Chapter 15 Amelia
AMELIA
Velcryn feels colder without him in the room.
The hearth still burns low and steady. The stone walls still hum with old magic.
But the space he occupies when he’s here, measured, deliberate, impossible to ignore, is gone, and the absence leaves a strange vacuum in its wake.
I tell myself I don’t notice. I am getting ahead of myself again.
He might be nice now, but we are allies.
We work towards a shared goal, nothing more… right?
The message arrives just after noon.
It comes through the Nytherian sigil etched into the inside of my wrist, my coven mark warming suddenly, then flaring sharp enough to steal my breath. I press my fingers against it and let the communication unfold.
My mother’s voice spills into my mind, strained and stripped of ceremony.
The Wildspont is failing again. Rapidly. The stabilization nodes you and Zeidan set are collapsing. Something has poisoned the roots. It wasn’t gradual. It was deliberate.
My stomach drops.
“How bad?” I murmur into the magic.
Worse than before.
The connection flickers.
Come home.
The message fades, leaving my skin cold. For a long moment I stand there in Zeidan’s guest chamber, staring at the door through which he left hours ago to face the Matrons. I can still feel him somewhere deep in the citadel, distant, controlled, wrapped in political tension.
He told me he would return. He told me to wait. The Wildspont does not have time for waiting.
I move before I allow myself to reconsider. I leave a message on the dining table:
Nytheria is deteriorating. I’m returning. We’ll speak when you’re finished.
I don’t wait for a response.
By the time the Velcryn guards realize I’ve left the guest wing, I am already on horseback, riding east.
Nytheria greets me with silence. The forest feels strained, the pulse beneath the soil uneven. The air carries the faint metallic tang I’ve begun to associate with corruption. My wards at the border flicker when I cross them, dimming momentarily before righting themselves.
That alone tells me this was not natural decay. This was interference.
The coven gathers quickly when word spreads of my return. Their relief is palpable, but it’s threaded with unease, and suspicion. Murmurs that halt when I approach. I walk through them without slowing.
My mother steps forward. She looks older than she did a week ago. The lines around her mouth are deeper, her shoulders tighter beneath ceremonial robes she hasn’t bothered to change out of.
“In my chambers,” she says quietly. “Now.”
The crowd parts. Inside, the doors seal behind us with a muted pulse of ward-light.
“It isn’t natural,” she says immediately, pacing once before turning back to me. “The collapse was too precise. The ley nodes didn’t fray, they inverted. As if someone fed the roots something that knew exactly where to bite.”
“Poison?” I ask.
“Yes. But guided.”
The word settles heavy between us.
“You think it’s internal,” I say.
She nods once. “It has to be. No external force could navigate our wards that cleanly without assistance.”
My chest tightens. “Who?”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. “I don’t know.” A pause. “But someone with authority. Access to the lower root systems. Knowledge of the restoration plan.”
My mind begins narrowing the circle automatically. My mother hesitates, which is unlike her.
“Vira has been… vocal,” she continues carefully. “Questioning the Velcryn anchors. Suggesting we’ve invited imbalance. She was in the eastern ward corridor the night the rot returned.”
“That alone isn’t guilt.”
“No,” she agrees. “But she’s too composed. Too prepared with explanations.”
Silence stretches.
“You suspect her,” I say.
“I suspect ambition,” my mother replies. “And Vira has always believed Nytheria was losing itself.”
She steps closer, lowering her voice.
“If this is treachery, it won’t be impulsive. It will be calculated. You cannot accuse without proof.”
“I won’t,” I say.
But I already know where I’m going next. When I am outside I walk straight to the first Purna I recognize.
“Where is Elder Vira?” I ask.
The girl hesitates half a heartbeat too long.
“In the lower gardens,” she says. “Overseeing restoration efforts.”
I nod once and turn. The lower gardens lie closest to one of the destabilized ley nodes. The air there is thicker, humid with failing magic. The ground underfoot feels tender, as though the roots beneath are bruised.
Vira stands near the edge of a half-withered grove, hands clasped behind her back, speaking softly to two junior Purnas. She turns when she senses me.
Her smile is flawless.
“Amelia,” she says warmly. “We weren’t expecting you so soon.”
“I wasn’t expecting to return to rot.”
Her expression doesn’t flicker.
“Yes,” she sighs gently. “A setback. These things happen when foreign magic interferes with delicate systems.”
There it is.
“Foreign magic?” I repeat lightly.
She tilts her head. “Velcryn influence. It was always a risk.”
I step closer. The grass at my feet curls slightly inward, reacting to the tension I refuse to show.
“The Wildspont was improving,” I say evenly. “Until two nights ago.”
“Yes. Most unfortunate.”
Her tone is smooth enough to be rehearsed.
“And where were you two nights ago?” I ask.
