The Vexari lifted her staff, and the noise of thousands died to a charged silence.
Her gaze swept the arena tiers, solemn as a severed vow.
“By blood, by realm, by rite,” her voice rang out, deep and resonant, carrying to every last ear. “We call forth the truth of this mortal realm. Let it rise in the one chosen. Let it burn away falsehood. Let it claim what is his.”
But then, instead of turning to Jakobav, she addressed the crowd.
“This is no ordinary Claiming.” Her tone was reverent, threaded with iron. “Today, the rightful heir to the Dravaryn Throne stands before you, not just as your future King, but as the commander of the military resurgence keeping this kingdom whole.”
A ripple went through the audience, and the High Vexari’s staff lowered slightly, as if to punctuate each word.
A sudden chill skated across Ella’s skin.
“You’ve heard the rumors,” she continued. “You’ve felt the strain in your magic. You have seen the signs: breaches in the Veil, the unmaking of our wards. Your Prince and his First Guard are facing these horrors to protect you.”
Her voice held a current of fierce pride.
“So it should be no surprise that today’s rite carries greater weight than any in living memory. If the ritual succeeds, it may not only bind his power, but it may steady the realm itself, and restore the full strength of your magic. Watch closely, Dravaryn, for you stand witness to history.”
The crowd erupted, fists pounding against stone and weapons striking in rhythm until the sound became thunderous, rolling through the arena.
A realization shot through her, halting her mid-thought.
He hadn’t hidden it from them.
Not the breaches. Not his role in stopping them. The entire kingdom knew, and still they cheered for him, not from fear but from vehement, unshaken loyalty.
When she looked at their faces, she saw the truth clearly: they would die for him—and kill for him without hesitation.
She still held far too many secrets for that to be comforting.
32
THE CLAIMING
Her chest tightened. Gods, she was once again forced to confront how wrong she had been. She had been raised to believe Dravaryns were cold and cruel, bound only by blood and fear, yet what she saw in their faces was not so different from the devotion she’d known in Orchid. Passion that burned bright, loyalty given freely, a love for their Prince that no threat could shake.
Jakobav stepped forward then, bare feet on dark stone, eyes fixed on the tent.
Maeren, Savina, Thane, Bryn, and Soren flanked her, standing straight and still, unwavering at their posts like immortal guardians.
An attendant stepped from the tent, carrying a heavy, black-handled mug that steamed in the cool air. She approached the High Vexari and bowed, presenting it with both hands. The Vexari accepted the vessel, lifted it, and turned toward Jakobav.
Even from the raised platform, Ella knew that color—deep violet, the same tea Bryn had given them earlier. Nothing else in Dravaryn glowed quite like that brew.
Jakobav didn’t spare the Vexari a glance when she offered it. His eyes were locked on Ella, steady and unblinking, the roar of the arena thinning beneath the force of that stare.
He took the mug in one hand, lifted it, and drank. The entire thing was gone in a single, unbroken pull. When he lowered the mug, his lips were slick with violet. She forgot how to breathe.
He licked it slowly from his bottom lip, never once breaking eye contact with her. Had he meant to remind her of exactly what that tongue could do, of how he had taken her apart against the garden hedges with nothing but his mouth? Gods, help her. She felt as though they were the only two in the arena, instead of thousands of Dravaryns who had no idea the heir of their rival kingdom stood in their midst.
The way his gaze fixated on her, almost daring her to look away, was indecent in a way no touch could match.
He’d accused her of being a distraction, and right now, she’d never felt more like one, a sick satisfaction twisting inside her. The Jakobav she first met would have belonged only to his people today, to his fate, to the power waiting to choose him.
It shouldn’t matter. But it did.
A strange lightness drifted through her limbs, as if her body briefly forgot the simple act of being.
