Zeidan inclines his head. “Envoy.”
The greeting is smooth, but the air tightens anyway. The Concord delegates are not Purna; they do not carry our history in their bones, but they know enough to understand what it means for a Vrakken prince to stand behind a Purna heir.
Marcellan folds his hands again. “This negotiation was requested by Nytheria.”
“It still is,” Zeidan says calmly. “And it still concerns your routes.”
My mother’s gaze sharpens. She doesn’t like him speaking, but she doesn’t interrupt. Perhaps she understands what I do in that moment: I am not regaining control fast enough on my own.
Zeidan continues in the same measured tone. “If dusk-bloom resin is moving through Concord caravans, it is not only Nytheria at risk. Poison that destabilizes conduits does not discriminate by border.”
Marcellan’s mouth tightens. “The Concord does not tolerate threats.”
“I am not threatening,” Zeidan replies. “I am informing.”
It’s a perfect distinction, and I hate how effortlessly he makes it.
Marcellan sits back slightly. “Even if we were inclined to cooperate, our involvement invites retaliation. Velcryn is not known for patience.”
Zeidan’s gaze is steady. “Velcryn will not retaliate against cooperation that prevents wider collapse.”
Marcellan’s eyes narrow. “That is not a guarantee. That is an opinion.”
Zeidan doesn’t flinch. “Then take it as this: Velcryn benefits from stability. Nytheria benefits from stability. The Concord benefits from stability. If you refuse to assist because you fear political consequence, you will face a far worse consequence when the ley network fractures and your routes become unusable.”
It’s so reasonable. So clean. So compelling. And still, the negotiation slips. Because Marcellan’s gaze drops to me again, and there it is, an imperceptible hesitation, the subtle recalibration of someone deciding whether I am reliable enough to risk alliance.
His voice becomes polite. “Heir Crow, your circumstances are… complicated.”
“That is not my choice,” I reply.
“It becomes your responsibility,” he says.
I hold his gaze, but my magic hums restlessly beneath my skin, still off-balance from that flicker of foreign memory. I feel Zeidan’s frustration rise, controlled but present, and the fact that I can feel it at all makes my focus fracture further.
Marcellan stands. “The Concord will not open its ledgers to an internal dispute.”
My stomach drops. “This is not?—”
“It is,” he replies, gently and decisively. “When your foundation stabilizes, we may revisit this.”
He bows once, signaling finality, and the delegation follows him out like a tide retreating.
The hall empties too quickly afterward, as if no one wants to be caught standing too close to failure.
My mother’s mouth is a thin line. She does not reprimand me in front of Zeidan, but I can feel her disappointment like a weight.
When we return to our quarters, the silence between Zeidan and me feels thicker than any argument. We walk through Nytheria’s corridors side by side, close enough for the bond to hum quietly, not close enough to ease the tension that sits between our ribs.
The door shuts behind us. I turn first.
“I ruined it,” I say.
Zeidan’s gaze holds mine. “You faltered.”
The bluntness stings.
“I felt something,” I say again, more carefully. “When I mentioned the resin. Something that wasn’t mine. It pulled me off balance.”
