My fingers curl weakly into the front of his tunic. He glances down instantly, alert, but I only shift closer, pressing my face into the space beneath his collarbone where his heartbeat is strong and steady.
He goes very still. Then his chin lowers gently to rest against my hair. I close my eyes. I don’t say the words. Not yet. They feel too sacred to spend in a hallway thick with smoke and fractured marble. But I let myself lean into him fully. Let myself be held.
His arms tighten just slightly, instinctive, protective.The bond answers with a quiet, contented warmth. Somewhere deep beneath the coven grounds, the Wildspont pulses again unstable and waiting.
But I am not afraid. And in his arms, eyes closed, heart steady against his, I let myself rest.
29
ZEIDAN
Silence settles slowly after violence. Not the hollow kind that follows fear, but something heavier, earned. The coven grounds are still scarred, cracked marble, blackened sigils, the faint metallic tang of spent magic hanging in the air, but for a while, nothing is actively breaking.
Amelia sleeps.
She lies on the narrow couch in my chambers, wrapped in linen and ward-warmth, her breathing slow and even. Color has returned to her cheeks, though exhaustion still clings to her like a second skin. I sit beside her with a basin of clean water and a folded cloth, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest as if that motion alone keeps the world intact.
I have not let go of her since I carried her from the council hall. I do not intend to start now.
When she stirs, it is subtle, her brow creasing, her fingers curling faintly as if searching for something. I move before she wakes fully, setting the basin aside and resting my hand over hers.
“I’m here,” I say quietly.
Her eyes open. For a moment, confusion flickers. Then recognition settles in, followed by something softer that loosens my chest in a way I am unprepared for.
“You stayed,” she murmurs.
“Yes.”
It is not a promise. It is a fact. She shifts, wincing slightly, and I brace her automatically. The injuries are not severe, burns, strain, the backlash of channeling too much power too fast, but they matter. She matters. I wet the cloth and begin cleaning the faint blood and ash from her forearm, slow and careful, my touch deliberately gentle.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says.
“I know.”
I continue anyway. She watches me from beneath half-lowered lashes, quiet now, the sharp edge of command absent. The heir rests. The woman remains.
“I thought you’d be furious,” she says after a moment.
I pause, cloth stilling against her skin. “I was.”
Her gaze sharpens slightly.
“I am not anymore.”
That earns me a small, surprised breath of laughter. “That’s new.”
“Don’t become accustomed to it.”
She smiles, and the sound of it does something dangerous to my composure. When I finish tending the last mark, I set the cloth aside and lean back, exhaling slowly. My shoulder aches where the earlier wound still mends, but the pain is distant, manageable. The bond hums between us, steady and low, like a hearth fire banked for the night.
“We need to talk about what comes next,” Amelia says.
I nod. “We do.”
She pushes herself upright with a determined little grunt, and I immediately reach to steady her. She allows it this time, leaning briefly into my support before straightening.
“Vira is contained,” she says. “But Malrend isn’t.”
