Chapter 18 Zeidan
ZEIDAN
Ido not answer her question immediately.
Did you ever love her?
The silence stretches between us, but it does not fracture. Amelia does not push. She simply watches me, her expression open, more dangerous than accusation ever could.
“Yes,” I say at last.
The word settles into the room without drama. It does not echo. It does not shatter anything. It simply exists.
“I loved her,” I repeat more evenly. “Not because she was kind. She wasn’t. Not because she was gentle. She wasn’t that either. I loved her because she was formidable. Because she could stand in a room full of predators and make them believe she was the one who set the rules.”
Amelia absorbs that quietly. There is no jealousy in her face. Only understanding.
“She was… magnetic. Not in the obvious way. She didn’t demand attention.
She redirected it. People leaned in when she spoke, not because she was loud, but because she made silence feel deliberate.
Every word felt chosen. Every pause calculated.
” I say, and my voice is quieter now, steadier than the memories deserve.
I let out a slow breath.
“She understood power the way a tactician understands terrain. She knew where influence pooled. Where doubt festered. She could stand in a council chamber and shift the direction of a vote without ever raising her voice.”
Amelia doesn’t interrupt. She just listens.
“I believed we were aligned,” I continue. “I thought her ambition ran parallel to mine. That she saw Velcryn the way I did, something to strengthen, to protect.”
My gaze drops briefly to the floor.
“She wasn’t admiring the armor. She was measuring its seams.”
The fire snaps softly behind us.
“She passed information to our enemies. Patrol routes. Border weaknesses. Timings precise enough that the ambush felt inevitable once it began. My brother was nearly killed in the snow because of it.”
I swallow once, not from emotion, but from habit.
“They left him with a blade through his side. The metal was etched with Vrakken script, my script. As if I had handed them the weapon myself.”
Amelia inhales sharply at that, but she stays silent.
“I tracked her for weeks,” I go on. “She was careful. Covered her signature. Used stolen runes to blur her trail. I found her in the northern ice caverns, where the air burns your lungs before the cold reaches bone.”
I lift my eyes to Amelia’s.
“She tried to explain.”
A pause.
“I didn’t let her.”
There is no heat in my voice, just finality.
“I ended it cleanly. No spectacle. No witnesses. The Council believes she vanished. My brother believes she fled. The truth stayed with me.”
The room feels smaller as I finish.
“That was the last time I mistook proximity for loyalty,” I say quietly. “The last time I allowed someone to stand close enough to learn where I am vulnerable.”
Amelia nods slowly, but there is something different in her gaze. Something like recognition.
“I understand why you don’t trust easily,” she says.
I study her for a long moment.
“You are not Sabrina,” I tell her.
Her chin lifts slightly. “I know.”
“And that terrifies me more than if you were.”
She blinks. “Why?”
“Because you are not subtle about your defiance. You do not manipulate quietly. You fight in the open. You argue. You challenge. You demand truth.” My voice lowers. “And I cannot predict you.”
A flicker of hurt crosses her face, quickly masked.
“I am not trying to outmaneuver you,” she says at last, her voice steady despite the strain I can see beneath it.
“I know,” I answer.
The admission surprises us both. The bond between us is unusually quiet tonight. It does not pull or flare or press for dominance. It hums instead, low and even, like a current that has decided to flow rather than crash. It allows space.
Amelia sits across from me on the hearth rug, knees drawn in slightly, posture less guarded than I have ever seen it.
Her hands rest loosely in her lap, fingers entwined not in tension but in thought.
Firelight paints her features in amber and shadow, catching the exhaustion she hides from her coven and the resolve she refuses to set down.
She studies the flames for a long moment before speaking again.
“I think,” she says slowly, as if testing the words for balance, “that I understand now why you are so careful. Why you keep distance even when you are standing close.” Her gaze lifts to mine. “I do the same thing. Just differently.”
That earns my attention.
“I’m scared,” she continues, not flinching from the truth of it. “Not in the way they expect me to be. I’m not afraid of responsibility. I’m afraid of losing the ground beneath it.”
She shifts, drawing one knee closer, grounding herself.
“My magic still feels wrong. Ever since the ritual broke, it doesn’t move the way it used to.
It listens, but not always to me. The coven watches me now as if they’re waiting for proof that the bond has changed something essential.
” Her mouth tightens. “Some of them think I’ve already chosen Velcryn over Nytheria. Others think I’ve been claimed.”
She exhales sharply, frustration threading through the weariness.
