He did not kiss her, and still she could not breathe.
The journey east pressed heavy on her chest.
Fyreglade’s cliffs gave way to hard stone roads, the sea glinting restless beneath the horizon. By noon, Vykenra cut the sky—its jagged towers a crown of iron. Castle Amethyst clung to the cliffs like a scar, violet-black spires rising against the wind. Obelisks marked the hillsides, each carved with script that watched in silence.
Amerei’s fingers clenched around her speech before she forced herself to set it in a chest. She would not tremble. Not here.
The gates yawned open, the herald’s voice ringing out:
“Castle Amethyst welcomes the Princess of Casqadia.”
She looked for Viktor, needing his steadiness. He offered his arm, his glove cool under her hand.
“Breathe, Princess,” he murmured low.
“I can’t move in this corset,” she whispered back.
“Then you’ll topple gracefully.”
His mouth twitched.
“And these obelisks—tell me they’re not leering at you.”
“High-Captain—behave.”
She bit her lip, laughter sparking where fear threatened.
His glare eased, but only a shade.
“Ami… you’ve yet to see me misbehave.”
She leaned in, smirk tugging her mouth.
“And what would—”
The castle doors thundered open.
Her words vanished with her breath.
He was already there.
Xavien stood at his own door, not with soldiers but with his children fanned like living jewels at his side. The sun poured over him as if claimed, dark golden hair falling in waves past his shoulders, black uniform cut close across a chest broad as the sea. An onyx band glinted at his ear, a serpent bracelet wound his wrist, alive in the light.
And still, it wasn’t the gold or the grandeur that struck her—it was the ease. The way he looked at her as if he had known her all his life. As if she already belonged to him.
“Welcome, Princess.”
His voice was calm, beautiful, and utterly unyielding—like something that had never learned to be refused.
He took her hand, kissed it slow, and the world tilted.
She didn’t even notice Viktor had let go—only the faint crack of leather tightening across his glove—then silence.
Xavien’s gaze lifted to Storne.
“Masten, it has been far too long,” he called, warmth slipping easily into command.
He gestured to the children gathered at his side—seven in all, solemn and still.
