I like him, and the admission tastes like betrayal in my mouth because part of me wants to be angry at him more than I want to want him.
He does not trust me. Not fully. Not in the way I am beginning, unwillingly, to trust him.
He told me outright that he believes I am capable of choosing Nytheria over him if forced. He is right, and yet the way he said it still cuts. I have spent my entire life being treated as useful before I was treated as loved, as a tool before I was treated as a person. I did not realize how much I feared being placed back into that category until Zeidan did it with that calm, clinical certainty he wears like armor.
I drag a hand through my hair and stare at the door. I cannot afford to nurse hurt feelings. I cannot afford to crave trust like it is a luxury when my land is starving.
The bond presses again, a quiet tug. He is still close, even if we aren’t speaking. I hate that part of me finds comfort in it.
A soft knock breaks my thoughts.
“Amelia.” My mother’s voice, clipped by impatience and worry.
I open the door. She stands in the corridor in ceremonial robes she has no time for, her hair braided tight and pinned back like she is physically holding herself together. Her eyes scan my face, sharp and unsoftened by concern, but I know her too well. That tightness around her mouth is fear disguised as authority.
“You are needed,” she says.
“For what?”
“For allies,” she replies. “We cannot stabilize Nytheria on pride alone. We need support outside our inner circle. Weneed routes for supplies. Healers. Trade access. Neutral eyes that can’t be bought by our elders. I have arranged a sacred negotiation with the Southern Concord.”
I go still. “The Concord avoids entanglement. They’ll refuse.”
“They will refuse if you appear unstable,” she says flatly. “They will refuse if you bring political chaos into their halls. But they will listen if you offer them something worth listening to.”
“And what would that be?” I ask, though I already know.
My mother’s gaze flicks briefly toward the end of the corridor as if she expects Zeidan to appear out of shadow.
“Truth,” she says. “And access. They will want assurance that our borders won’t collapse and swallow their routes. They will want to know Velcryn will not retaliate against them for involvement.”
I swallow. “So you want me to negotiate with one hand tied behind my back while everyone stares at my bond like it’s a weapon.”
“I want you to secure allies,” she corrects. “Because if you don’t, Nytheria fractures. And when Nytheria fractures, the elders will turn on you. They will blame you for what they couldn’t prevent.”
The words are not cruel. They are matter-of-fact, like a diagnosis.
I nod once. “When?”
“Now,” she says. “The Concord delegation arrived this morning.”
I stare at her. “You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want you arguing,” she replies, and her mouth tightens. “Do you have the capacity to do what must be done, Amelia? Or do you need to recover from whatever happened between you and your prince in a corridor?”
Heat crawls up my neck. I hate that it does. I hate that she noticed anything at all.
“What happened between me and Zeidan is irrelevant,” I say, forcing my voice steady.
My mother’s eyes narrow. “Nothing is irrelevant when it touches leadership.”
I hold her gaze until she looks away first.
“Where is the meeting?” I ask.
“The upper canopy hall,” she says. “They are waiting.”
The upper canopyhall is designed for ritual diplomacy, which is exactly why I hate it. The walls are carved from living wood and polished stone, open to the filtered light of the trees above. Prayer lanterns hang in the corners, their glow gentle, meant to make everyone feel safe. There are no blades visible, no harsh angles, no places for fear to grip.
