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The water-dragon dissipates into mist that vanishes before it hits the floor. Rose yawns, the excitement of the chase catching up with her.

I focus on her, grateful for the distraction. “Time for bed, little one. Your mother will be here soon to collect you, and I don’t want her thinking we’ve worn you out.”

Even as she rubs her eyes with small fists, Rose pouts. “But I’m not tired.”

“Of course not.” I work to hide my amusement, not wanting to rile her up even more. “But maybe you could rest your eyes for a few minutes? Just until your mother arrives.”

She considers this compromise with the seriousness only a child can muster for such negotiations. “Okay, just until then.”

Rose settles onto the small settee in the corner and curls up with a cushion. Within seconds, her eyelids droop and Kin’s warm glow dims.

Once she’s asleep, Sterling pulls me close, his arms encircling my waist. “You’re worried.”

Power crackles beneath his skin like lightning. “I’m not⁠—”

He strokes my hair. “You are. But this is good, Lark. This is what I’m meant to be. I can sense it.”

I nod against his chest, not trusting myself to speak. Because what terrifies me more than him being wrong is the worry that he might be right. That he truly is meant to be an entity greater than just a man. More. A being different than my king, my husband, my love.

Something too magnificent and wonderous for the likes of me.

Pressing closer to him, I inhale the familiar scent of leather, soap, and spice, along with the newer fragrance of fresh rain and open skies that clings to him. His heart thumps a steady rhythm beneath my ear, the same rhythm that’s lulled me to sleep on countless nights.

While that bit of normalcy reassures me, I also sense a subtle current running beneath his skin like a hidden river.

I can’t help but wonder if one day that current will grow stronger than the man, washing away the Sterling I love and leaving only the Champion of Water behind.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The Council Tower feels even larger today. Only five of us currently inhabit the room, including Leesa. She sits quietly in the corner, thumbing through a leather-bound tome.

Our circular table dominates the center of the space, the polished wood reflecting the morning light that streams through the eastern windows. Fires crackle in the twin hearths, warding off the chill. Scattered papers and maps serve as reminders of yesterday’s meetings and today’s agenda.

Sterling lounges in a chair on the other side of the table, his brow furrowed in concentration as he reads a letter. His long, elegant fingers tap a silent rhythm against the paper. Normally, Rivlan would have whisked him away by now for more training, but today the god is absent.

A rare gift I intend to savor.

A week has passed since Rivlan began Sterling’s training, and my fiancé has changed. That subtly healthy glow he attained after his first session became permanent, and a preternatural steadiness now guides his motions. Strength radiates from him like heat from a sun-warmed stone.

I love him this way, confident and whole, even while loathing the reason behind the alterations.

Rafe has positioned himself near the windows, his tall figure silhouetted in the sunlight. Agnar slouches in a chair to my right, his boots propped on the table. I shoot him a dark look, gesturing at the stacks of papers he’s mangling together.

He grins, unrepentant, but drops his feet to the floor. “These stone-dry reports suck every drop of moisture from my body.” Agnar grabs his flask, but when he tries to lift it, nothing happens. “What the…?”

Slowly, water rises from the container without splashing or spilling, instead forming a perfect shimmering sphere that hovers just beyond Agnar’s grasp.

I sneak a peek at Sterling, whose eyes remain fixed on his papers. The corner of his mouth twitches.

Agnar heaves a loud sigh and reaches for the floating orb. “Really? Is this necessary?”

The sphere drifts higher, away from his fingertips. Cursing, Agnar leaps and misses. A snicker escapes me.

There’s something endlessly entertaining about two grown men, one a fierce soldier, the other the soon-to-be king, behaving like boys at the breakfast table.

“Very mature.” Agnar crosses his arms. “What are you, twelve?”

Sterling maintains his facade of studious indifference.