“Breathe with me, love. I've got you. We’re in this together.”
She returned, heart pounding—
and spoke of Xavien everything she meant for Viktor:
“I love him without care for what is wise, practical, or even acceptable. His presence is like sun breaking over winter. His absence, a night without stars.”
A breath—steadying.
“I never knew I was missing him until he came, and now he is the very pulse of my heart—without him, I would not know myself.”
Tears rose, unbidden.
“For when his soul touched mine, fate itself forbade us to ever part.”
Her voice shook.
Shame seared her throat.
But she did not look away.
Xavien’s eyes lowered, then lifted again—caught between the pride her words ignited and the ruin of knowing they weren’t meant for him. His fingers twitched against his thigh, his jaw tight. He drank her confession like poison dressed as wine.
Ulyria studied Amerei as if reading an old map for the true road, then turned her gaze to her son. Something subtle unlatched in her face. The queen rose, silk falling like quiet rain as she stepped down from the dais.
Xavien stared ahead, unflinching.
He did not expect her touch.
She cupped his face and kissed one cheek, then the other.
“Be strong,” she said, low enough for shadows.
“The Senate tires of a crown worn by a sleepwalker. When they are certain, they will depose Yethule for incapacity.”
She lifted her chin, dark warmth in her eyes.
“The realm is yours, my son. We need only wait for the moment to seize it.”
A knuckle brushed his jaw—then she was queen again.
She turned, skirts whispering over stone.
“Here is the shape of it,” she declared. “You will be discreet. You will be useful. You will win the realm. No scandal. No claim. When the king dies—or the Senate remembers its courage—we will exile the Gearíyan princess and make what is between you law.”
Her gaze cut to Amerei.
“And you, daughter of Cassandra—your father’s line will not fail for lack of arrows.”
The door opened. A steward appeared.
“A writ for Sevrak,” Ulyria said. “Three Sagittarii cohorts. Two cavalry banners. Surgeons. Farriers. Grain. Pitch. Oil. Signed by my hand and sealed by the Senate’s marshal before the sun sets.”
The steward bowed and vanished.
“And Xavien,” she called without looking back.
He straightened.
