the day pressed on her chest in ways she could not suppress. The journal fragment lingered in her mind—the prophecy, the threads unseen, the warning that choice would demand courage and risk.

Duty had always been simple. Observe, enforce, protect the law, maintain order. But now, as Ivanca approached Ayra Veil’s cell, she felt the first undeniable cracks in the armor she had spent her life building. The witch was waiting, her posture relaxed, her emerald eyes gleaming with that same dangerous spark Ivanca could neither name nor resist.

“You return,” Ayra said, voice smooth, almost teasing. “Do you ever tire of the predictability of duty?”

Ivanca paused, her jaw tightening. “Duty is not a matter of choice,” she replied, keeping her voice steady, neutral. Yet even as she spoke, she felt the truth pressing against the edges of her discipline. She had trained her entire life to suppress distraction, to ignore temptation, to obey the crown without question. And yet, with Ayra Veil, she found herself questioning everything she had ever accepted as absolute.

“Not choice,” Ayra said softly, tilting her head. “But sometimes choice sneaks in, doesn’t it? A glance, a thought, a hesitation… suddenly, duty is not enough.”

Ivanca’s fingers flexed at her sides. She could not allow herself to falter. Every instinct urged her to maintain order, to distance herself from the pull Ayra represented. And yet, the pull was undeniable. It threaded through every glance, every word, every subtle movement, insinuating itself into her mind in ways she had never experienced before.

“You are clever,” Ivanca said, her tone measured, trying to assert authority she no longer fully felt. “And dangerous. That is why the crown has placed you in my care. That is why your every movement will be observed, every word recorded, every action contained.”

Ayra’s lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Contained?” she echoed, voice soft yet sharp. “Do you really believe chains and rules can hold me, Warden? Or do you fear something else—your own curiosity, your own… desire?”

Ivanca froze, the word hanging in the air like a blade. Desire. The thought had been forbidden, unimaginable, unspoken. And yet, she could feel it—subtle, insistent, growing. A dangerous pull toward the condemned witch, toward the spark she could neither extinguish nor fully comprehend.

“You speak as if I would indulge such thoughts,” Ivanca said finally, turning her gaze away, though her pulse betrayed her composure. “I am the warden. My duty is not influenced by… curiosity or fascination.”

“Perhaps,” Ayra murmured, leaning slightly closer, though the chains prevented real proximity. “Or perhaps duty is only a shield against what is inevitable. You feel it, don’t you? That tension between what is required and what cannot be denied.”

Ivanca’s chest tightened. She had expected defiance, provocation, even hostility. But this—this quiet awareness of her own stirrings, reflected back at her by the condemned witch—was something she had never anticipated. Her mind, trained to obey, to enforce, to maintain distance, now wavered. The lines between right and wrong, duty and desire, began to blur.

She stepped back, regaining a measure of composure. “I do not fail in my duty,” she said, voice firm, though the words felt hollow against the undercurrent of tension. “The crown’s command is clear. You will remain under my watch until the appointed time, and I will not… deviate.”

Ayra’s gaze softened, though it retained that spark of challenge. “Deviation is not always a choice,” she said quietly. “Sometimes it is destiny.”

Ivanca’s breath caught. Threads unseen. Choice. Courage. Risk. The fragment had warned her of these things, yet holding it in her mind now, hearing Ayra’s words, she felt the weight of prophecy pressing closer. She was no longer a mere observer. She was entwined in something far larger, far more dangerous, far more personal than she could have imagined.

The day passed slowly. Ivanca monitored Ayra with meticulous care, noting every subtle gesture, every fleeting expression. The chains confined her physically, yet her presence occupied far more space than the stone walls could contain. Every glance Ayra sent her way seemed deliberate, layered with meaning, hinting at a connection that neither chains nor law could sever.

By evening, the castle corridors were nearly empty, the torchlight dimmed, shadows stretching long and thin. Ivanca remained at her post outside the cell, conscious of every sound, every flicker of movement. And yet, her mind kept returning to the fragment, to Ayra’s eyes, to the spark she could neither name nor deny.

“You are restless,” Ayra said softly, voice carrying across the small gap between them. “Do you feel it, Warden? That tension? That pull?”

Ivanca swallowed, her fingers tightening at her sides. “I feel nothing that interferes with my duty,” she said, though even as she spoke, she knew it was not entirely true. The pull was there, insistent, unrelenting. She had trained to suppress every flicker of doubt, every whisper of emotion, yet now, she realized that some forces could not be contained by discipline alone.

Ayra’s smile was faint, knowing, almost triumphant. “Acknowledgment is the first step,” she said, “but the next step… the dangerous step… is choice.”

Ivanca felt a shiver, subtle yet profound. Her duty was clear, her orders explicit, her oath unwavering. And yet, in that moment, she questioned everything she had ever trusted. Threads unseen. Sparks that could not be contained. A pull she could neither resist nor fully understand.

And in the quiet of the chamber, Ivanca Mace realized, with a weight that pressed upon her very soul, that her duty was no longer simple. It was complicated, tangled, and fraught with danger.

The warden guarding the condemned witch had begun to see the impossible: that duty and desire were no longer separate, that every choice carried a risk far greater than obedience alone, and that the spark between them might ignite something neither could predict nor survive.