The sound made Xavien’s whole chest ache.
His daughters had not laughed like this in months. Not since the storms. Not since their mother. Yet with Amerei, the garden felt whole again.
His fist closed against the balustrade.
He didn’t move. Couldn’t.
For a heartbeat, he let himself believe. Believe in the vision before him: a woman at ease with his children, joy threaded through sorrow, peace in the shadow of war. Then Amerei lifted her eyes to him across the garden. Her smile lingered.
Something inside him cracked open—and he knew, with cruel certainty, this peace would not last.
In—two, three, four. Out—two, three, four.
At last, he stepped forward. Gravel shifted beneath his boots. Both girls turned at the sound.
“May I borrow the queen for a moment?” he asked gently.
The younger wrinkled her nose. “Ah-mee-ray?” she chirped, the syllables tumbling wrong in her small mouth.
Amerei laughed softly, smoothing the child’s hair.
“They don’t have to leave just yet,” she said, rising with the little one still in her arms.
But Xavien was already reaching for reprieve.
“Didn’t I promise you something sweeter than honeycakes?”
He crouched low, eyes gleaming.
“The kitchens sent for…milaeren.”
Delight lit their faces. Hands clasped. A squeal of disbelief.
“In the amber room,” he told them, gesturing toward the palace wing. “Before the candles burn low.”
They needed no more urging. With fluttering hems and quickened steps, they vanished through the arched doors, laughter trailing like ribbons behind them.
Amerei’s gaze lingered on their retreat. The daisy crown slipped from her hair, half-forgotten. When she turned back to Xavien, her smile wavered when she saw his face.
He held the fallen crown in his hands. Turning it slowly, crushing the petals into ruin.
“There is word from the battlefield,” he said at last, voice weighed careful, each word borne as if it might shatter her. “Ashakar’s fire is quenched. The mountain sleeps. The war is won.”
Relief broke from her, trembling.
“Then it’s over. The realm is safe—”
“But there is more.”
His gaze fixed on her, searching for mercy where none could be found.
“One report says Commander Seraphim lives. Gravely wounded. They fear he may lose his hand.”
Her throat tightened.
Her fingers gripped the railing.
“If he lives, nothing else matters. I will care for him. I will—”
