“No,” I agree. “And he will not stop simply because one ally has fallen.”
Her jaw tightens. “You’ve faced him before.”
“Not directly,” I say. “And not at full strength.”
She studies me carefully. “How dangerous is he?”
I do not soften the truth. “He is one of the strongest dark elf sorcerers of his era. Ancient. Methodical. He does not waste power or time. If he is cultivating blight, then he is preparing something large enough to justify the cost.”
Silence stretches.
“Can we stop him?” she asks.
The honest answer is I do not know.
What I say instead is, “We try.”
She nods once, resolute. “Then we rebuild. You’ll need your title back.”
A faint, humorless smile touches my mouth. “They stripped it publicly. Fear makes councils bold.”
“And fear makes them reversible,” she counters. “We’ll force transparency. Evidence. Allies.”
“You already have a plan.”
She shrugs slightly. “I always do.”
I look at her, tired, brilliant, stubborn, and something inside me settles with quiet certainty.
Later,when the room grows darker and the urgency recedes, Amelia shifts closer, drawn by instinct rather than need. She leans against me, her head resting beneath my jaw, her breath warm against my throat.
I stiffen instinctively, then force myself to relax.
She tilts her face upward. “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. Too quickly.
Her mouth curves faintly. She presses a slow kiss to my collarbone instead, unhurried, unclaimed. It is not hunger that drives it. It is trust.
I cup the back of her head, resting my cheek against her hair, breathing her in. The moment stretches, soft, fragile, real. The bond deepens, not flaring, not demanding, simply… opening.
We do not rush.
We let ourselves exist in the quiet aftermath, in the knowledge that we chose each other again, not because we were bound, but because we want to remain.
Her fingers lace through mine.
“I’m scared,” she admits quietly.
“So am I.”
She exhales, then snuggles closer, her body fitting against mine with unconscious certainty. Her eyes flutter closed.
And in that moment, watching her drift toward sleep with her trust wrapped around me like a vow, I know…I am already lost. The realization does not frighten me. It steadies me. Because losing myself to her feels less like falling and more like choosing ground.
Her breathing evens. Her fingers relax where they clutch my shirt. I brush my lips through her hair, inhaling the faint scent of smoke and crushed leaves that clings to her skin. The world narrows to warmth and heartbeat and the quiet hum of a bond finally at peace.
Then the bond snaps tight. Not a flare. Not a warning. A violent constriction. It is as if an invisible hand closes around the thread between us and pulls. Hard.