Chapter Ninety-Seven
Send My Husband Soldiers
Her bodice torn, her voice unshaken—love made into command.
The consort’s suite breathed lavender and light as Amerei slipped back through the door. Jasmine was on her feet before the latch had settled. Evander rose so fast he knocked a comb to the floor.
“What happened?” they asked together.
Amerei crossed to the wash-stand, unpinning her cloak with steady fingers.
“He prays in water,” she said, meeting Jasmine’s gaze in the mirror.
“He scries,” Jasmine whispered, seething.
She hurried closer.
“You didn’t look in the basin?”
“No.”
“You remember what I’ve told you before?”
“Yes.”
“Amerei…” Her hands fell from the cloak. “It’s more than just a crime. It’s dangerous. An open door—”
“Swings both ways,” Amerei finished softly. “I know.”
“Good.”
Jasmine stepped back, drawing the comb through Amerei’s hair.
“You’ll be fine,” she said. “So long as you don’t let that man’s face make you foolish.”
Evander huffed from the doorway. “His face?”
“Oh, come off it,” Jasmine snapped, tugging through a knot. “The Draekenra line breeds problems. Tall ones. Symmetrical ones. Cheekbones sharp enough to split kindling. A mouth like sin you promise not to repeat.”
“I don’t see it,” Evander rasped.
“You don’t have to. You’re not the target,” Jasmine said, eyes flicking to Amerei.
Their glances met in the mirror. Amerei turned her head toward the parlor.
“Out, Evander.”
“My duty—”
“Is to keep the door.”
Her gaze did not waver.
“Out.”
He bristled, then bowed
“I’ll be right there.”
The door clicked shut.
Silence folded close.
Jasmine’s comb paused mid-stroke.
“Well?”
Amerei’s mouth curved.
“I want to rattle the prince.”
Jasmine’s brow arched.
“Define rattle.”
Amerei rose, sliding open the lacquered wardrobe. Silk sighed.
“If he means to play court, I’ll play better.”
She nodded toward the chest.
“Fetch my ring—and the cloak I wore riding in.”
“Your ring?”
“He knows,” Amerei said. “And I intend to make him remember it.”
She sifted through silks and moon-pale linens until she drew free a gown violet as Amethyst stone at dusk.
“This one.”
The neckline cut clean—a ruthless dip, tasteful until it wasn’t. The seams at the bust fine as a whisper.
“Oh, she bites,” Jasmine grinned, wicked. “He won’t know whether to kneel or pray.”
They worked fast—Jasmine’s pulls lacing Amerei tight, lifting her breasts. Organza fell sheer over skirts, catching light like mist. A violet sash crossed beneath her bust and tied at the ribs.
“My cloak,” Amerei said, her hand brushing the inner seam.
Jasmine stilled at the glint of Viktor’s knife.
“How did you smuggle that past the guards?”
Amerei slid the sheath into the gusset.
“Something my husband taught me.”
Jasmine’s mouth tipped.
“I love that man already.”
Amerei lifted her wedding band from its chain and let it rest against her chest.
“To the garden,” she said, taking Jasmine’s hand.
Jasmine hooked Evander’s sleeve as they passed.
“You’re with us, Lieutenant.”
He pivoted dutifully—then caught the neckline.
He choked, eyes snapping to the ceiling.
“Fetch your dignity, boy,” Jasmine growled, jerking him forward.
The gardens of Amethyst waited—linen poured like cream, silver set to perfect angles, turquoise glass catching fire in the sun. A low table gleamed beneath the Eillish fig, its shade as soft as silk.
Xavien rose, taking Amerei in the way heat consumes wax—slow, savoring—his gaze lingering at the cut of her bodice before rising to her eyes.
“I had so hoped you would wear that gown tonight.”
His breath left him like midsummer heat rolling off stone.
“You did not disappoint.”
Jasmine’s fingers gripped the chair-back. Evander’s jaw clenched, silent.
A servant offered goblets.
“Wine for your friends,” Xavien said, inclining his head. “Ale for my queen.”
