Chapter 17 Amelia
AMELIA
After our mouths almost touch, I do what I always do when something threatens to crack me open: I retreat to a room where no one can see me pretend I’m fine.
The corridor outside our quarters is narrow and dim, lined with rootstone that holds the faint memory of sunlight the way old bones hold heat.
I walk too quickly, as if speed can outrun the fact that my lips still feel his, only a brush, only a mistake, and yet my body reacts like it was a promise.
My pulse keeps skipping, stuttering against my ribs, and I hate how easily it betrays me.
The bond is no help. It carries him with me even as I put walls and doors between us.
I feel the aftershock of his restraint, the controlled tension that snapped tight the moment our faces were too close.
Beneath it, there is something quieter, an awareness that does not feel like strategy at all.
It feels like attention. Like he is still standing in that corridor, still staring at me, still wondering if I will come back and pretend it never happened.
I step into the small side chamber near the archives, shut the door, and press my palms to the wood until the tremor in my fingers eases.
I tell myself it was nothing. A misstep. A consequence of stress. A moment of proximity and too much magic and too little sleep.
But my mind does not listen to what I tell it.
My mind replays it in cruel detail: the warmth of his breath, the way his gaze dropped to my mouth as if he didn’t mean to, the minute widening of his pupils, and the way he froze when my lips brushed his.
He could have leaned in. He could have taken the last inch. I could have, too.
We pulled back as if the world might punish us for wanting.
I pace the room once, then again, boots whispering over the stone. A prayer charm swings from a beam near the ceiling, woven from pale reed and bone. It ticks softly with my movement like a metronome counting down to disaster.
I stop beside a narrow window slit and look out at Nytheria.
From here I can see the treeline where the Wildspont’s glow should be strongest. Instead, it flickers unevenly in patches, like a heart struggling to keep rhythm.
Even from this distance, I can feel the strain in the ley network, the thinness where our magic once ran rich.
Someone is feeding rot into the roots, and every hour we spend arguing or circling each other, the land bleeds.
I close my eyes and force myself to breathe slowly. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
The truth arrives anyway.
I like him.
Not the bond. Not the political arrangement. Not the terrifying idea of a Vrakken prince tied to my pulse.
Him.
The person who steps into danger without asking permission.
The person who watches every shadow like he’s memorized the way threats move.
The person who can be cruel with words and still stand in front of me when blades come.
The person who looks at my crumbling home with the ruthless honesty no one else can afford.
I like him, and the admission tastes like betrayal in my mouth because part of me wants to be angry at him more than I want to want him.
He does not trust me. Not fully. Not in the way I am beginning, unwillingly, to trust him.
He told me outright that he believes I am capable of choosing Nytheria over him if forced.
He is right, and yet the way he said it still cuts.
I have spent my entire life being treated as useful before I was treated as loved, as a tool before I was treated as a person.
I did not realize how much I feared being placed back into that category until Zeidan did it with that calm, clinical certainty he wears like armor.
I drag a hand through my hair and stare at the door. I cannot afford to nurse hurt feelings. I cannot afford to crave trust like it is a luxury when my land is starving.
The bond presses again, a quiet tug. He is still close, even if we aren’t speaking. I hate that part of me finds comfort in it.
A soft knock breaks my thoughts.
“Amelia.” My mother’s voice, clipped by impatience and worry.
I open the door. She stands in the corridor in ceremonial robes she has no time for, her hair braided tight and pinned back like she is physically holding herself together.
Her eyes scan my face, sharp and unsoftened by concern, but I know her too well.
That tightness around her mouth is fear disguised as authority.
“You are needed,” she says.
“For what?”
“For allies,” she replies. “We cannot stabilize Nytheria on pride alone. We need support outside our inner circle. We need routes for supplies. Healers. Trade access. Neutral eyes that can’t be bought by our elders. I have arranged a sacred negotiation with the Southern Concord.”
I go still. “The Concord avoids entanglement. They’ll refuse.”
“They will refuse if you appear unstable,” she says flatly. “They will refuse if you bring political chaos into their halls. But they will listen if you offer them something worth listening to.”
“And what would that be?” I ask, though I already know.
