Later.
For now, the Marches press at the back of my skull, impatient.
We discuss the incursions. The reports from the borders. Idris’ fanatics turning villages, promising power if they join his “new order.”
Each account carves another furrow into the stone of my spine.
By the time we adjourn, the weight of it all threatens to crush the fragile new warmth in my chest.
I stand, pushing back from the table as servants move in with fresh trays. The others drift into low conversation—Alaric bending his head toward Jules, Thorne stealing bites from Delia’s plate, Kael and Phoebe arguing about some Tidal engineering project.
And then I feel her.
A shift in the air.
A familiar, grounding presence.
I turn.
Alina stands in the doorway, Brianne a respectful half-step behind her.
My breath catches.
She wears a gown the color of rich soil after rain—deep, almost black brown, with threads of green and gold woven through the fabric so that every movement sends little sparks of light down her body.
The neckline frames her collarbones and the spot where my mark rests, proud and dark against her skin.
The skirts fall in layered panels that swish around her knees, revealing flashes of strong, bare legs when she walks.
Her dark hair is braided back from her face, plaited with tiny white blossoms from the elder tree, the rest tumbling in waves down her back.
She looks like the Marches themselves made flesh.
“There you are,” I say, the word more exhale than sound.
Her gaze finds mine, and the nervous tightness in her shoulders eases.
“Hey,” she says, crossing the chamber on sure feet. “So, how’d the big meeting go?”
Behind her, Delia mouths oh my god she’s perfect, at Jules. Phoebe grins like she knows every thought in my head.
Alina reaches my side and I take her hand, lifting it to my lips.
“It went well. And you look radiant,” I murmur against her knuckles. “The Marches approve.”
“Good,” she says lightly. “Because I spent twenty minutes arguing with Brianne about whether I needed this many flowers in my hair and I’m not doing that again for nothing.”
Brianne coughs delicately.
“The blossoms suit you, Lady. As does the title.”
Alina squeezes my fingers, and though she smiles, I feel the flicker beneath the surface—the familiar outsider’s doubt.
“These are my brothers,” I say, drawing her a half-step forward. “And their viyellas. You know their names, but you should hear them from their own mouths.”
Alaric bows slightly, hand over his chest. “Alaric, Lord of Air. And this is my viyella, Jules.”
Jules waves. “Former Jersey girl, current library gremlin. Also, your future research buddy if you ever want it.”
