“Of her?”
I glance toward Nytheria’s inner gardens, where I can feel Amelia’s presence like a steady flame.
“No,” I answer.
“Of what happens when you choose without them.”
Above us, Velcryn sky-wards flicker. Watching. Let them. Because they have just made one catastrophic misjudgment. They think stripping my title removes my authority. They forget authority was never granted. It was inherited.
And power, real power, does not require a throne. Now we move.
28
AMELIA
The council chamber has always felt like a sanctuary. Today it feels like a courtroom.
Light filters down through the canopy vents in fractured beams, catching in the suspended dust of old incense and root pollen. The Wildspont hums beneath the stone floor in low, irregular pulses. The air is heavy with old wood, ceremonial oil, and expectation.
Every elder is present. Vira stands near the center. She does not look concerned. She looks prepared.
Zeidan is not here. I asked him not to be. This must begin as Nytheria’s reckoning, not Velcryn interference. But the bond sits alert beneath my ribs, steady and watchful, a silent reassurance that I am not alone even when I stand by myself.
I step forward into the circle.
“I invoke Root Statute Seven,” I say.
The chamber stills.
Emergency authority is not used lightly. Elder Crow, my mother, folds her hands into her sleeves. “State your claim, Heir.”
I do not look at Vira yet.
“Corruption of sacred ground. Unauthorized alliance with hostile external magic. Endangerment of Nytherian citizens. I accuse Vira of all that.”
Now I look at her. Her smile is faint. Almost indulgent.
“Strong accusations,” she says gently. “From someone recently recovering from magical instability.”
There it is subtle, and public humiliation. The elders shift uncomfortably.
“I brought evidence,” I reply.
That earns a flicker in her eyes. I place the artifact on the central stone table. Its metal catches the filtered light, the three-rooted contraction glyph visible now that I’ve removed the masking weave.
Murmurs begin. Vira does not move.
“Artifacts circulate,” she says calmly. “My weave has been studied for centuries. You cannot possibly think?—”
I unfold the coded parchment beside it. Shipment confirmed. Root integrity stable. External partner satisfied. The air changes.
“You signed this,” I say.
Now she goes still. Not shocked. Calculating.
“You misunderstand what you’re reading,” she says softly.
“Then clarify it.”
