POV: Cordelia
The capital smells like stone warmed by sun and the faint sweetness of bread carried from open shop doors. It is a good day for appearances. Sebastian walks beside me, his hand resting at my elbow with practiced ease, his presence a moving shield that parts the crowd without effort. People bow. People smile. People whisper.
I keep my face composed.
“You should be seen,” Sebastian says lightly, nodding toward a knot of merchants who pause mid-conversation to stare. “It settles them.”
“I know,” I reply.
The warmth beneath my skin hums low and tight, alert in the way it has been since the morning—uneasy, braced. I tell myself it’s the crowd, the noise, the press of bodies. I tell myself anything except the truth pressing behind my ribs.
We move through the square at an unhurried pace. Children dart between adults. A street musician plucks at a stringed instrument, the tune familiar enough to feel harmless. The city performs itself for us, and I perform back, every step measured, every breath controlled.
Sebastian slows as a man in ceremonial blue approaches, insignia bright against his chest. “Wait here,” Sebastian murmurs, already angling toward him. “I’ll only be a moment.”
I nod. “Of course.”
He leaves me at the edge of the square, near a fountain whose water glints like broken glass. I turn slightly, adjusting my shawl, positioning myself so the crowd becomes a wall rather than a threat.
That is when I see him.
Not at first—not fully. Just a disruption. A stillness where movement should be. The warmth inside me snaps taut, a wire pulled too tight. My breath stalls.
Henry stands three paces away, half-turned, his hood lowered, his face bare in the sunlight. He looks older. Leaner. The lines at the corners of his eyes are deeper, carved by time and something quieter than anger. He is not searching frantically. He is simply there, watching the flow of people as if he belongs among them.
As if he has always been here.
My body reacts before my mind can finish the thought. Heat surges, sharp and instinctive. The fountain’s surface trembles, ripples shuddering outward.
No.
I clamp down hard, forcing the magic inward, my jaw tightening until my teeth ache. I lower my gaze immediately, heart hammering, and step sideways, letting the crowd swallow the line between us.
He came back.
The words echo with disbelief rather than fear. I thought he had gone far enough that even the idea of return would be impractical. I thought the amulet meant finality.
I was wrong.
I turn away and walk.
Not quickly. Not obviously. Panic is visible. I move with deliberate calm, weaving toward the far side of the square, my shoulders squared, my expression neutral. I do not look back.
I feel him anyway.
The warmth recognizes him with a jolt so sharp it borders on pain, as if something long restrained has suddenly remembered its name. I press my palm discreetly against my stomach, grounding myself, breathing slow and measured.
Keep moving.
I pass a vendor selling ribbons, the bright colors blurring at the edges of my vision. I pivot near a column, change direction, let a group of travelers cross between us. I tell myself this is enough—that he will understand the message and disappear again into the city.
He does not.
I sense him behind me now, not close enough to draw attention, not far enough to dismiss. Persistent. Patient. The way he has always been.
“Cordelia.”
My name lands quietly, spoken near my shoulder.
I stop.
I should not. I know better. But my feet root to the stone as if the city itself has decided to test me.
I do not turn. “You shouldn’t be here,” I say, my voice low and steady.
“Neither should you,” he replies.
I resume walking.
“Don’t,” I add sharply. “Don’t follow me.”
“You didn’t ask me not to,” he says, and there is no accusation in it. Just fact.
I angle toward a side street, narrower, shadowed, where the crowd thins enough to make avoidance possible without spectacle. My pulse thuds too loudly in my ears. The warmth coils tight and restless, reacting to proximity, to memory, to the sheer audacity of his presence.
He matches my pace easily.
“You’re being watched,” I say without looking at him. “Everywhere.”
“Yes,” he says. “I noticed.”
“That should concern you.”
“It does,” he replies. “Less than not speaking to you.”
I round the corner and stop abruptly, pressing my back to the cool stone of the building. The street is quieter here, lined with shuttered doors and narrow windows. A few passersby drift past without slowing.
“This is dangerous,” I hiss. “You have no idea what you’re risking.”
“I have every idea,” he says, and steps into my line of sight.
I finally look at him.
The city noise recedes, dull and distant, as if someone has turned it down. Henry’s gaze holds mine without flinching, steady and unguarded. There is no triumph there. No accusation. Only something patient and relentless.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“To see you,” he answers simply.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get right now.”
I glance past him instinctively, scanning the street for familiar faces, for the flash of royal colors. “Sebastian will be back any moment.”
“Then we don’t have much time.”
“There is no time,” I say. “You need to leave.”
“I won’t,” he replies.
My chest tightens. “Henry.”
He takes a half step closer, lowering his voice. “I’ve stayed away. Longer than you think. I tried to accept the version of events you left me with.”
“That was your choice.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “Just like this is mine.”
I shake my head, the beginnings of desperation prickling beneath my skin. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“I understand you’re afraid,” he says.
I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Afraid? You think this is fear?”
“I think you’re running,” he says quietly. “And you don’t do that unless something matters.”
The warmth surges in agreement, a traitorous pulse that rattles my composure. I shove it down, pain blooming behind my eyes.
“Leave,” I repeat. “Please.”
The word slips out before I can stop it.
Henry’s gaze softens, just slightly. “Not like this.”
I step sideways, intending to pass him and return to the square, to Sebastian’s visible protection, to the safety of witnesses. The movement is calculated, smooth.
Henry mirrors it.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“I need answers,” he says. “Anything. Even a lie I can recognize as one.”
“There are no answers that won’t destroy something,” I snap.
“Then let me decide what I can live with.”
Footsteps echo at the far end of the street. My heart lurches. I imagine Sebastian’s voice calling my name, the sudden attention, the questions I cannot afford to answer.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “You’re going to get us both killed.”
Henry’s jaw tightens. “I won’t be erased again.”
I turn to go, urgency overriding caution now, every instinct screaming at me to create distance.
I take one step.
Henry’s hand closes around my wrist.
The contact is electric—too familiar, too grounding. The warmth explodes outward in response, a violent surge I barely contain. The world seems to tilt, sound rushing back all at once.
I freeze.
His grip is firm but not violent, his thumb pressing lightly into the pulse at my wrist as if he’s checking whether I’m real.
“Don’t run,” he says, voice low and urgent.
The street narrows around us. The city breathes in.
And somewhere behind me, I hear Sebastian’s footsteps returning.