Once, I was closest to the Prime.
Once, his hand rested on my shoulder as we stood at the edge of The Ember Vein and he spoke of balance, of duty, of the weight of all worlds resting on the fragile scaffolding of dreams.
He fell.
The crown went silent.
Trust fractured.
I have held these lands together with stone and blood and will alone since that day. I have buried too many farmers and river-wardens, too many children crushed beneath rock or torn apart by SoulTakers lured to the scent of despair.
Love was not meant for me.
Not in this life.
Not while the realm’s bones still ache.
And yet, the sight of my brothers with their mates twists something in me I do not wish to name.
Hope.
I hate it.
“Listen to me,” Alaric says quietly, stepping closer so others cannot overhear. The great hall churns around us, but here in this little knot of power it feels almost still. “We are not saying the Fates owe you a viyella because we have ours.”
“They do,” Kael mutters.
“Shut up,” Alaric says mildly. He fixes his gaze on me again. “We are saying you deserve the chance to look without turning to stone before you even begin.”
Thorne nods. “We are saying that we are with you. Whatever you decide.”
For all my scoffing, for all my armor of sarcasm and granite, those words land with more force than any blow.
You are not alone, Thorne, Alaric told him earlier.
You always have us, brother.
And me.
Delia’s words echo, Especially me.
I have always understood the earth.
I have always known how to move stone, how to coax seeds from cracked ground, how to channel lightning through my wings and into enemies’ skulls.
I have never understood this.
“Fine,” I say at last, the word dragged from me like ore from rock. “I will consider this… Jersey.”
“New Jersey,” Thorne corrects.
“Yes, yes, New Jersey,” I mutter.
Kael grins like a man who believes he has bent a mountain.
Alaric claps me on the shoulder, satisfaction in his eyes. “That is all we ask.”
“I said consider,” I warn.
