Chapter One Hundred Seventeen
Too Late
The horn at dusk shattered what silence had held.
Amerei sat curled against the sill, chin in her hand, watching the children chase one another through the grass. Their laughter rose like birdsong, bright and untroubled, as though the world beyond Amethyst’s walls had never burned to ruin.
Her chest ached with it.
That laughter had been hers for a single day.
For a day, she had lived as if.
A shadow crossed the arch.
Xavien folded himself into the narrow space beside her, long frame coiled close. His gaze followed hers into the garden, and for a time he said nothing. The sound of his children carried between them, each note a thread he could not bring himself to cut.
At last he spoke, voice low.
“Word came from the gates. Storne rides for Amethyst.”
Amerei shuddered.
She did not look at him, only pressed her forehead harder against the stone.
“And Viktor?”
No answer.
The silence stretched until she turned.
His jaw was set, eyes fixed on the garden.
His chest lifted, tightened, his whisper breaking.
“It’s over, isn’t it?”
She stilled.
Her eyes dampened, but she said nothing.
The answer was not hers to give.
Then he smiled, soft and rueful.
“Promise me one thing, Elarien.”
She blinked at him through the sting of tears.
“You’ll eat well from now on. And you’ll take care of my Eillish son.”
A laugh broke from her, startled and wet. She pressed her hand to her mouth, shaking her head at him. He laughed too, and for a fleeting moment the ache lifted.
But his laughter ebbed, his gaze drifting back to the garden—distant, raw. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost to himself.
“How could we have known…” He drew a breath, unsteady. “That my father would die. That I would be free to end my marriage—”
His eyes fell shut.
“—at the very moment I fell in love with you.”
Her breath stopped.
For a heartbeat she could only stare at him, stunned, heart aching with something dangerously close to wonder.
His gaze lifted to hers, bright and breaking.
“Was I just too late?”
Tears welled hot, slipping free before she could stop them.
She shook her head, then stilled.
Her lips parted, but only a broken sound escaped.
At last she whispered, “Xavien…”
His name alone carried her grief, her awe, her refusal all at once.
“I—” Her voice fractured, tears spilling. “—gave my whole heart away to Viktor. And if he does not live… I will mourn him all my life.”
He closed his eyes again.
His jaw tightened, the faintest nod betraying acceptance even as pain cut through him.
“Then I will hold you in your grief,” he said, his voice breaking with everything he still held back. “Or I will mourn you just the same.”
His vow lingered in the air like smoke—delicate, dissolving—until the clear call of a horn split the sky.
Both of them stilled.
The sound was unmistakable.
Storne had arrived.
Below, the girls’ laughter rang up through the garden, piercingly bright, carrying into the silence where the fantasy ended.