I pull the message from my belt and hand it to her.
She reads it in silence.
I watch her face carefully—looking for fear, for panic, for any sign that she's going to break.
What I see instead is her jaw setting. Her shoulders squaring.
Fury.
"Three days," she says quietly.
"Yes."
"And if you don't comply?"
"War."
She looks up at me, and there's something blazing in her eyes that makes the curse sit up and pay attention.
"Good," she says.
I blink. "Good?"
"I'm tired of running." She folds the message carefully and hands it back. "I'm tired of being afraid of what they'll do if they find me. I'm tired of pretending I'm not—" She stops. Takes a breath. "I'm not going back, Vorak. Not now. Not ever."
"They'll send an army."
"Let them."
"People will die."
"People arealreadydying." Her voice sharpens. "That attack three days ago? Those were my people bleeding in this room. My friends. And they were here because the crown sent soldiers to drag me back like I'm property."
She steps closer, and I have to resist the urge to pull her against me and never let go.
"I'm not hiding anymore," she says. "I'm not letting other people fight my battles while I cower in a tower. If this is war, then I'm fighting too."
Gods.
She's magnificent.
"You realize what you're saying," I tell her quietly. "The moment I refuse to hand you over, you stop being a treaty bride. You become a rebel. A traitor. They'll put a price on your head."
"I know."
"There's no going back from this."
"I know."
I cup her face, tilting her chin up so she has to meet my eyes. "Say it again."
"I'm not going back."
"Why?"
Her hand covers mine, and I feel that golden warmth pulse gently against my palm.
"Because this is home," she says simply. "Because these people are my people. Because you're—" She stops. Swallows. "Because I choose this. I choose you. All of it."
