She shook her head. She understood the depths of human emotion far better than anyone else, but this she couldn’t understand.
I could show her. I could drop my walls and make her feel exactly how I felt… But that would’ve been a cruelty.
“You made me doubteverything, and still I wanted you. What is your plan now? To run withmy child?”
“No,” she said, voice breaking on her insistence. Her face had fallen, but fire burned in her eyes. “I’ve been runningtowardyou since that first night in the library. I was just too much of a coward to admit the truth, but I would never—never—give the Assembly my child. Not if I had even the smallest choice.” Her horse snorted and danced beneath her, stirred by herrising anger. “But that’s the problem, Emrys. You forget that not all of us have your power. I didn’t have the luxury of choosing freely.”
Her voice shook despite her straight back. “I didn’t use you. I didn’t want to ruin this or hurt you. And I know I might not earn your forgiveness…but you needed to hear it.”
She shook with rage, and tears shimmered in her eyes. Gods, that hurt me more than her admission. Her hands were trembling on the reins. I despised myself for noticing, and the urge to steady them made me hate myself even more.
I nodded, unable to speak because my throat had closed so tight.
“Emrys?” she whispered. Her voice was so small.
I needed distance. But, gods help me, every part of me wanted to reach for her reins, drag her into my arms, and bury myself in her warmth. Yet I couldn’t. Not when the curse was coiled so tight it would break us both. Not when my chest was already split open and bleeding.
The pain was more profound than any blade could inflict. Maybe I could’ve been stronger, could’ve talked through it with her if I hadn’t given her my soul only the night before.
Now I couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t bear the weight of those big green eyes.
Believing her wouldn’t save me from this. It only made the wound deeper.
“We’re done speaking,” I said, because the truth had ruined me. “Let’s return to camp.” Even though every part of me wanted to stay right here until she somehow made it untrue. I forced out the coldness I’d used to keep her at arm’s length for so long, armor I thought I’d shed forever.
And before she could say another word, I dug my heels into my horse and rode forward. The frost of my anger followed me the entire way, freezing the summer grass.
I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. Because if I saw her—broken, beautiful, still reaching, still believing in me—I would’ve turned my horseand sped straight for Caervorn. I’d rain ruin on their heads until I was finally released from my suffering by death.
I wasn’t certain I could win against them alone. And that was what I was now.
Alone.
Chapter 61
Isca
Emrys rode just ahead of me, shoulders rigid, back a wall. The distance between us was only a dozen feet, but it felt like a chasm I might never cross. My hands ached from gripping the reins too tightly.
As if holding on could prevent me from falling apart…
He’d turned from me so abruptly. My confession had changed hisI trust youback to the old coldness I’d never wanted to return to. That empty look.
I couldn’t stand it. My heart had long ago surrendered to him, but now it felt like it was drowning—choked by the dread and guilt that had been rising in me for weeks.
I’d meant to tell him after he’d returned from his ill-fated parley with the Gelidian general, before everything fell apart, before I was taken. But that general was dead now, and I’d missed my chance.
Our night together by the river should’ve been my undoing, not my reprieve. But I’d been too lost in him, too lost in the warmth of his touch, to remember the cost. And now, with the truth between us, I feared I’d traded one night of belonging for a lifetime of his absence.
My mother’s warnings about thoughtlessness echoed now, cruelly clear. He’d said he loved me, yes…but would that love survive this?
He was a prince, and I was a…nothing. A fake diplomat who should’ve been wearing rags instead of riches.
And I’d broken his heart.
Every time I thought of speaking—his name, an apology, anything—the memory of his pained expression when I confessed stopped me cold. Yet I still wished I could force the words out, reach out for him one more time, even if he turned away again.
I’d known what I was going to say would hurt him. But knowing didn’t prepare me for watching him retreat into himself, for the weight of his silence pressing down on me until I could barely draw breath.