My mother’s gaze flicks briefly toward the end of the corridor as if she expects Zeidan to appear out of shadow.
“Truth,” she says. “And access. They will want assurance that our borders won’t collapse and swallow their routes. They will want to know Velcryn will not retaliate against them for involvement.”
I swallow. “So you want me to negotiate with one hand tied behind my back while everyone stares at my bond like it’s a weapon.”
“I want you to secure allies,” she corrects. “Because if you don’t, Nytheria fractures. And when Nytheria fractures, the elders will turn on you. They will blame you for what they couldn’t prevent.”
The words are not cruel. They are matter-of-fact, like a diagnosis.
I nod once. “When?”
“Now,” she says. “The Concord delegation arrived this morning.”
I stare at her. “You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want you arguing,” she replies, and her mouth tightens. “Do you have the capacity to do what must be done, Amelia? Or do you need to recover from whatever happened between you and your prince in a corridor?”
Heat crawls up my neck. I hate that it does. I hate that she noticed anything at all.
“What happened between me and Zeidan is irrelevant,” I say, forcing my voice steady.
My mother’s eyes narrow. “Nothing is irrelevant when it touches leadership.”
I hold her gaze until she looks away first.
“Where is the meeting?” I ask.
“The upper canopy hall,” she says. “They are waiting.”
The upper canopy hall is designed for ritual diplomacy, which is exactly why I hate it.
The walls are carved from living wood and polished stone, open to the filtered light of the trees above.
Prayer lanterns hang in the corners, their glow gentle, meant to make everyone feel safe.
There are no blades visible, no harsh angles, no places for fear to grip.
It is a performance of peace.
The Southern Concord delegation sits at a long table with their hands folded as if patience is a weapon they use often. Their leader, Envoy Marcellan, is older than I expected, lined face, careful eyes, a smile that never becomes warmth.
My mother stands in the corner of the hall, a silent presence of authority.
Zeidan is not at the table when I arrive, and the absence stings even though it shouldn’t.
I can feel him elsewhere in the compound, distant and controlled, but the bond keeps tugging toward him as if it knows I am stepping into something precarious.
I straighten my shoulders and walk forward.
“Envoy Marcellan,” I say, inclining my head. “You honor Nytheria by meeting with us.”
He rises, returning the gesture. “Heir Crow. We honor your request.”
I sit across from him, hands steady on the table even as my stomach knots.
“We understand your region is experiencing… instability,” he begins.
“Instability caused by deliberate sabotage,” I reply evenly. “Someone is poisoning the Wildspont.”
His brows rise slightly. “That is a grave claim.”
“It is a true one,” I say. “And the longer we spend pretending it is natural decay, the more likely it becomes that the rot spreads beyond our borders.”
His gaze flicks to the side, toward my mother, then back to me. “The Concord does not intervene in internal conflicts.”
“I’m not asking you to intervene,” I say. “I’m asking you to trade. To provide access. To allow us to trace the movement of certain rare components through your routes.”
He folds his hands more tightly. “Components?”
I hold his eyes. “Dusk-bloom resin.”
His expression does not change, but I feel something in the air shift, like the negotiation hall has inhaled.
“Rare,” he says softly. “Dangerous in the wrong hands.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “We have reason to believe it is being used to destabilize magic conduits.”
“And you want us to open our ledgers,” he says, “to assist your investigation.”
“I want you to protect your routes,” I counter. “Because if Nytheria collapses, your caravans lose a border passage and gain a wasteland.”
He studies me.
And then the bond flickers with something that isn’t mine. It’s faint at first, like a pressure behind my eyes. A cold irritation. A flash of memory I don’t recognize: stone corridors, a voice speaking in clipped Velcryn cadence, the taste of restraint.
I blink, and my magic responds to the disruption.
The lanterns overhead sway as if a wind passes through the hall, though the air is still. The leaves in the canopy tremble. The soft glow of the spirit-lights flares and then steadies.
It’s minor, but Marcellan notices.
His gaze sharpens, not with fear, but with calculation. “You seem strained.”
“I’m fine,” I say too quickly, and I hate myself for it.
Across the hall, I sense Zeidan move, an immediate shift in his presence as if he’s felt the falter through the bond as well.