I let out a slow breath.
“She understood power the way a tactician understands terrain. She knew where influence pooled. Where doubt festered. She could stand in a council chamber and shift the direction of a vote without ever raising her voice.”
Amelia doesn’t interrupt. She just listens.
“I believed we were aligned,” I continue. “I thought her ambition ran parallel to mine. That she saw Velcryn the way I did, something to strengthen, to protect.”
My gaze drops briefly to the floor.
“She wasn’t admiring the armor. She was measuring its seams.”
The fire snaps softly behind us.
“She passed information to our enemies. Patrol routes. Border weaknesses. Timings precise enough that the ambush felt inevitable once it began. My brother was nearly killed in the snow because of it.”
I swallow once, not from emotion, but from habit.
“They left him with a blade through his side. The metal was etched with Vrakken script, my script. As if I had handed them the weapon myself.”
Amelia inhales sharply at that, but she stays silent.
“I tracked her for weeks,” I go on. “She was careful. Covered her signature. Used stolen runes to blur her trail. I found her in the northern ice caverns, where the air burns your lungs before the cold reaches bone.”
I lift my eyes to Amelia’s.
“She tried to explain.”
A pause.
“I didn’t let her.”
There is no heat in my voice, just finality.
“I ended it cleanly. No spectacle. No witnesses. The Council believes she vanished. My brother believes she fled. The truth stayed with me.”
The room feels smaller as I finish.
“That was the last time I mistook proximity for loyalty,” I say quietly. “The last time I allowed someone to stand close enough to learn where I am vulnerable.”
Amelia nods slowly, but there is something different in her gaze. Something like recognition.
“I understand why you don’t trust easily,” she says.
I study her for a long moment.
“You are not Sabrina,” I tell her.
Her chin lifts slightly. “I know.”
“And that terrifies me more than if you were.”
She blinks. “Why?”
“Because you are not subtle about your defiance. You do not manipulate quietly. You fight in the open. You argue. You challenge. You demand truth.” My voice lowers. “And I cannot predict you.”
A flicker of hurt crosses her face, quickly masked.
“I am not trying to outmaneuver you,” she says at last, her voice steady despite the strain I can see beneath it.
