And so is he.
We eat breakfast in silence. It’s the sweet fruit mix I love, savory cakes, and slabs of meat so tender and juicy that I still can’t believe they’re real. Rythar sits opposite me, arms folded, jaw set, eating twice what any human could.
There’s something about the way the Council behaved that I can’t get out of my mind. I push the food around my plate, then put the fork down. “Can I ask you something?”
He nods, slow. “Always.”
I lace my fingers, study the bride mark. “When was the last time the High Lord made a direct order? Not through a proxy. Not with plausible deniability. Not a request. A real, actual command.”
He blinks. The question hits, but he tries not to show it. “The High Lord rarely needs to make direct orders.”
I raise my eyebrow. “But you can’t remember the last time, can you?”
His lips twitch, then flatten. “It is not the way of the system.”
It’s the way of a stagnated system. I lean forward, pressing. “How many surveillance reports go unanswered? How many border incidents are flagged for review and then dropped? How many times do you get an ‘urgent’ message, but nobody follows up unless you do?”
He glares, but doesn’t answer.
I keep going. “This isn’t just about me. The world is getting less predictable. The ‘order’ is slipping, and nobody wants to admit it because it’s supposed to be impossible.”
His knuckles whiten. “You think it is because of you?”
“No,” I say, voice sharp. “I think it’s because the Concord Stone is failing. Something is wrong. And that means every oldrule is a guess. And that means pretending everything is normal just puts all the pressure—” I point to my chest “—right here. Until I shatter.”
He stands, the chair scraping back hard. He paces, then slams a fist into the wall. The wall dents, then heals—and I feel the heal, a green ripple running up my own arm.
“Don’t,” I warn him.
He turns to me, breathing hard, eyebrows slashing together. “I’m protecting you.”
I snort. “Yeah, well, nobody told my nervous system. And being protected isn’t enough. I was protected on New Terra—so protected that I ended up here on Xytheos while New Terra was destroyed. I’m tired, Rythar. Tired of pretending I’m just a pawn. Tired of acting like I don’t want things, need things, feel things.”
He closes the space between us fast. He grabs my arms, pulls me upright. The motion is rough, urgent, but gentle enough.
He stares down, ember eyes burning. “Tell me what you want.”
I try to look away, but he tilts my chin up, needing the eye contact.
I whisper, “I want to talk to Sophia, and Maya, and any of the other women from New Terra I can reach.”
He nods once, a soldier’s acknowledgment. Then he releases me, spins to the wall panel, and slams his palm to the control. The walls thicken, threads of metal and wood interlacing in an instant, sealing every exit.
Rythar looks back at me grimly. “You will remain here. No one comes in, no one leaves, without my order.” His hand stays on the panel. “I told you I would learn to be held. I did not tell you it would be tonight. Until you are armed, this is the only wall I have.”
I glare. “You think locking me up even more fixes it?”
Rythar crosses the room, and this time he pulls me against him, hard enough that I can’t move. His body is an unyielding wall. “If you won’t stop acting on this connection, if you can’t, you aren’t leaving this room.”
I glare at him. “I can’t live my life in one room, Rythar!”
He leans in, mouth at my ear. “You are mine. Not the Stone’s. Not the Council’s. Mine.”
I shiver, every cell aware of him. “You can’t contain this. I can’t even contain this.”
He kisses me softly, holding back the tension I feel in his muscles.
“You will stay here,” he orders. His hand lingers on the panel a second too long as he locks it to his signature.
