And the coven understands something terrifying in that moment: Velcryn’s dethroned heir just defied his own Matrons…To defend Nytheria, publicly and without hesitation.
Vira’s eyes flash to his wings, calculation sharpening. “You expose yourself,” she sneers. “In foreign sacred ground.”
“Yes,” he says.
The single word lands like iron. He does not elaborate. He simply stands there, wings extended, shadow anchored, unflinching. The symbolism is unmistakable. He was stripped of title, but no one stripped him of power. And no one stripped him of choice.
The bond hums fiercely between us. He did not reveal himself to intimidate. He revealed himself because I was in danger. And now the entire coven has witnessed it. The balance of political narrative shifts in real time. He is no longer a foreign liability. He is a shield. And Vira knows she has lost control of the room.
The Wildspont roars beneath the chamber. Vira pivots toward the northern archway trying to escape. Zeidan moves faster.
He intercepts her mid-stride, shadow colliding with blight in a violent concussion of force that throws heat across my skin. I drive binding magic into the stone beneath her feet, calling roots upward through ancient channels.
She fights like someone who has rehearsed betrayal. Blight energy wraps around her arms, slicing through the first bindings. I push harder. Pain slices through my ribs but I do not stop. Zeidan’s hand closes around her wrist. Shadow seals her magic channels while my roots constrict, winding up her torso, around her throat, anchoring her to the floor. She screams in fury.
“You would have ruled nothing!” she spits at me.
“And you would have sold everything,” I answer.
The chamber trembles, but then stills. She hangs suspended in root and shadow. Breathing hard, eyes bright with hatred. Elder Crow, my mother, rises slowly.
“Vira of the Inner Circle,” she says, voice unsteady but resolute, “you are stripped of rank pending tribunal.”
The words echo. Vira laughs softly.
“You think this ends with me?” she whispers.
And then the adrenaline leaves me all at once. The roots slacken slightly as my magic falters. The chamber tilts sideways, light splintering into fragments. I hear Zeidan say my name. Then nothing…
When awareness returns,I am moving. Strong arms. Steady heartbeat. Zeidan.
He does not ask permission. He does not wait for formal dismissal. He carries me through the chamber like something precious and breakable.
The elders part without protest.
His jaw is set, the shadow around him remains sharp enough to warn anyone who might try to interfere.
“I’m fine,” I murmur weakly.
“You are not,” he replies.
There is no anger in his voice, only refusal. He adjusts his hold on me slightly, one hand firm at my back, the other beneath my knees, as if I weigh nothing at all. As if carrying me is not a burden but a right.
The bond is steady. He will not leave my side. Not while I breathe. I feel it then, not through magic, not through the echo of power or the fading tremor of battle.
Through him.
Through the way his jaw remains tight long after the danger has passed. Through the way his wings refuse to fully retract, shadow still curved subtly around us as if the world must ask permission to approach. Through the way his thumb moves once, almost absently, against my side, checking that I am real. Checking that I am here.
Something inside me softens in a place I didn’t know was still guarded.
This is not strategy, nor alliance. This is love.
The realization doesn’t strike like lightning. It settles like roots finding water.
I love him.
Not because he shields me. Not because he fights beside me. Not because the bond hums warm and constant between us. I love him because he chooses me in the moments when no one is watching. Because he stays.