Chapter Sixty
The Weight of Her Name
A daughter, a bride, a queen-to-be—
the weight of her name pressed heavier than any crown.
Her braids had long since unraveled in the hours spent bent over the parchment, hair falling in loose waves across her shoulders. Ink smudged her fingers, shadows rimmed her eyes.
Evander sat perched like a crow on the corner of her desk, reading with maddening leisure.
“Do you think it will hold in the elven Senate?” Amerei asked, the question sharper than she meant it.
“It’s…”
Evander narrowed his eyes, mouth quirking as he skimmed her script.
“…thorough.”
She snatched the pages from his hand.
“I ought to have Gabriel read it. He’ll know if it’s ready for Vykenra.” Her gaze darted to the door—empty, waiting. “Where is he?”
Evander stretched, stealing the untouched glass of wine from her table.
“Haven’t seen him since morning.”
“Is Viktor still at the apothecary?” she asked.
Evander smirked over the rim of the glass.
“Lost your husband already?”
He choked on his sip when she shoved him off the desk. She caught the glass before it spilled, glaring.
“Not a drop!” he croaked.
“You can go.” She rose, dragging her hair over one shoulder, needing space, needing air. “I need a moment.”
He twisted his mouth, tempted to argue—but instead slunk to the door.
“I’ll find food. You need to eat before your ribs start fencing each other.”
She rolled her eyes.
The door shut behind him—and silence fell like a shroud.
Amerei crossed to the basin, washing ink from her hands.
When her reflection lifted from the water’s glassy surface, her throat tightened. Her collarbones jutted sharper than she remembered. The robe hung loose at her chest, as if it belonged to someone else—someone hollowed.
Suddenly, her heart ached.
What if she wasn’t enough—not as queen, not as wife.
What if, when he touched her, he found only tremor where courage should have been?
She pressed her palms against the basin, willing the thoughts to scatter. But when she lifted her gaze again, tears blurred her reflection. Her hands clutched her waist as if she could still the trembling there.
The corset did not help.
The beading did not help.
Nothing helped.
“You wanted to marry for love,” she whispered to the wavering girl in the mirror. “Now you’re afraid to believe it.”
A breath.
Her feet carried her before her mind caught up.
She left the basin, crossed her chamber, flung open the door.
Down the hall, into another—her father’s.
“Amerei?” Storne looked up from his work, startled.
A tray of food teetered on the edge of his desk, half-buried beneath untidy stacks of papers.
“Shouldn’t you be dressing for your handfast?” he asked, voice clipped, as the door shut behind her.
Amerei couldn’t answer.
Some foolish part of her longed for him to see her heart, to name what she could not. But Storne only frowned and said, “You don’t expect me to help you. Do you?”
That was all it took—a single reminder that even on the most important day of her life, she would stand alone.
Her eyes closed. Tears slipped hot down her cheeks.
Storne didn’t notice at first—but when he did, his face fell. He pushed his work aside and came to her.
“Darling…” he said, almost laughing, though his eyes searched her face. “What’s all this about?”
Something struck deep in Amerei—a question she had carried for years but never dared give voice. She lifted her tear-streaked face, voice breaking.
“Why did you never remarry?”
Storne opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He studied her a long moment, weighing his words.
At last he said, “Playing kingmaker all these years has made my life… complicated.” His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek. “And besides—of all the women reckless enough to fancy me, how could I ever choose just one?”
A breath caught in Amerei’s chest.
She stepped back, an ember sparking beneath her ribs.
“Is that the way of it, then?”
She sank into the nearest chair, swinging her legs to the side as though bracing herself.
“Is it foolish,” she asked, “to believe a man could give himself to one woman all his days?”
“Amerei—”
“Or perhaps it’s crueler still. Prince Xavien thinks it nothing to cast off a wife when he’s done with her.”
“Viktor,” Storne said, shaking his head. His voice carried no hesitation. “Is not Xavien.”
He leaned back against the bookshelf, arms folding tight across his chest. The silence that followed was its own weight.
“Now—are you going to tell me what the bastard did?”
