Chapter Ninety-Six
Amethyst
Amethyst awaited her—a jewel, a throne, a cage.
They made the journey under a cloudless sky—no banners, no drums—only the steady beat of hooves and the muted creak of the consort’s carriage.
Xavien rode the right flank, just behind the wheel. Near enough that Amerei felt the weight of his glances. Far enough to cloak it as dignity.
She never looked his way. She could have traced him by the rhythm of the Sagittarii breathing.
By afternoon, Castle Amethyst lifted from the cliffs, violet-veined stone catching the sea’s light like a jewel meant to dazzle—and to conceal.
The inner courts dripped with age and wealth: swallows nesting beneath eaves, copper gutters gone green with time, a fountain whispering into a bowl of onyx.
The consort’s wing opened on a gallery above a cherry grove, the Eillish fig its crown jewel.
Jasmine strode beside Amerei, chin high, eyes everywhere.
“Mercy,” she breathed, irreverent, admiring. “So this is where all the elven tariffs go.”
Evander trailed two steps behind.
“Castle Rhidian is bigger,” he muttered, trying not to gape at the gilded molding.
Jasmine scoffed. “You do know this is only the prince’s house?”
And there he stood—rooted in the courtyard as though the castle itself had conjured him. Xavien, arms clasped behind his back, gaze softened as he watched his smallest children chase each other through the garden, a nurse trotting after.
A young woman soon joined him beneath the archway, braid unraveling against her pointed ears. She rose onto her toes, whispered something that set them both grinning, then flicked his beaded braid over his shoulder with careless familiarity.
Jasmine’s brightness dulled.
“His Highness did not send away his company before your arrival…”
Amerei let out a measured breath.
“That’s his daughter,” she said, recognizing her as the girl spun away.
They entered the suite—chambers dressed in silks catching the falling light. Jasmine glanced toward the parlor where Evander lingered, then eased the door halfway shut.
“Promise me,” she said to Amerei, voice low. “You won’t let him corner you. Men like Xavien prey on ladies’ naivety.”
Amerei covered a laugh, eyes meeting hers.
“Jasmine. We’ve no need to worry about that anymore.”
The corner of her mouth tipped.
“Tory's claimed me each night. Since the moment we were wed.”
Jasmine bit her lip, stifling a retort.
“Well… that explains why you’ve been walking like a battle mare and glowing like the moon.”
Amerei’s smile lingered. “It explains why I do not fear Xavien.”
She drifted back to the balcony, shadow falling across the column.
Below, Xavien still watched his children—
until a narrow, sharp-featured elf in scholar’s robes cut through the courtyard and bowed.
Urgent words at the prince’s ear.
A glance flicked upward—toward the consort’s wing.
Xavien’s chin lifted, tracking the windows. He settled his breath, nodded once, and followed the man into the inner corridors.
Jasmine steadied a hand on Amerei’s arm.
“Don’t. This is how court men make trouble.”
“It’s how court women end it,” Amerei said, turning away.
“Where are you going?” Evander asked, rising quickly.
“Stay here,” Amerei snapped. “If I’m not back in a quarter-hour, fetch the steward.”
He blocked her path.
“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“You will.”
“Amerei, you’re playing with fire.”
His brow furrowed, a spark in his eyes she’d never seen before.
“Líri warned me—you don’t know who your enemies are.”
“So I’ll stay here like his prisoner?”
Her hand was already on the door.
“No, Evander. Better I risk fire than choke on a cage.”
Her skirts whispered down the marble hall, servants straightening at her passage. The consort’s corridor bent toward the prince’s wing—colder stone, fewer tapestries, more guards. She didn’t falter.
At Xavien’s threshold two Sagittarii crossed their spears.
“The prince sent for me,” she said, voice light, posture innocent.
The slightest shift. They let her through.
Her hand trembled as she lifted it from the brass plate, letting the door fall behind her. Inside, lamplight danced on polished onyx. A farther door stood ajar. Water murmured beyond.
“Your Highness…”
She followed the sound into a chamber of dark stone and open windows. At its heart, a wide basin carved from a single slab, mist rising luminous as fog on summer air.
