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I begin to rise and fall, gentle at first, settling in a rhythm that lets me feel every ridge of him. The bedchamber is quiet except for the soft sound of our breathing and the faint creak of the mattress. His hands guide without forcing, lifting me, lowering me, matching the pace I set. When I lean forward he meets me halfway, mouth finding mine again, open and searching. One of his arms wraps around my waist, holding me close so that my breasts press against his chest.

Our bodies slide for a while, slow and certain. Then I lean back, and begin to move in fast motions, bouncing on him up and down. He supports me with his hands.

“Mmmm.” He hums, his eyes fixed on the movement of my body above him.

I rock faster, chasing the orgasm, listening to his groans. My palms brace against his knees as the pressure inside me builds. He answers with deeper lifts of his hips, the power in him is unmistakable even with his strength recovering.

“Rhy…” His name breaks apart on my tongue as the orgasm catches me, my body tightening around him until the last pulse finally eases.

He lifts me off him and stands. He turns me toward the bed and bends me over the mattress before the last tremors have finished, then drives back into me harder than I had been riding him. My knees buckle, and his hands catch beneath my hips, holding me against him as he fucks me relentlessly.

“Mmmm. That’s it Fiona, so wet.”

I cry out with each thrust, my voice echoing around us. His voice starts to break, and he leans over kissing my spine, and his rhythm breaks the loss of control pushes me over with him. My body shakes uncontrollably, the orgasm bigger than anything before, his hands squeeze me hard enough to bruise, and then we both collapse on the bed. His chest settles against my back while we struggle to catch our breath.

As the last tremors fade he shifts, and lies beside me. I bury my head into his neck. Thinking how that was the kind of fucking that feels like we’ve claimed each other. The bedchamber is dim; only the banked fire and the faint residual glow of spent magic light the space. His heartbeat is steady under my ear—stronger than it has been in days. My fingers stroke over his forearm while the room settles around us.

"You are the foundation of this house, Fiona." His voice is quiet, and it carries the weight of a vow made without an Arbiter to witness it. "Not the contract. Not the edict. You. They will all know it before I am done."

"They'll fight you."

"Let them."

"Theron will call it weakness. Every elder who bowed to the king's man will⁠—"

"Let them fight." His arm tightens around me, and there is iron under the exhaustion. "I lay here and lost everything but you. I will not now pretend you are anything less than what you are. I would rather hold the whole Ridge against me than one more day of calling you an asset when you are the reason my heart still beats."

I don't have anything to say to that. For once I don't reach for it. I press my palm flat over his heart and feel it drive on, alive, and let the quiet be its own answer.

The sun climbs. The gold spreads across the sheets and up the black stone wall. Somewhere below, Joran holds the gates and Varrus waits beyond them and the reckoning gathers itself for the day ahead.

For now, I stay where I am, and count his breaths one more time — not because I am afraid they will stop, but because each one is a thing I nearly lost and did not, and I intend to be greedy about it.

30

RHYSANDIR

Three days after Fiona declares me fully recovered, the grand council chamber fills beneath Morwen’thir banners.

Neptherium pillars rise along both walls, their dark veins answering the presence of chaos magic with faint silver movement. Tiered benches hold the Ridge elders, Khuzuth nobles, Miou captains, trade representatives, and witnesses summoned under house seal.

Fiona sits at my right.

Her presence there attracts more attention than the evidence cases arranged before us. She wears Morwen’thir green over a dark gown, her chestnut braid secured with the wooden comb she carried from Lowtown. Her calloused hands rest on the stone table. She meets every stare without lowering her pale blue eyes.

We have settled what stands between us in private. I will not offer the council any portion of it.

The chamber has been opened to witnesses from Lowtown as well as the Ridge houses. Humans occupy the rear benches under the watch of Morwen’thir guards, not penned behind the carved rail where petitioners of their caste usually wait. Their presence unsettles the nobles. Today, a market woman’s account will carry weight beside a Khuzuth lord’s denial. That fact is itself a judgment on the order Varrus expected to protect him.

I let the discomfort remain visible. Concealed prejudice serves him. Exposed prejudice must answer the evidence with everyone watching.

Joran waits below the dais beside three sealed cases. Sarveth commands the doors. An Arbiter-sanctioned witness occupies the narrow seat beneath the patron’s sigil. Across from him sits the royal representative sent from Orthani after the King’s Guard captain submitted his report.

Elder Theron presides from the central bench. Age has silvered his black hair and deepened the lines around his pale green eyes. He watches the doors with profound stillness.

“Bring Lord Varrus,” I say.

The doors open.