Page 104 of The Nymph King

“I ordered enough for two people.” He sighed. “You can reject whatever you don’t want.”

She considered the offer. “Acceptable,” Imani replied with a nod, still feeling uncomfortable.

“High praise.”

He sat in the chair near the window while Imani leaned back against the headboard. The hearth cracked softly, and the birds chirped incessantly outside. Beyond the chamber, servants moved through the hallway as the estate began its morning rhythm.

Imani felt the bonds again. Ellisar’s rested near her heart, pulsing in a steady, familiar beat. Kiran’s remained there too, deeper in her chest, darker and more instinctive, impossible to erase simply because another bond had been formed around it.

Two different pulls, and two different lives pressing against hers.

Ellisar braced his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “You’re thinking too loudly.”

“That is not possible.”

“It appears to be today.”

“You’re annoyingly observant,” she muttered with an irritated look, but there was no malice.

His lips curved faintly.

At the sight, Imani drew the sheets higher around her bare chest. “Next time, stay on your side,” she mumbled.

Ellisar finally let the smile touch his mouth. “Next time?”

Her face warmed at the admission, so she looked away toward the windows because looking at him made it worse. “Eat your breakfast when it arrives. Your staff worries about you.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

* * *

The streets of Stralas hummed with trade, shouts, and the familiar rhythm of a city unchanged by Imani’s absence. Market stalls choked the lower roads, their vibrant banners snapping in the briny wind off the Neshuin Sea. The city rushed past in a fleeting blur of obscurity. As Imani and her escort drew nearer the center, the sprawling architecture gave way to ordered, defensive tiers that climbed the steep incline toward the palace.

From below, it had always looked like the heart of everything—the highest point, the undisputed seat of power. But as Imani’s gaze followed the winding ascent toward the cliffside, that old certainty vanished. The palace still stood where it always had, carved into the rising stone to overlook both the city and the open water, yet it no longer felt like the center of the world. It felt like merely one vantage point among many, a single point on an ever-expanding board she was still wrapping her mind around.

She ruminated on everything they’d learned these past few weeks. After traveling across the kingdom, they’d found the gaps—areas where her authority remained strong and others where it was fragile. This completely changed how she viewed Stralas.

The upcoming meeting in Niflheim burrowed deeper into her mind, a burdensome, inescapable weight she couldn’t cast aside. Every step was marked by the stark awareness that the parley would demand her most decisive and riskiest move yet as monarch. The decisions she made before departing would determine her survival upon arrival. Time seemed to shrink from an endless horizon into a constricting tunnel, drawing her toward a confrontation that required a clarity she had not yet achieved.

They reached the palace at the crest of the rise, the chill wind from the Neshuin Sea cutting across the stone as the heavy gates parted.

Imani walked into the atrium confidently, shedding her cloak immediately and handing it to a servant as her thoughts turned inward. The familiar palace halls surrounded her, but her mind remained fixated on the issue she brought with her: Meira. Her sister was unpredictable, shattering every plan Imani had made. As she advanced further into the palace, her resolve strengthened. She decided she wouldn’t attend the parley without the answer she needed most. She refused to face Kiran or whatever lay in Niflheim without knowing precisely who was heartmated to her sister.

Once she allowed herself to name the decision, it came without a shred of hesitation.

She would recreate the spell she’d made for Kiran before he’d whisked her away to Niflheim. This time, though, it would not be born of desperation or uncertainty. She recalled her first attempt—the violent rupture of magic through her, the physical pain, and the near loss of her mind to an uncontrollable force. It almost ended her life. She acknowledged that memory but chose not to dwell on it. It had served its purpose. She was alive. And she had changed since then. What was once unpredictable was now possible with the Drasil in hand.

Imani worked alone. She dismissed her attendants, ensuring nothing would disrupt the exacting precision she demanded. She gathered each ingredient herself, trusting no other hand to prepare them. She handled the last piece—a single strand of Meira’s hair, quietly retrieved by a servant—with delicate care.

The chamber she chose sat deep within the palace’s inner bones, entirely removed from the flow of court life. Its thick stone walls could swallow both sound and magic without a trace. After sealing the heavy door, she drew a containment circle across the floor with ash and powdered stone, reinforcing the boundary with a thin line of her own blood pressed into measured points of the pattern. She didn’t have a defensive brand, but she’d never shied away from flesh magic.

A low table stood at the center, bearing only the tools she had arranged: a shallow dish, a narrow blade, a coil of dark thread, and Meira’s hair. Firelight threw dancing shadows against the walls, but the air in the room remained deathly still, waiting for her command.

She tried to take her time.

The first attempt all those months ago had been her working an unfamiliar spell. Now, she exerted pure control. Standing before the fire, she centered her awareness, channeling her magic inward before releasing it smoothly in a steady flow. The magic responded effortlessly, with no resistance or unstable edges, flowing cleanly and acknowledging her mastery.

Imani picked up the strand of hair and examined it in the firelight. It was perfect, but she would only get one shot unless she wanted her plans revealed. She placed it at the center of the dish and carefully drew her blade across her palm. Instead of using fire as a medium, as she’d done before, she would use blood. The shallow cut let a single drop fall onto the hair, darkening and slowly being absorbed, symbolically linking her physical connection to her spell. Energy in her hands hissed like a serpent, rippling outward briefly before she directed it along the circle’s edge. It then expanded downward in a smooth and silent bloom.