The tunic slid from his arm.
His chest was a constellation of stripes where fire had lashed and failed.
He heard Amerei’s voice from the night she first kissed him.
“What have I done to you?”
“You saved me, Amerei.”
Click.
The last clasp freed.
The breastplate came away.
There—over his ribs—the worst of it: a rope-raised scar daring to edge his raven-wing tattoo. He watched it a moment, then bowed his head.
“Let me save you, Amerei,” he whispered. “Let me give you peace.”
He lit the candle, set quill to parchment, and wrote:
Ami,
I aimed into the darkness
and struck the most beautiful star.
Let love rise from the ashes of what was.
Give him your heart.
Give our son his name.
I will love you past the veil.
-Your Tory
He dried the ink, folded the page, sealed it with the small stamp he’d carried since Westport. His thumb lingered against the wax, tracing the heat until it cooled—until it felt like touching her from afar.
He blew out the lamp and lay on his back, the tent’s hush settling over him. His fingers found the place she lay, the air still faint with her perfume.
He closed his eyes—and felt her.
A small, steady current across the flats, over the palisade, through the forests of Elváliev, up the cliffs of Amethyst, through the open lattice of the consort’s suite.
There she lay.
Alone.
His wedding band on her finger.
Their braided vow in her hands.
Tears stained her pillow.
She trembled in her sleep.
“Ami,”he sent.“I’m here.”
