“Secondly. You claim to be a soldier now. Why are you not at your captain’s side?”
“I don’t know where—”
“Lastly.” Juliet planted herself at the door, hand outstretched like a spear barring his path. “Go to the second floor. See if my ladies require anything.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He rose more slowly this time, ducking his head as he edged toward the hall.
Her words rang like steel against stone.
“And hear me well, Lieutenant—I forbid you from stepping into this room again today.”
“Understood, my lady.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Juliet exhaled, then smirked.
“That stallion needs a mare to chase. Lucky for him, I brought a few with me.”
Amerei turned aside, fighting a smile that tugged treacherously at her lips.
Oh, Evander…
Sylvie entered quietly, towels folded over her arm, eyes warm with knowing. She bowed to Juliet. “Ready, my lady.”
Together, the three crossed into the bathing chamber.
The silver tub gleamed, fragrant steam spilling into the room as Sylvie stirred the water. Oil, herbs, and petals waited at its rim like an offering.
Amerei drew a long breath. The day was not yet over—but for one suspended heartbeat, it felt as though the whole world exhaled with her.
Quiet at last.
Chapter Sixty-One
Gate of Fire
She was a gate of fire, ready to open—yet war demanded him first.
Amerei loosened the sash of her robe and let it fall from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. One hand found the wall for balance as she stepped carefully into the waiting tub. Heat rose to meet her, wrapping her like a velvet cloak, rising to her chest, her knees, her breath.
From beyond the door came the hush of footsteps. Then light flickered through the dim as Juliet and Sylvie entered, each bearing a candle whose flames trembled like watchful stars.
Juliet knelt behind her, steady as ever, sweeping Amerei’s hair back with a mother’s care.
“Your children…” her voice was quiet, solemn, “…will be more human than elven. But our traditions must not die on this night.”
Sylvie dipped a pitcher into the bath, water lapping soft against Amerei’s skin, and passed it to Juliet. From her apron she drew a small linen sachet, its fragrance already rising.
“Rosenfire,” she murmured. “The same your mother used on her wedding night.”
She loosened the bag and scattered its petals into the steaming water. Their warmth unfurled into the air, filling the chamber with the hush of rosebuds.
Juliet poured the water slow over Amerei’s head, each rivulet tracing down her skin like a blessing. Sylvie followed with a vial of oil, the sheen of it gliding through Amerei’s hair. Juliet twisted the golden strands tenderly, laying them over her shoulder.
A sigh slipped from Amerei’s lips, her body softening into the water at last.