“Viktor didn’t do anything,” Amerei said at once.
But her hands knotted in her lap, and her gaze fixed anywhere but her father. She thought back to Viktor running off toward the apothecary. She didn’t say it aloud. She didn’t need to.
Storne sighed.
“That soldier who asked me for your hand this morning… that was a man who has waited his whole life to prove his loyalty to something he truly believes in.”
Amerei curled her legs into the chair, wrapping her arms around them.
“So he’s impervious to straying?”
Storne unwedged a book from the shelf and flipped it open, laughter rumbling faint beneath his breath.
“Temptation will come, yes. You are marrying a man, after all.”
He closed the book and settled beside her.
“But so long as his vow matters more than his desire, he’ll find the strength to overcome it. And that is his burden, Amerei. Not yours.”
He caught her hand, thumb brushing across her knuckles.
“You may inspire him to be honorable. But you cannot force it.”
He bent, pressing his lips to her hand.
“Remember that, in all things.”
She turned her face away, voice fraying.
“I fear he’ll come to regret it. Regret… me.”
Storne leaned back, arms folding.
“Regret the crown that comes with you, perhaps. Rising from soldier to consort isn’t a small climb.”
His gaze held hers, steady.
“But regret you? No, Amerei. Not him.”
She buried her face against her arms. He was right. And still—it did not ease her.
He gently pried her hands apart, folding them into his.
“Viktor is mad for you. And the fact you feel this helpless tells me you’re mad for him, too. Dask, I would give anything to go back to those days with your mother.”
She tried to look at him, but her eyes closed against the weight of it.
Storne’s laugh came rough, almost disbelieving.
“The man bears the weight of the world, Amerei. Yet he lays it all down—just to marry you.”
His thumb brushed her cheek.
“Do you know what he learned today?”
Her eyes flicked open.
“The Midnight,” Storne said, glancing up as if searching for footing. “The blind boy apprenticed under Saecily?”
“Yes?”
“They’re brothers, Amerei.”
He exhaled hard, as if the truth itself pressed on him.
“Eiliyah Aradostylan is Viktor’s mother.”
“What?”
She dropped her arms, sitting back just enough to catch her breath.
His mother. His brother. The Midnight. Stars, I must—
“I have to go to him.”
She wiped her tears and pushed to rise.
“I have to be with Viktor.”
“Hold on.”
Storne guided her gently back into the chair.
“He’s busy—writing wedding vows.”
“He is?”
“Yes.”
Storne’s mouth tugged into a smile, dry as flint.
“And I will say it again—you should be dressing.”
Amerei bit her lip, fighting tears.
“I wish Jasmine and the other girls were here. I only have Sylvie to help me.”
Storne’s mouth quirked.
“We’ll have a proper wedding for you in time. Until then, you’ll have to settle for old Sylvie fussing at you.”
He wrapped one arm around her.
“…and your Líri.”
“Líri is coming?”
Her green eyes lifted, bright with sudden hope.
Storne’s mouth twitched.
“She’s here.”
He pressed his lips to her hair.
“I sent Matteo to fetch her from Irongate at first light.”
Amerei blinked. His mother. Her grandmother.
At last, she smiled.
“Dry your eyes,” Storne said, mock-gruff. “You’ll get no sympathy from her. She’s long missed her own Ruakite.”
“Speak of the sea and it arrives on the tide…” a voice called from the other side of the door.
Amerei’s feet barely touched the floor as she hurried to open it.
“Líri!”
Lady Juliet Rydan Storne swept in—a golden-haired she-elf with a tongue as sharp as her wit. She cupped Amerei’s face, her smile bright as sealight.
“Of all the men in the realm—how did my granddaughter find a Ruakite?”
“He came to us, actually,” Storne muttered.
Amerei laughed as Juliet shot him a glare that clearly meant, I wasn’t speaking to you. Her fingers combed through Amerei’s loosened hair, clicking her tongue.
“Is this how you intend to give yourself to a husband? Ink-stained and untamed?”
“I’ve been writing all day, Líri.” Amerei blushed. “I have a speech to give before the Senate tomorrow.”
