“Hard to follow a queen who won’t stand where they can see her.”
He braided the cord tight, casting the frayed strands aside.
Amerei’s lips curved faintly.
“Our net mender left last week.”
Viktor huffed a quiet laugh.
“Elves—always specializing. If I left it to chance, you’d all be tangled in riverweed before nightfall.”
His gaze lifted from beneath his brow, almost daring.
“He who should mend the nets is he who can.”
She who should be queen is she who truly is.
Amerei’s breath caught, as if she’d understood his meaning.
She knelt beside him then, boots sinking in the shallows, braid falling forward as she reached for the net.
Thread by thread, the two of them drew the tangle into order, unaware they were mending something greater than the net itself.
The brush of her shoulder against his made his chest ache.
Dask, she was nearer than he deserved.
He spoke low, almost as if the river itself mustn’t overhear.
“Is that what all these soldiers are for? To help you take the throne by force?”
Her fingers slowed on the cord, her voice quiet.
“My father fears a day will come when Zeporah must rise to defend our people. And if she will not…”
Her gaze flicked to him, fierce and vulnerable both.
“…then I will.”
Something in him stilled, struck by her certainty.
For a breath neither moved.
Then their eyes fell—
only to find their hands already twined together through the braid.
Viktor let out a breath, turning jest to promise.
“If you mean to face usurper queens and dragons, you’ll need more men. More archers. More cavalry. And perhaps a few more skilled with a sling.”
Amerei’s smile broke like sunlight through leaves.
“And one who runs at the speed of a horse.”
The air between them quickened, hushed—the river carrying their silence downstream.
Then Amerei’s head turned, some sense pulling her back toward camp.
