Amiya's POV
They walked until the sun sank low and bled red across the sky.
Amiya tried not to think about how far they'd come—or how little distance she'd put between herself and the mess she'd left behind. Her feet ached, her boots were caked in mud, and her stomach hadn't stopped grumbling since midday. But the worst part? The silence.
Not Sylas's silence—she'd gotten used to that. No, it was her own thoughts. Ever since she'd said it—admitted it—she'd felt like she was walking inside a shell too fragile to breathe in.
"I'm royalty."
She could still taste the truth in her mouth, sharp and bitter like copper.
Sylas hadn't pushed. Hadn't questioned. He hadn't looked at her like she was a burden or a prize to ransom. He'd just accepted it, with that annoyingly unreadable expression. And that was worse than any outburst might have been.
Because now she didn't know what he was thinking. And her own thoughts weren't kind.
Did he see her differently? Did he regret not ditching her in Selune? Was he still planning to?
She wanted to believe the answer was no.
They'd stopped near an old stone bridge half-swallowed by moss, the air heavy with mist and the smell of coming rain. The sky above burned orange-red as the last rays of light fell behind the hills.
Amiya sat with her back to a crooked tree, biting into a crust of dry bread, forcing herself to chew. Her stomach protested, but it was something.
She glanced at Sylas.
He was crouched near the edge of the bridge, sharpening one of his knives on a flat stone. Focused. Still. Like nothing in the world could touch him.
She envied that.
"You're quiet," she said.
"Do you want me to start singing?"
She rolled her eyes. "Just making sure you haven't decided to ditch me in the woods."
His hand paused, then resumed the steady scrape of blade on stone. "If I was going to, you wouldn't be sitting here."
Somehow, that didn't make her feel better.
She pulled her knees to her chest, watching the way the mist curled between the trees beyond the bridge. "You know this place?"
"Old road," he said. "Traders used it before the river changed course. Nobody comes this way now. Too quiet. Too easy to disappear."
Her fingers tensed.
He caught the movement. Set the knife down.
"That's not a threat."
She met his eyes. "I didn't think it was. Not entirely."
He gave her that crooked half-smile. "Well, that's progress."
The silence returned, but it was softer now. Almost companionable. She let her head rest back against the tree, her eyes drifting shut for just a moment.
And then—
A sound.
Not wind. Not water.
Something… humming.
A low vibration in the base of her spine, like a string had been plucked deep inside her. She sat up fast, eyes wide.
Sylas was already standing.
"You feel that?" she asked.
He didn't answer. Just turned, slowly, toward the bridge.
And there it was: a glimmer.
A faint, silvery shimmer clinging to the mossy stones. Like moonlight condensed into liquid, rippling along the arch beneath the bridge.
Amiya stepped forward, drawn to it before she even realized she was moving.
She reached out—and the shimmer flared.
Sylas caught her wrist. "Don't."
Her breath hitched. "What is it?"
He stared at the bridge like it might bite. "I don't know. But I've seen things like it before. Wild magic. Old. Unstable."
Amiya stared at the light. It pulsed once—slow and steady—then vanished, like it had never been there at all.
She pulled her arm free, heart hammering. The hum inside her had stopped. But something had changed. She could feel it.
Something was waking up.
Sylas's POV
He should have known the night wouldn't stay quiet.
Sylas had kept one eye on the trees and the other on Amiya ever since Ronan left. Not because he expected her to bolt—but because she hadn't said much since admitting who she was.
Princess.
He didn't care about crowns or bloodlines. But he cared about what they meant. Attention. Pursuit. Powerful people who didn't like losing control of their pretty little pawns.
He hadn't pushed her for details. Not yet. He'd rather see who came hunting.
But that shimmer under the bridge?
That was something else.
When she moved toward it, some instinct in him had screamed. He didn't know why. He only knew that magic like that didn't show up by accident.
And it sure as hell didn't show up near someone like her without a reason.
He watched her now—pale, tense, her eyes fixed on the mossy stone. She was shaken, more than she wanted to admit. But not afraid. Not really. She looked like someone trying to remember something she never learned.
"That wasn't nothing," he said, stepping beside her. "You don't just get shimmer like that in the middle of nowhere."
She didn't look at him. "What do you think it was?"
"Magic. Old. Maybe wild. But it reacted to you."
She turned sharply. "I don't have magic."
"You sure?"
The look on her face said no. She wasn't.
He exhaled and turned toward the ridge.
The wind shifted. Something distant howled.
He didn't like this. Not one bit.
He still hadn't sold the pendant. Still hadn't told her he had it. And she had never even worn the damn thing.
And now, with strange light and old magic stirring in the ground beneath them, he had a feeling the longer he kept that secret, the harder it would be to explain.
But not yet.
Not until he knew exactly what he was dealing with.
He looked at her again, her silver hair catching the last rays of red light.
"We need to keep moving."
She nodded, but her eyes lingered on the bridge.
He didn't miss the way she reached toward her chest—like something was missing. Like she'd forgotten what it was until now.
Whatever had just happened… it wasn't done.
And neither were they.