“Can younotannounce my emotional state to the room?”
“I can,” Sylva said mildly. “I am choosing not to.”
Vorrik leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Say the line again.”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“I refuse.”
“‘It is my honor to—’”
Nythir stood abruptly. “I have killed men for less.”
Lyssara smiled sweetly. “You’re doing this because you love her.”
That stopped him cold.
The room quieted, even Sylva’s dagger pausing mid-spin.
Nythir ran a hand through his hair, breath unsteady. “I know.”
“She loves you,” Lyssara continued gently. “Which means she is trusting you with something terrifying. Not power.Presence.”
Vorrik nodded once, uncharacteristically serious. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to stay.”
Nythir swallowed.
That was harder than fighting.
The next lesson involved dancing.
He had foolishly hoped that this would be optional.
The instructor clapped once. “A king must be able to lead his partner.”
Nythir stared at the floor. “She leads me.”
Lyssara coughed to hide a laugh.
Sylva didnothide his.
They placed Nythir in position, corrected his posture, and counted the steps. Left. Right. Turn.
He tripped.
Vorrik applauded.
“Again,” Lyssara said.
He tried again.
This time, he didn’t trip—but he did spin too fast and nearly collided with a side table.
Sylva caught him by the collar.
“Balance,” Sylva said. “Also—panic.”