He placed the goblet before her—perfectly centered. One, two, three taps of his finger, then he withdrew.
Amerei sat tall, shoulders straight, chin lifted.
He claimed the head seat, his earring catching her eye—a mast crowned with a serpent severed: Bloodforge made jewelry. She thought of her Ruakite grandfather, sea-serpents slain. She thought of Viktor.
“My queen,” Xavien said, breaking the reverie.
A footman presented a velvet case. Xavien’s hand hovered, steadied, then lifted the lid. A circlet of white gold lay within, amethyst and sapphire glimmering.
“When my mother Ulyria was still a princess,” he said, fingers brushing velvet, “Queen Phaedra of Casqadia gifted her this diadem. It belonged to your line for centuries. I return it now.”
He leaned in—too close. “May I?”
Jasmine’s stare burned. Beneath the table, Amerei brushed her fingers against her thigh—silent steel. She nodded.
Xavien drew a long breath, mouth curving on the exhale.
He set the crown against her hair.
“Elarien.”
(Beautiful.)
Her heart raced beneath the corset.
“I have very little from my ancestors,” she admitted. “My father saved what he could… before Zeporah took my place.”
For a heartbeat, she was thirteen in Rhidian—bare feet on cold stone—watching Zeporah sweep past in Cassandra’s jewels.
The necklace sat wrong on another woman’s throat, the bracelets clinked false on unfamiliar wrists, and the court applauded as though the gold itself had chosen a new mistress.
She had learned then how to stand straight while something inside her folded.
Jasmine hooked her finger, pulling her back.
“Thank you, Highness,” Amerei said, unguarded.
Laughter pealed across the lawn. Two elven children raced a hoop, a nurse clapping. Xavien’s head turned, shoulders easing.
“They’ll sleep well tonight,” he said warmly.
Amerei allowed a smile.
“You were very young when the eldest was born.”
“So young,” he answered, eyes still on the children, “that I find myself thirty-two and already receiving offers for her hand.”
His jaw tightened, then eased.
“Will your daughter have any say in who she marries?” Amerei asked.
Xavien let out a sigh.
“I should hope so. If fate is kind.”
At last he looked at her.
“Her mother would see her sent to Tyra.”
Her eyes burned as she leaned in, her voice sharp.
“You cannot let that happen.”
His hand curled near the goblet, as though around something he dared not touch.
“It is easy for Kastalya to consider such things,” he murmured, “from Gearíya.”
Amerei inhaled slowly, the dagger’s weight secret against her ribs.
“Do you love her?”
A lesser prince might have laughed. Xavien did not. He realigned the knife by a hair, watching the blade’s reflection.
“I didn’t even know her the day we married.”
A breath.
“Had your mother not encouraged the alliance, I would have sailed anywhere.”
He smiled—brief humor, then shadow.
“And then I saw her. Kastalya.” The name left him like remembered heat. “Older. Every inch the sun. I was… mad for her.”
His finger tapped the goblet—once, once, once—then stilled.
“But boys do not stay clay. I grew. She… did not grow with me. When I would not be molded, she ran home to Gearíya. At first she came back often.” His voice dimmed. He aligned a spoon. “The children have stopped asking.”
Silence stretched.
Jasmine looked away, softened despite herself.
Evander watched as one watches a cliff for cracks.
“I am sorry for them,” Amerei said at last.
Xavien’s gaze slipped to the archway, voice dropping so only she could hear. “When they wake from bad dreams, they run to me. I am grateful—and terrified I’m not enough.”
Her chest ached. She thought of Viktor, of love fierce enough to cradle the world yet still fearing it might slip. Against her will, kinship stirred—a tie she did not want.
The moment threatened to linger—
then broke as a shadow spilled across the grass, swift and long, a blade of omen.
The elf in scholar’s robes bowed at the arbor’s edge, silhouette sharp against the firelit lawn.
“Highness.” His voice cut, too loud, severing the stillness. “You are needed. At once.”
Xavien rose, beads in his braids rattling like chains. He looked down at Amerei. “Walk with me.”
Her heart thundered.
“Evander,” she called, eyes still on Xavien.
