Page 100 of Severed Heir

“Then why wait?” a voice called from the crowd. “Get him out!”

“I’ll try,” I said. “But until then, my flame will protect you. If it dies, consider me gone.”

Power surged through me like molten light. I let it pour into the earth, threading ash and ember through the bones of this place.

“You’re only an heir,” someone called out. “A flame-wielder can’t protect us.”

“I’m not asking for loyalty,” I said. “Or reverence. Only understanding.”

Silence followed.

Then, a child no older than six stepped forward, eyes wide with starlight and wonder. Her mother reached to pull her back—but others followed. Two, then five. Heads bowed. Knees touched stone. Hands rose toward the lilac sky in quiet, cautious surrender.

But I could feel Archer’s shadows were thinning. His shields wouldn’t hold much longer. And even if it killed me, I would ensure this land was protected. And if I wanted to save him, I’d need leverage. A barter. The kind only the most powerful man alive could offer.

Find him an heir, and maybe he’d let Archer go.

But I couldn’t stay here. Not while my father prepared to drag me back to Ravensla. Not while Damien waited with a ring I never wanted.

And I wasn’t done running yet.

Amria waited by the seamstress’s room, looping scarlet thread between her fingers. I passed the bathing hall where Archer had once healed me. I didn’t look inside. I couldn’t face the girl I’d been then. The one who didn’t yet know what she would lose.

I rifled through the drawers in his study—notes, letters, old bargain offers. Even a few marriage proposals from bold civilians and women I sincerely wished I could unsee.

“There’s nothing here,” I whispered.

Amria knocked softly before entering. “What are you looking for?”

“A map,” I said. “I’m going to the prison. After that… I don’t know.”

“They’re near the Day Realm,” she said. “The light keeps the prisoners half-mad, half-awake. Torture-ready. That dragon of yours… I imagine he’s been near it.”

“I don’t know how much time I have.” I rifled through a few more drawers, slamming the last one shut.

“You won’t get in,” she added. “Only guards and journalists have clearance.”

My head snapped up. “Journalists?”

“They log the prisoners. Sometimes they even write about them, if the name is big enough.”

“You read the prison logs?” I asked, arching a brow.

“I confess nothing,” she said with a smirk. “Though… some aides have prison pen pals.”

“Do you have a prison pen pal?”

“Enough small talk.” Amria drew a small glass vial from her pocket, the chain wound delicately around her fingers. Inside, red liquid swirled with a few faded flower petals. “Chirdose,” she said quietly. “One drop knocks you unconscious. Two will kill you.”

I stilled, eyes locked on the vial as the liquid shifted. “Why are you giving this to me?"

“If death is more kind than the light that breaks you,” she went on, “take it. Some beg for it in those cells.”

“Where did you get this?” I asked, voice cracking.

She stepped forward and fastened the chain around my neck. The glass rested against my sternum. “My mother,” she murmured. “Before I was sent here. Not all aides serve kindly. We didn’t know what to expect.”

“I’ll change that,” I said. “Whatever I can do, I will.”

---