“And Vira,” she adds, quieter now. “She just waits. Every council session, every silence, she’s there , like a shadow that knows exactly how long it needs to stretch before it reaches your throat. I can’t even prove she is sabotaging all of it, because I can't do it all alone.”
I remain silent, not because I have nothing to say, but because this moment is not about me filling the space.
“I was raised to inherit certainty,” she says. “Answers. Authority. Faith. Instead I inherited collapse, and everyone looks at me like I should already know how to stop it.”
There it is. The heart of it. Not fear of failure, but the weight of expectation with no margin for learning.
“You believe they don’t trust you,” I say carefully.
She hesitates, just long enough to tell me the answer matters.
“I know they don’t,” she replies.
The silence that follows is not uncomfortable. It settles between us like a shared understanding neither of us feels compelled to interrupt.
She lifts her head, eyes sharp and asks me something I couldn't predict for a million years. “Do you regret our bond?”
I take my time answering. Not because I am avoiding the truth, but because I respect it enough not to cheapen it with immediacy.
“I regret the circumstances,” I say finally. “The desperation that forced the choice. The fracture that made the bond a necessity instead of an intention. I regret that it was forged under pressure rather than freely. I know I forced it, but it was a necessity for me as much as it was for you.”
Her shoulders tense at that word.
“But,” I continue, meeting her gaze fully now, “I do not regret you.”
The air shifts, as if something that had been braced for impact has decided to stand down. She studies my face with careful attention, searching for exaggeration, for strategy, for the familiar signs of calculation. Whatever she finds, it makes her breathe easier.
“You could still walk away,” she says quietly. “If this becomes too volatile. If Nytheria fractures beyond saving.”
“I could,” I agree.
“And you won’t.”
“No.”
The certainty of it settles between us like a stone placed deliberately, not thrown.
“I don’t regret it either,” she says.
Something in my chest loosens.
“Not yet,” she adds, a glimmer of dry honesty softening the words.
That does make me smile.
“You said you want me to trust you,” I remind her gently.
“Yes.”
“Trust is not built through grand gestures,” I say. “It is built through restraint. Through consistency. Through choosing not to exploit weakness when you recognize it.”
She holds my gaze, unflinching.
“Then let’s stop acting like we’re on opposite sides of every decision,” she says. “If Vira moves, we move together. If Velcryn pressures you, I stand with you. No more divided fronts.”
There is no tremor in her voice now.
“And if I falter?” she asks.
“Then I anchor you.”
“And if you do?”
I don’t look away. “Then you will have to decide whether I am worth anchoring.”
She studies me for a long time, expression unreadable but intent.
“You are,” she says finally.
The bond answers with a quiet pulse of warmth. For once I do not feel like we are circling each other with hidden blades. I feel like we are standing on the same side of the field, fully aware of the storm approaching and choosing to remain where we are.
Amelia shifts closer, not touching, but near enough that her warmth registers without effort.
“Did it ever occur to you,” she asks softly, “that the reason control stopped working for you wasn’t because you needed more of it, but because you were never meant to carry it alone?”
The question lingers, heavy and unsettling. I consider her properly then. The exhaustion she refuses to show her people. The stubbornness that keeps Nytheria standing. The quiet courage it took to say all of this without demanding reassurance in return.
“No,” I admit. “It did not.”
She nods, as if the answer matters less than the honesty. Outside, the wind shifts through the trees. Nytheria remains wounded. Vira continues to wait. Velcryn watches for weakness.
But here, in this room, something aligns.
“United,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Against Vira. Against collapse. Against anyone who tries to fracture us.”
“Yes.”
She exhales, the tension finally easing from her shoulders.
“Then let’s stop acting like we’re waiting for the other to betray us.”
I consider that carefully.
“I can try,” I say.
She smiles, faint but unmistakable. “That’s the most I’ll get from you, isn’t it?”
“For now.”
She rises then, stepping closer, the space between us warms, steady and intentional. There is no accidental contact, no surge, no pressure to define what this is becoming.
“Did you ever think,” she asks again, quieter now, “that you deserve something that isn’t strategy?”
The question unsettles me more than any accusation has tonight. I hold her gaze.
“You are full of heavy questions,” I say, letting a note of wryness soften the truth.
Her smile deepens, eyes glinting.
“Good,” she replies. “Because next, I’m going to ask you something much more dangerous.”
I lift a brow. “Should I be concerned?”
She tilts her head, amusement warming her expression.
“Probably,” she says. “But I think you’ll enjoy it.”
The weight lifts enough that I allow myself to believe her.
“If we stopped resisting the bond for just one moment,” she asks softly, “would you let it happen?”