Steel whispered as Evander came to her side. Xavien did not refuse him.
He led them beneath the archway, sconces flaring at his passing. Servants pressed flat to the walls, breath caught in their throats. At the consort’s turn he did not slow. He crossed into the prince’s wing, the robed elf waiting like a shadow given flesh.
“Master Deglan,” Xavien said, voice taut.
Then to the Sagittarii: “Open.”
Steel lifted in unison.
He paused at the threshold, letting Deglan vanish into the scrying chamber. He drew a measured breath, every motion precise, as if aligning to an inescapable fate. Then he entered.
The mist struck first—damp, metallic, tasting of storms. The basin glimmered beyond, its surface shifting like serpent-skin. Xavien stalked in an arc around Deglan, hands flexing before he set them to the rim.
Amerei gripped Evander’s arm, bidding him guard the door, then stepped forward, spine straightening with resolve.
Xavien lifted his hand.
The mist convulsed, darkened, then broke—sandstone yards, banners snapping, men aligned. Wind seared across the vision. Far off, a shadow winged by, ash-small on the horizon.
Amerei leaned in, sweeping the edges the way her father had taught her to read a battlefield.
A man in a dark mantle crossed the yard.
Then nearer—too close to be chance.
Two swords flashed. A sparring match.
Steel screamed, a helm silvering eyes she knew by soul.
Viktor.
His rhythm was precise, punishing, clean as winter air.
He pivoted, drove, recovered.
A raven, carving blades of sunlight with the violence of its wings.
Amerei pressed a hand to her ribs—forgot to breathe.
The image shuddered.
Clouds boiled.
Darkness spread.
The sky cracked lightning.
And along the horizon—
Dragons.
One.
Then three.
Shadows wheeled, cyclone kissing earth, wings blotting sun.
The count rose—three, seven, ten—until the horizon was nothing but wings.
Legion.
Xavien’s voice cracked, raw. “Ashakar…”
The surface convulsed—dragons unraveling into blur.
Deglan’s shadow lunged, blade raised, firelight racing the edge.
Amerei’s scream tore the chamber.
Steel plunged.
Bone jarred.
Blood sprayed hot across the tiles.
Deglan crashed, limbs spasming, crimson pooling beneath him.
Amerei staggered, bodice ripped, silk gaping, Viktor’s knife white-knuckled in her hand.
Evander caught her back, one arm across her chest, the other locking her shoulders.
“What—” Xavien reeled, boots skidding on stone.
“Ami. Look at me. Breathe,” Evander urged, cheek pressed to her hair.
Her eyes found his, wild.
“Give me the knife,” he whispered, coaxing, steady. “Ami, please.”
She clutched tighter.
“I can’t. It’s Viktor’s.”
“It’ll still be Viktor’s in my hand.”
Patient, he peeled her fingers open. The blade slipped free—slick, heavy with blood.
Across the chamber, Xavien dropped to his knees, face blanched. He stared at the ruin, horror hollowing him.
“You—”
Evander thrust up the knife, grip wide.
“He went for you, Highness. She saw it. She stopped him.”
Xavien’s eyes lifted. Met Amerei’s.
Something cracked.
He crawled.
Tearing laces at his throat.
Ripping linen over his head.
Ink coiled across his ribs—a serpent spiraled over his heart.
He pressed the linen to her chest, trembling hands shielding the torn bodice. Careful one breath—then shattering the next. He folded into her, breath breaking, forehead near her knee.
“Amerei,” he choked, once—wrecked.
Again, like prayer.
“I thought—”
The word died.
His eyes burned, rising to hers.
“You saved me.”
His hands clutched the linen, clinging.
“Tell me what to give,” he rasped, bowing his head to her lap, voice raw. “Tell me and it’s yours.”
She found breath, knees steadying. Evander’s arm braced her, Xavien’s weight pressed against her.
Her eyes shut.
Memory surged—the night Viktor claimed her, his voice fierce in her bones. “Look at me, love. Only me.”
Her lashes lifted.
Her voice cut clean.
“Send my husband soldiers.”