“She shouldn’t have brought him,” someone mutters.
Amelia moves beside me then, spine straight despite the tremor I feel under my skin. “If he hadn’t been here,” she says, voice shaking but clear, “I’d be dead.”
Silence slams down, and I seize it.
“You forbade my presence,” I continue, voice cutting through the night, “and yet the land responded more strongly in those moments than it has in months.” I gesture sharply at the ground, still humming beneath our feet. “Because together, our magic is stronger than yours is alone.”
I can feel their anger flare and fear sharpen, but they need to hear it.
“Whether you like it or not,” I say, “I am not your enemy tonight.”
I lean forward slightly, letting just enough of my power bleed through for emphasis.
“But whoever sent that assassin is.”
This grabs their attention. Guards surge forward at last, dragging the unconscious attacker away. The ritual circle lies shattered, its sigils cracked and bleeding light into the soil. The gods have gone silent again… unsettled and disturbed.
I turn back to Amelia. And that’s when I see it. Blood. Her blood.
A thin, dark line seeps through the fabric at her side, just below her ribs. Not much. Barely visible. But the bond howls in response. My hands are on her before she can speak.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” she starts, automatically.
I rip the fabric aside.
The cut is shallow, but wrong. The flesh around it is already darkening, veins spidering outward in an ugly, unnatural pattern. My stomach drops.
Poison.
Cold fear, real fear, claws up my spine.
“Healer,” I bark, voice cracking stone. “Now.”
They scatter instantly. Amelia sways. I catch her, hauling her against my chest without caring who sees, who judges, who whispers. Her magic lashes again, wild and sharp, reacting to the toxin and the broken ritual, burning too hot, too fast.
“I’m fine,” she insists weakly.
“You’re not,” I say, pressing my forehead briefly to hers, grounding both of us. “And you will stop lying to me.”
Her eyes meet mine, furious, frightened, alive.
Good. Alive.
The healer arrives at a run, eyes widening at the sight of the wound. “That blade?—”
“Was poisoned,” I finish. “Treat it as such.”
They work quickly, murmuring prayers and incantations, drawing the toxin out drop by drop. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I feel every spike of her pain as if it’s my own.
When it’s done, she’s exhausted, pale, magic still restless beneath her skin. Too restless. The interruption has destabilized something. I can feel it, her power no longer settling the way it should, surging unpredictably, like a river knocked from its banks.
I don’t say it yet. I won’t frighten her more than necessary. But as I hold her upright, as the crowd finally disperses and the night settles into uneasy quiet, something colder coils in my gut.
This wasn’t random. The assassin knew where to strike. Knew the ritual timing. Knew how exposed she’d be. Someone here helped them. The bond hums low and ominous, feeding me certainty I don’t want.
This was only the beginning. And whoever is working against us will not stop until Amelia Crow is broken, or dead.