She laughs softly. “Investigating the eastern wards, of course. Ask anyone.”
“I might.”
Her gaze sharpens just a fraction.
“You suspect me?” she asks.
“I’m asking questions.”
“As you should,” she replies. “You’ve aligned yourself with Vrakken royalty. It invites instability.”
There is no anger in her voice. That unsettles me more than outrage would.
I let the silence stretch between us. Then I step closer as though adjusting her sleeve in passing.
My fingers brush the embroidered edge of her robe, and I murmur a binding under my breath so soft it disappears beneath the wind.
A tracking mark settles into the weave of her fabric, invisible to anyone not attuned to my signature.
She doesn’t react. If she notices, she hides it.
“Well,” she says pleasantly. “If you require anything further, I’ll be overseeing the purification circle at dusk.”
“I’m sure you will,” I reply.
I leave without looking back.
The sun sinks slowly, staining the sky in muted gold and ash. I sit alone in my chamber, eyes closed, tracing the faint thread of magic I wove into Vira’s robes. It pulses faintly against my awareness, steady and intact.
She’s moving and as I suspected not toward the purification circle. South. Toward the old root tunnels beneath the original coven grounds.
My pulse quickens. Shadow-walking has never been my preferred method of travel. It requires slipping between spaces rather than through them, bending perception and intention until the world allows passage. It also leaves me slightly nauseated. How is Zeidan always dealing with shadows?
I sink into the practice slowly, allowing my magic to thin rather than flare. I do not reach for Zeidan. I do not brace myself against his steadiness. This is mine to do.
The forest dims around me as I step sideways into the shadows between trees. The path beneath my feet feels unreal, as though I’m walking through memory instead of earth.
The tracking thread grows brighter. Vira descends a narrow stair carved into ancient stone, half-hidden beneath a curtain of moss. I follow at a distance, careful to let the dark fold around me rather than ripple.
Voices drift upward before I reach the base. Vira’s voice is lower now, stripped of its public warmth.
“You assured me it would destabilize gradually,” she says.
A second voice answers, distorted by layered spellwork. It's masculine and and unfamiliar.
“It did. Until your heir bonded with Velcryn.”
A pause.
“Their combined magic accelerated the decay instead of resolving it,” the voice continues. “The roots reject divided loyalties.”
My throat tightens.
“You said the poison would target only the Vrakken interference,” Vira snaps quietly. “Not the entire network.”
“You underestimate what you’ve disrupted.”
Footsteps shift.
“Once the Wildspont fractures beyond repair,” the unseen figure says, “the coven will turn on her. They will blame the bond. And Velcryn will retreat to protect itself.”
“I agreed to a purge, not annihilation. Nytheria must survive this — under stronger hands.”
The implication hangs heavy in the damp air. My stomach twists. I do not confront them.
That is the hardest decision I’ve made in weeks.
Instead, I step backward into shadow, letting the darkness swallow my outline and my breath. I retreat the way I came, slowly, carefully, refusing the instinct to run. If Vira suspects she was overheard, she gives no outward sign. She doesn’t call out. Doesn’t pursue.
Which is worse.
I don’t stop until I’m above ground again, the cool night air hitting my face like clarity.
Leadership that understands tradition. They don’t want to kill me. They want me discredited.
If the Wildspont fails under my watch, if the bond becomes the visible fracture, then the coven will demand change. And Vira will be ready to offer it.
I cannot accuse her with whispers and half-heard promises.
I need evidence that cannot be dismissed as paranoia. I need proof of collaboration. Proof of poison. Proof of intent.
I close my eyes and force myself to think strategically instead of emotionally.
Vira moves with confidence because she believes she’s insulated. That means she trusts someone. And trust leaves patterns. Trade routes. Dusk-bloom resin. Access to ward schematics. Night meetings beneath rootstone corridors.
If she’s feeding poison into the ley network, she must be replenishing it somewhere.
I open my eyes and turn toward the coven halls, already planning the next move. I wonder…
“What would Zeidan do?”
“That you shouldn't have left without telling me.”
I stop cold. The voice isn’t memory. It’s him.
“You’re in Velcryn,” I think back, testing it.
“Yes.” The word is edged. Controlled anger beneath it. “You shouldn’t have left like that.”
My heart pounds. “We can talk like this? I felt memories, emotions fragments, but words? Since when?”
“Fragments came first. This is clearer. The bond deepened enough.”
I swallow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you had enough to manage. And because shared channels require caution.”
That sounds like him, but it makes me so mad.
“AND YOU JUST NEVER DECIDED TO TELL ME? REALLY? HOW CAN YOU—”
“Easy there, Amelia. I have my reasons.”
I am just about to scream into the connection again when:
“We’ll speak when I return.”
The connection withdraws. I stand there a moment longer trying to process it all.