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Chapter Fifteen

Jasce

Sunlight filters through the branches of the cherry trees in Sharhavva’s royal gardens, casting shadows across Annora’s face. Her fingers intertwine with mine as we stroll past roses and lilies.

“You’re staring again,” she says as she bumps her hip against mine.

“I can’t help it. Your face distracts me.” I tug her closer, savoring the way she fits against my side.

She’s perfect, and she’s mine!

“Oh? I thought you never got distracted,” she teases, her voice thick with humor.

“Only by insufferable artists who steal my charcoal.”

“I didn’t steal it.” Mirth skips in her eyes as she grins at me. “I borrowed it.”

“Is that what you call taking all my art supplies?” I ask as she pulls away and walks ahead of me, the hem of her cotehardie swishing around her legs. “Besides, someone needs to teach you proper shading techniques.”

“My shading is perfect,” she says as she continues to walk several paces ahead of me.

“Says the woman who drew me with a crooked nose.”

She gasps and whirls around to face me. “Take that back.”

“Never.” I lunge forward and catch her around the waist, spinning her in a circle as she squeals.

I wake with a start and reach out for Annora, but my hand meets only empty space. Disappointment slams into me as I sit up and scan the stables, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

As I stand, a piece of parchment flutters to the ground next to me. I snatch it up and open it.

Jasce,

I implore you, don’t act rashly. If you attack Aleksander or Asha, they will retaliate, and more war will devastate our people. And I can’t bear the thought of anyone else dying.

Please, return to Sharhavva and lead our people. I will find my way back to you.

Trust me.

Annora

How can she expect me to sit idly by while she’s in danger? Especially when every part of me screams to burn Bakva to the ground.

“Fuck!”

Dust kicks into the air as I pace the stables, thinking about Aleksander. He’s always coveted what’s mine—my birthright, my throne, and now, Annora.

I’m no fool. I know why he did this. He has always wanted to rule House of Crimson.

He thinks he’s won, and he believes I’ll choose duty over desire, but he’s forgotten one crucial detail. I’ve never been good at following others’ expectations.

The stable door creaks as I push it open, letting in a rush of morning air that carries the scent of baked bread.

I pull my cloak tighter, obscuring my face. Let Aleksander believe his manipulation worked.

And when the moment comes—I’ll remind him why I’m the chieftain and he’s not.