“His power signature has shifted.”
My jaw tightens.
“He is no longer anchored solely to Velcryn,” Serida continues. “His priorities will divide.”
“They already have,” another says.
Silence follows. Weighted. Deliberate.
Then the blade slides in.
“If the Crown begins to answer to two realms,” Serida says, “we must consider whether he remains fit to bear it.”
The words land without heat. Not anger. Procedure. Strip my title. Reassign command. Preserve Velcryn. I feel nothing at first. That is the training. The discipline. The steel forged into bone since childhood.
But beneath that cultivated stillness, something older shifts. They are not afraid of weakness. They are afraid of alignment.
“If he chooses her,” Yrelda says, “Velcryn will fracture.”
If.
I withdraw before they vote. I do not need to hear the rest. The intention is clear.
I walk from the tower with my posture unchanged and my pulse steady. They will not strip me easily. But they will try. And if they cannot control me…They will target what they can.
Amelia.
Nytheria feels brighterwhen I return to Amelia's home. Stronger in places where it once trembled. The Wildspont hums beneath the soil, clearer than before, responding to something forged in fire and flesh. The bond between us is steady when I cross the outer wards, warm and present.
She feels me instantly.
“There you are,” she sends lightly through the bond.
I do not answer. I cannot afford the softness in her mental voice.
Distance is protection.
If Velcryn moves against me, I will not have her standing within reach of the blade.
I find her at the coven council chamber hours later. She stands at the center of the circular floor, light spilling down from the open canopy above. Elders ring her in layered robes of moss-green and gold.
Vira stands closest. Of course she does.
“I will not apologize for cooperation,” Amelia says, voice steady despite the tension rippling through the chamber. “The Wildspont responded to shared magic. It is not corruption. It is restoration.”
Murmurs ripple outward.
“And what price will Nytheria pay?” Vira counters smoothly. “Already we feel Velcryn’s presence woven into our ley lines. Already our heir speaks with their authority.”
Amelia’s shoulders square. “I speak with my authority.”
“You speak with his,” Vira replies.
It is subtle. That humiliation. That suggestion that she stands because of me rather than beside me.
The council shifts. I remain in shadow near the high balcony, unseen. I should step forward.
I do not.