Juliet lifted her chin with gentle fingers.
“Then we’ll dress you to face the elves tomorrow… and undress you for your husband tonight.”
“Spare me, Mother.” Storne cleared his throat as he turned back toward his desk.
Juliet’s eyes narrowed, fierce as flint.
“I gave birth in the middle of a siege, Masten. You’ll survive a few mentions of lace.”
She drew Amerei to her feet with one hand at her elbow, the other wrapping firmly around her fingers.
“I had Sylvie draw your bath. Your Ruakite will not resist the scent of moonblossom—”
“Dask, Mother!” Storne growled.
Juliet huffed under her breath, sweeping Amerei out into the hall.
“He acts as though he never caused me grief enough to gray my hair when he was courting your mother. I’m astonished you didn’t come sooner.”
Amerei’s laughter was light on her tongue, but something caught her eye on the veranda. She lingered as Juliet stepped into her chamber door.
“Amerei!” Evander’s voice rang from the corridor. “Your Líri is here!”
He nearly tripped over his own boots when he reached them, stopping short with a bow. Juliet’s gaze cut to him, sharp as a blade measuring steel.
“Good day, my lady,” he said, low and proper.
“Hello, Evander…”
Juliet’s tone lingered, cool appraisal threading through it.
“I should have known wherever Amerei stands, you’d be underfoot.”
Amerei hid a smile, pointing to the two small bags dangling from his hands.
He held up the parcels one by one. “Rosemary bread, soft cheese, honeyed herbs.”
“Bless you.” Amerei snatched them both, clutching them like treasure.
Juliet tilted her head. “And why are you here, Evander?”
He tucked his hands behind his back.
“Saecily asks for a lock of your hair.”
Juliet’s brow creased.
“A lock of Amerei’s hair,” he clarified quickly.
“What for?”
“It’s tradition.”
Juliet’s voice cut sharper. “Whose tradition?”
Amerei slipped to her grandmother’s side, her hand curling around Juliet’s arm.
“My betrothed is from Aerdania,” she said gently.
Evander sprawled into the nearest chair with a sigh.
Juliet threaded her fingers through Amerei’s hair, letting the golden strands spill like silk over her hand. “How much does she demand?”
“Same length as his.” Evander spread his palms a foot apart. “About this long.”
Juliet extended her hand without hesitation. Evander drew his knife, quick and sure. She gathered a lock from the back of Amerei’s head, severing it clean at the shoulder.
“The young men are wearing their hair long again,” Juliet murmured as she placed the strand in Evander’s palm. “Elven fashion bleeds back into the human world, it seems.”
Evander nodded, already sinking back into the chair.
Amerei grinned, silently willing Juliet to notice. She didn’t have to wait long.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Evander?” Juliet’s tone cut like glass.
He only shrugged. “Not particularly.”
Amerei glanced toward her grandmother. I know that look…
Juliet moved like a circling hawk.
“Firstly—she is Princess Amerei. You will not forget her title again.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Secondly. You claim to be a soldier now. Why are you not at your captain’s side?”
“I don’t know where—”
“Lastly.” Juliet planted herself at the door, hand outstretched like a spear barring his path. “Go to the second floor. See if my ladies require anything.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He rose more slowly this time, ducking his head as he edged toward the hall.
Her words rang like steel against stone.
“And hear me well, Lieutenant—I forbid you from stepping into this room again today.”
“Understood, my lady.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Juliet exhaled, then smirked.
“That stallion needs a mare to chase. Lucky for him, I brought a few with me.”
Amerei turned aside, fighting a smile that tugged treacherously at her lips.
Oh, Evander…
Sylvie entered quietly, towels folded over her arm, eyes warm with knowing. She bowed to Juliet. “Ready, my lady.”
Together, the three crossed into the bathing chamber.
The silver tub gleamed, fragrant steam spilling into the room as Sylvie stirred the water. Oil, herbs, and petals waited at its rim like an offering.
Amerei drew a long breath. The day was not yet over—but for one suspended heartbeat, it felt as though the whole world exhaled with her.
Quiet at last.