Chapter 23

  Her parents had heard about their encounter and rushed to find them. A carriage and guards had begun escorting them back to Norvil as her parents pressed her for information. She refused to speak the first day, still trying to process what had happened. Once Amalia started, she couldn’t stop the words from pouring out. It was still raw: the attack on the town, Philip’s smile, the swarm, River slipping from the sky and vanishing into that hungry dark. Each sentence landed heavier than the last, dredging up sorrow from places she hadn’t known were there. By the end, her vision blurred so badly she could no longer make out her parents’ faces.

  Then warmth found her.

  Her father’s arms wrapped around her—steady, absolute—and for a heartbeat the weight slipped. Her fists, clenched so long they’d gone white, loosened and fell at her sides. She stood trembling against him, unsure what came next, what could come next.

  Nymeira pressed close, curling around Amalia’s calf, the little drake’s head now reached her thigh. The bond pulsed, warm and sure—a slow, steadying thrum. For the first time in days something inside Amalia eased. The pain didn’t vanish, but it finally lowered its voice.

  When her father let go, the world crashed back in. This time she held the tears. She drew a shaky breath. “We need to find out exactly what happened. Albert thinks the King might’ve had a hand in it… but I can’t believe that.”

  Albert stood silent beside her, nodding once. His eyes were red and puffy, the skin beneath them raw where tears had been rubbed away. One broad hand rested on Tessa—who now stood nearly to his chest. Tier Four had hit hard, she’d grown overnight. At this rate she’d soon be looking him in the eye.

  Amalia turned to her mother. Virella hadn’t spoken, and her silence said more than any denial. As the King’s half-sister, the accusation cut in two directions at once.

  “Leo wouldn’t do that,” Virella said at last, the words barely cleared a whisper.

  She swallowed, gathered herself, and repeated more firmly, “Leo wouldn’t do that.” Norvil’s gates at last. Two days gone to bad roads; Amalia chose silence at the checkpoint.

  By the time the manor gates closed behind them, exhaustion hung over the household like a fog, muffling every sound.

  That night, no one pushed the conversation further. Calira retreated without a word. Albert did, too shoulders set and eyes turned down. The corridors felt wider than Amalia remembered, packed with quiet.

  She lay in her childhood bed and stared at the ceiling. Sleep should have taken her the moment she let go; bone-deep fatigue wrapped her like a wet cloak, but rest didn’t come. Every road led back to River: his stubborn grin in Varosha during drills, the soft pride in his voice when they’d been issued uniforms, even his horrible jokes. Memories played across the veined marble like pale ghosts. They hurt. She held them anyway.

  When sleep finally took her, it was no mercy. Dreams came hot and sharp: River broken and bleeding; cities burning; crowns rolling across stone; Nymeira screaming in a voice that wasn’t hers. She woke slick with sweat, clothes clinging. Morning light spilled through the window, as false as painted gold. If anything, she felt worse than before.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  She lay there long minutes, eyes tracing the hairline cracks in the plaster she’d mapped as a child. Eventually the bed became a cage. She swung her legs over, bare feet whispering across the rug. Nymeira padded after her, scales catching the early light in glints of ice-blue. She bumped Amalia’s knee—testing. Warmth pulsed across the bond. Amalia’s breath evened. The ache retreated a step.

  Thuds behind Albert’s door. She knocked anyway. “It’s me, you oaf.”

  A beat. Hinges groaned. “Fine,” Albert rumbled. “Come in.”

  The room sat half-dark, curtains drawn to a thin seam of day. Albert stood by the wardrobe, shoulders hunched, jamming spare tunics and bandages into a travel sack. Tessa, bigger now, sat beside him, green eyes tracking every movement, the stub of her trunk lifting and lowering anxiously. Tear tracks had dried salty on Albert’s cheeks.

  “What,” Amalia said—sharper than she meant—“are you doing?”

  He didn’t turn. “Tess and I are going back for him.” Flat. Cold iron. A statement, not an invitation.

  Anger flared—at the recklessness, at her own helplessness—and underneath it the same fierce need burned: River. Alive. Somehow. She dropped her voice to a hiss.

  “March into Blightborn territory half-healed? That’s suicide.”

  Albert shoved another shirt deep, jaw working. “Leaving him there was suicide.”

  The silence held, tight and brittle. Tessa rumbled, pressing her trunk against his arm. His hand found her skin without looking; his fingers trembled.

  Amalia stepped forward, steadied her tone. “River knows what he’s doing. We don’t even know if he’s still there.” She set a hand on Albert’s forearm. “We need information. Supplies. Allies. Maybe even the King—if he’ll tell us what happened.”

  The words hit. Albert sat hard on the bed, breath leaving in a ragged sigh. He met her eyes for the first time—grief, guilt, and a flicker of relief all crowding the same space.

  He nodded once. Tessa hummed low and curled closer, as if seconding the vote.

  “We investigate while we still can,” Amalia said, hearing steel return to her voice. “When River comes back, we’ll have answers ready for him.”

  For the first time since the night tore apart, purpose clicked into place. Real. Weight-bearing. For the truth, she would pry up every lie, pull every rotten thread.

  And next time they left, it wouldn’t be without River.

  She left the room before doubt could follow, and took the east corridor toward the guest wing. River’s door waited at the end—his. Calira would be there.

  She didn’t knock. The list in her head was too loud. Inside, a small redheaded girl sat at the desk, eyes puffed and far away. She didn’t move when the door opened.

  Amalia set a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Calira.”

  It took a moment. Then the girl blinked, and the clouded gray of her gaze warmed back to its familiar embered gold, as if she’d had to travel to reach the room.

  Amalia laid out the plan—clear, each step placed like a stone across water. Talk to Virella again. Find what the Ward-Masters knew of the King’s “summons.” Check William’s contacts at the palace. Visit the archives for Norvil’s founding records: obsidian, prison, legends. See if Lady Luck’s clergy had noticed anything… off.

  Calira listened without comment, throat working, hands twisting in the fabric of River’s old sleeve draped over the chairback. When Amalia finished, she only nodded. No words came. Grief sat too deep to dislodge. Amalia didn’t blame her. If anything happened to Nymeira…

  She stopped that thought before it grew teeth.

  “At least rest,” Amalia said, softer. “Eat if you can. I’ll start with Mother.”

  Another small nod. Calira’s fingers tightened once on the sleeve, then went still.

  Amalia turned for the door and paused, glancing back. “We’ll get him back,” she said—not because she knew it, but because she needed it anchored in the air. “We will.”

  Calira’s eyes flickered, a spark through ash. “Then hurry.”

  “I will.”

  In the hall, the house breathed around her—familiar stone, familiar light, suddenly sharpened by purpose. Answers first. Then the plan. Then River.

  She headed toward Virella’s solar, the weight in her chest shifting from grief to motion. It wasn’t lighter.

  It was bearable.