“Don’t be afraid, my love,” he whispered.
“I will raise it as my own.”
Something snapped.
Her hand struck up.
He caught her wrist mid-swing.
“Firaen.”
(Feisty.)
She tore free.
“I’m not afraid, Xavien,” she said, pulse thundering.
“I’m hopeful. Hopeful that I bear his son—and that he looks just like him. So every time you see his face, you’ll remember who I belong to.”
For an instant, something raw cracked his composure—jealousy, loss. He buried it with a breath.
“You cannot love a ghost, Amerei. I’ve seen the darkness that awaits him.”
Her gaze fell to the basin’s rim, the water rippling as if it wanted to speak. She stepped closer, defiance sharpening her voice.
“What have you seen?”
Xavien’s hand swept over the pool, shadowing the surface. It seethed with shifting shapes—shadows of banners, wings, the gleam of steel—before he stilled. Closed his hand. Dropped it to his side.
“Join me in the garden,” he said, already turning.
“Miradoren.”
(Battlefields are for the mortal.)
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Send My Husband Soldiers
Her bodice torn, her voice unshaken—love made into command.
The consort’s suite breathed lavender and light as Amerei slipped back through the door. Jasmine was on her feet before the latch had settled. Evander rose so fast he knocked a comb to the floor.
“What happened?” they asked together.
Amerei crossed to the wash-stand, unpinning her cloak with steady fingers.
“He prays in water,” she said, meeting Jasmine’s gaze in the mirror.
“He scries,” Jasmine whispered, seething.
She hurried closer.
“You didn’t look in the basin?”
“No.”
“You remember what I’ve told you before?”