Amerei stilled.
She had seen its like in Zeporah’s chambers. Pools that bore the weight of war, that whispered fates of men.
Xavien stood half-turned, one hand over the surface, the other braced on the rim. Figures swam and sharpened—sands, banners, swords—the flash of wings.
“My queen,” he said calmly. “You find me at prayer.”
The surface went dark.
Amerei advanced, careful steps.
“Who were you watching, Xavien?”
Her eyes never left the pool.
A servant swept a goblet to his hand.
“Wine?”
“I prefer ale,” she said, finally meeting his gaze.
He smiled into the cup, a sound slipping soft from his throat.
“You so intrigue me.”
His eyes returned to the pool, then slid back to her.
“Have I sparked your interest, my lady? Or has Zeporah trained you in the arts?”
Her chin lifted, defiance flashing in her gaze.
“The usurper only ever taught me to survive people like her.”
Sunlight caught the gleam in Xavien’s dark brown eyes.
He drifted closer, serpent-smooth, each step shrinking the air between them.
“Then we are not so different, you and I,” his voice dropped, warm against her skin. “I too was sent away.”
He moved another pace, shoulders tilting toward her.
“Forced to duty I did not understand.”
His hand brushed the column beside her hip.
“Far from home. Far from all I knew and loved. The Isle of Eilles.”
She looked up. Viktor.
Mist clung to his serpent bracelet as he slid nearer still, his hand hovering at her waist, palm open.
“’Tis where elvish princes are kept—safe, prepared. I returned only upon marriage."
He leaned to her ear, breath stirring her hair.
“Just. Like. You.”
Her heart thundered, corset biting.
“I am told…” he murmured, fingers grazing her laces. “…you wed the Ruakite in a ceremoniless handfast.”
A beat.
A grin.
“You sweet sparrow… your marriage is as legitimate as my divorce.”
“You were told,” she said tightly. “Or you watched.”
“No one can see Fyreglade,” he said, almost kindly. “Nor would I need to. You told it yourself. Smoke, ash, the elders. The cliff, the sea, the chant. Seraphim.”
Her eyes slammed shut.
The onyx, the mist, fell away.
Only the space between them, closing like summer sun cresting mountains. Heat bled from his hand, near enough to touch. A breath more and he would.
“I sent a caravan east the morning after you left Westport—surgeons, axemen, builders. The finest. Your Ruakite rallies—Windmere, is it?”
Then lower:
“I sent the Sagittarii.”
His lips brushed her temple, his voice a whisper sharpened to cut.
“Open your eyes, Amerei.”
She did.
Sandstone flared, sea cut blue, towers she knew by heart—Rhidian.
“Your kingdom is falling apart,” he breathed at her hair. “Your nobles came to me. Your house sleeps under my roof. Even your lover begged me to take you. Fate has opened the door.”
Her hand trembled below her ribs.
“You guard your belly, my queen.”
She shuddered, eyes closed.
“You fear you already carry his child,” he said gently, tipping her chin so she was forced to meet his eyes.
“Don’t be afraid, my love,” he whispered.
“I will raise it as my own.”
Something snapped.
Her hand struck up.
He caught her wrist mid-swing.
“Firaen.”
(Feisty.)
She tore free.
“I’m not afraid, Xavien,” she said, pulse thundering.
“I’m hopeful. Hopeful that I bear his son—and that he looks just like him. So every time you see his face, you’ll remember who I belong to.”
For an instant, something raw cracked his composure—jealousy, loss. He buried it with a breath.
“You cannot love a ghost, Amerei. I’ve seen the darkness that awaits him.”
Her gaze fell to the basin’s rim, the water rippling as if it wanted to speak. She stepped closer, defiance sharpening her voice.
“What have you seen?”
Xavien’s hand swept over the pool, shadowing the surface. It seethed with shifting shapes—shadows of banners, wings, the gleam of steel—before he stilled. Closed his hand. Dropped it to his side.
“Join me in the garden,” he said, already turning.
“Miradoren.”
(Battlefields are for the mortal.)