Amelia stiffens. I feel her surprise, relief, irritation all tangled together. I step beside her, close enough that my presence shields her instinctively. The magic responds, flaring just beneath the skin.
The moment I close the distance between us, the bond exhales. So do I.
The tension bleeding through her steadies almost immediately, like a held breath finally released. Her shoulders lower a fraction. Her pulse evens beneath the magic thrumming between us. She doesn’t look at me, but she feels me.
The bond feels less like a wound and more like an anchor. I stay close.
“I was invited,” I continue. “And until the Wildspont stabilizes, she acts with my authority.”
Murmurs ripple.
Cael bristles. “This is Purna land.”
“And it’s collapsing,” I say coldly. “Unless you’d like me to leave and take my support with me.”
Silence. Amelia doesn’t look at me, but I feel her steady slightly, her spine straightening.
“Proceed,” her mother says at last.
The meeting resumes, tense and brittle. I remain at Amelia’s side, my presence a quiet warning. When voices rise too sharply, I shift closer. When accusations sharpen, my magic brushes the edges of the room, subtle but unmistakable.
They argue about precedent. About borders. About whether accepting Vrakken magic will poison the Wildspont further or expose them to domination they can’t undo.
They argue about history. I listen until patience runs thin.
“The Wildspont doesn’t care about your grudges,” I say flatly. “It’s unraveling. You can either adapt, or bury yourselves with it.”
Amelia doesn’t interrupt. She lets me speak.
Smart.
“The anchors will not replace your magic,” I continue. “They will reinforce it. Buy time. Nothing more.”
“And the cost?” Cael demands.
I meet his gaze. “Change.”
That terrifies them more than extinction.
I am just about to say something more when the bond pulses. Then…everything fractures. The room disappears. I am no longer standing in Nytheria. I see through her eyes.
Ash falls from a blackened sky. The Wildspont is gone, replaced by twisted roots choking the land. The coven hall lies in ruins, its stones melted, cracked, crowned with fire.
Amelia stands alone. She wears a crown of ash and blood. Her eyes glow with ancient power, too much, too wild, and when she looks down at her hands, they are stained dark.
Dead bodies surround her. Not enemies. Her people.
She turns, searching for me. I try to reach her. I scream her name…and the vision shatters.
I stagger, catching myself on the table as the present snaps back into place. Amelia gasps, gripping my arm, her nails biting through fabric.
“You saw it,” she whispers.
I meet her eyes, heart hammering.
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
