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Before I can respond, the door swings open.

Moryth Nyt’Fall slips into the corridor, head bowed beneath the fall of his dark hair. He drops immediately into a deeper bow, his fingers splayed in the formal greeting of healer to ruler.

“Your Majesty.” He trembles, whether from fear or exhaustion, I cannot tell. “The healing is complete. I would caution for rest, though…”

He trails off, lifting his chin just enough to gauge my reaction before shrinking beneath whatever he finds there.

The thought of this healer’s pale hands on Amalia’s bronze flesh sends an unexpected surge of possessiveness through me. I picture his fingers probing the wound at her side, testing the boundaries of her injuries, and my teeth clench, locking the emotion inside. It is unbecoming of a king to give in to jealousy.

“You may go,” I tell him, the words clipped short.

Moryth rises, backing away with another bow. “The patient requests privacy to dress.”

I dismiss him with a flick of my hand.

Moryth scurries away, his footsteps little more than whispers across the stone floor. As soon as he nears, his guards close ranks around their charge.

With the return of another healer, will they return him to the dungeon? It matters not to me.

Once he disappears around the corner, I turn back to Thalindor. “We will speak of this no more.”

“Your Majesty⁠—”

“No more.” The word carries an unmistakable Royal command.

Thalindor bows his head in reluctant acquiescence. “As you wish. But I would advise caution in what you reveal to the woman. She carries the Opal within her now. Her loyalties may no longer lie with us.”

“Her loyalty is not in question.” I move toward the door. “Only yours.”

I enter the chamber alone, pulling the heavy door closed behind me. The last glimpse I have of Thalindor’s face shows an uncharacteristic flash of hurt before the door seals with a decisive thud that echoes in the sudden quiet.

I turn to the room and stop short. Amalia stands with her back to me, half-dressed, pulling on pieces of the Silver uniform.

Fae light paints her skin in amber strokes, highlighting the curve of her spine, the definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. I should announce my presence or turn away, but I find myself frozen, caught between royal propriety and a hunger I have not permitted myself to acknowledge.

A new scar marks her side, but it appears years old rather than hours fresh, silver-white and smooth. Too clean a knitting for Moryth’s touch. My suspicion deepens. There’s more to this witch than she’s revealed to any of us. Between her shoulder blades, a constellation of smaller scars maps a history of survival I long to trace with my fingertips.

As she turns slightly to reach for her shirt, the sithean stone swings from the chain between her breasts, pulsing with opalescent light. The symbol of her bond to Elionn, to our bloodline, rests against her bare flesh, casting prismatic shadows across her skin.

Pride and possessiveness stir within me, tangled with an unfamiliar jealousy I refuse to name.

“Enjoying the view, Your Majesty?” She catches me staring without so much as turning around.

Warmth spreads through me, though centuries of court training keep my embarrassment from showing. “I should have knocked.”

“Yes, you should have.” She continues dressing, unhurried, as if my presence means nothing. “Your healer has an interesting family history.”

I cross the room and pick up the silver-trimmed vest waiting on the bench beside her. The cool fabric slips beneath my fingers, embroidered with the subtle marking of those under Royal protection. “Moryth is not my healer. He was only ever on loan. And whatever his connections to Kelaros, I trust he gave you the care you required.”

She turns, finally, the laces on the front of her shirt still open, revealing more silver scars painted across the dusky landscape of her flesh. Her gaze meets mine without deference or fear, those mismatched eyes, one human brown, one swirling Opal, challenging me to turn away first.

“Here.” I offer the vest, and when she takes it, a spark jumps between our fingers, bright enough to illuminate the dimness for a heartbeat.

She flinches, pulling the vest toward her chest. “Static electricity.”

“No.” I flex my fingers, the lingering tingle of connection running through them. “Magic recognizes magic.”

“A dramatic explanation for a simple phenomenon,” she says, dry amusement threading the words.