Chapter One Hundred Fifteen
As If
For a day, they lived as if.
Amerei woke to the hush of dawn.
The fire in the grate had guttered low, the chamber faint with starflower. For a heartbeat she thought herself back in Fyreglade, the weight of war pressing on her chest—until her hand slid across silk sheets, and memory struck like a blade.
Xavien’s bed.
She sat up slowly, drawing the blanket tight around her shoulders. The room was empty but not abandoned: the faint scrape of wood reached her from the corner, and when she turned, she saw him.
Xavien stood with his back to her, folding the hidden bed into its panel. Golden hair fell unbound down his back, his movements sharp even in exhaustion.
“Not how I expected my first day as king,” he muttered, half to himself.
Her throat tightened.
“I am sorry, Xavien,” she whispered. “For your father.”
He turned, eyes shadowed. For once the smooth veneer of royalty was gone. A bitter smile ghosted his mouth.
“I cannot mourn what I never had.”
Then—
as though her words had snapped some hidden wire—
he moved.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
He paced between table and wardrobe in harsh lines, murmuring under his breath as though the world would shatter if he stopped.
“First the proclamation—my father is dead, the throne passes to me. Too brief. Too cold. Should I name his works? He had none. Dask, what do I write?”
His hands quivered as he reached for parchment, abandoned it, tugged at his sleeves, returned to the table again.
“More surgeons to Sevrak, quartering for soldiers, the guards at Vykenra still unpaid—no, no, it must be the proclamation first. Always the proclamation.”
“Xavien.”
He did not look at her.
His jaw worked as he rearranged the quills for the third time.
“The words must be ready before the Senate gathers. If I falter, if I leave space, Senator Idrel will—”
“Xavien.”
Sharper.
When he faced her, his composure had shattered. His gaze burned, unfocused, frantic—a serpent striking its own tail.
She rose before she could think, coverlet trailing.
Crossing the chamber, she caught his wrists in her hands, stilling the frenzy.
His breath hitched.
His eyes dropped to her fingers on his skin, then lifted to her with dangerous intensity, as though her touch tethered him.
“One thing,” she said, quiet but steady. “At a time.”
His breath came fast, words still tumbling.
“The proclamation—my father is dead, the throne passes to me. Too cold. Too blunt. The guards unpaid. The Senate—”
“Not what must be done first,” she cut in, sharper still, her voice steady against the chaos. “What must be done at all. How much of this can fall to your scribes?”
He hesitated, shoulders heaving with the weight of it. “Most.”
“Then leave it,” she pressed.
Her grip softened but did not release him.
“We cannot bend fate to our will today. We must accept whatever comes.”
A breath.
“There is a chance I will not be leaving Amethyst.”
Her throat tightened, but she lifted her chin.
“So we will live as such until my father comes.”
Something flared in Xavien’s eyes—pain, hunger, a sliver of reckless humor. His mouth curved, fragile and sharp.
“As if you are already Draekenra?”
Heat swept her, but she did not look away.
“As if I am already Draekenra.”
The words sparked between them, fragile, dangerous.
Xavien’s eyes darkened, then shuttered. He spun from her, reaching for his discarded quill, muttering low over his shoulder—
“Dask, Elarien. Say it again and I’ll have you in this bed before the ink dries.”
Her breath caught, heat rushing through her despite the cool stone beneath her feet.
But he did not look back.
His restless hands were already gathering parchment, sealing ink, the mask of the new king sliding into place.
Moments later he strode to the hidden panel to the consort’s suite, pressing it open. He glanced back at her, voice steadier now, gentled but edged with command. “Get dressed, my queen. We have much work to do.”
And so they spent the day together at his table, drafting decrees. Some for Casqadia’s return. Some for Elváliev’s defense. Some for futures that would never come to pass.
For a day, they lived as if.