His expression darkens. “The one I’m barred from. I heard the Purnas mumbling they didn’t want me there.”
I nod. “They’ll say it’s sacred. That outsiders disrupt the balance.”
“And you believe that?” he asks.
“No,” I say honestly. “I think they’re afraid of what the gods might say if you’re present.”
He studies me. Then: “What do you want?”
I don’t hesitate. “I want you there.”
His brows draw together, shadows sharpening the lines of his face. “They won’t allow it.”
“I know. They’ll sense your Vrakken magic the moment you cross the circle. But I want you there, so I will talk with the council.”
“Then why insist?” he asks quietly. “Why fight them on this?”
Because the thought of you standing outside while my gods judge my people makes my stomach twist. Because if this bond is going to drag us both into ruin, I won’t let you be a ghost haunting the edges of my life.
Instead, I say, “Because you should see us as we are. Not just when we’re desperate.”
His gaze holds mine, searching for the lie I’m not giving him.
“You said it yourself,” I continue. “We’re mates. Whether we like the word or not. And if you’re going to stand in my land and touch its magic, you don’t get to be blind to the rituals that shaped it.”
He is silent for a moment then says dryly: “You’re planning something.”
I smile. “I always am.”
The Purnas forbidhim to attend, as I expected. They frame it as the most important ceremony that is very sacred and important for our balance and tradition. I listen, nod, thank them for their concern, and walk straight back to Zeidan’s chambers.
He’s removing his gloves when I enter.
“They said no,” he says without looking at me.
“Correct.”
“You look pleased.”
“I’m improvising.”
That finally earns me his full attention. He turns slowly, black eyes narrowing. “Amelia.”
“You’re attending,” I say. “Just not as yourself.”
He looks at me like I have lost my mind.
“Explain.”
I cross the room and reach for the wardrobe, already rifling through the folded ceremonial garments stored there for visiting dignitaries. “The ritual allows witnesses. They just don’t want you. So you’ll be someone else.”
“You plan to disguise a Vrakken prince,” he says flatly, “inside a consecrated god-circle.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds reckless.”
His mouth twitches despite himself.
I hold up a layered tunic of ash-gray linen, woven with grounding thread. “This will dampen your aura. Not erase it. But soften it enough to blend.”
