Page 81 of Severed Heir

Malachi.

I stopped cold. Archer’s hand closed around my elbow, firm but gentle, anchoring me before I could step toward her.

“Not now,” he murmured. “You’ll have time for reunions later.”

Our stares locked across the crowd. A wave of memory, pain, and fierce relief slammed into my chest, so sharp and sudden I nearly crumpled under the weight of it.

“She’s here,” I whispered. “Archer—”

“She can wait,” he said, already glancing toward the raised dais. “The king is about to speak.”

I forced myself to look away.

That’s when I saw him. Seated near the stage, one leg crossed over the other. A quill gripped tight in his white-knuckled fist. He scribbled fast, ink bleeding red from the nib as his gaze swept the crowd like he’d just landed the greatest scoop in Serpent Press history.

A Valscribe journalist.

My stomach turned. “Why isn’t Cully reporting this? I told him to write the story of my heiring.”

Archer didn’t answer right away. His jaw ticked, and then he said, “He wrote it.”

Something cold traced the back of my neck. “I haven’t seen it. Amria tried to hide the paper from me.”

He clenched his fist, regret shadowing his face. “I destroyed that tabloid before too many people saw it.”

“What did he write?” I asked carefully.

Archer hesitated. “He didn’tonlywrite about your titling, Severyn.”

I stared at him, the silence drawing taut like a bowstring. “Then what did he write?”

But before he could speak, the crowd parted and Hadrian stepped through, flanked by his wife. “You look lovely, Severyn,” he said, approaching with that practiced charm.

Motava dipped her chin in a graceful bow, her golden curls sculpted into an intricate updo. “I’m relieved the rumors were cleared,” she said. “And that the journalist has been... handled.” Her gaze flicked to Ellison, who sipped from a serpent-shaped glass near the wine bar. “A scandal would not reflect well on our family’s legacy.”

My throat tightened. “What rumors?”

Hadrian gestured toward the exhausted journalist by the dais. “A rather scandalous claim,” he said, voice dipped in amusement. “That a ruler was in love with his heir. Shameful, really. Good thing the Seeker rats were exterminated decades ago.”

My words slipped through my clenched teeth. “Cully... wrote a love story... about us?”

Of course. I had asked him to write my titling, but he’d seen us kiss. He didn’t writejusta piece about my titling. He wrote the truth. The story of Archer and me and whatever he thought he knew. And now, every glance, every hush, every gaping stare between us made sense.

My fingers curled against the bones of my gown, flame threatening to bloom beneath my skin.

“How did you deal with him?” I asked, barely able to speak.

“The king barred him from all elite postings,” Archer said, quietly but firmly.

Motava laughed behind her jeweled glove. “Serves him right. He’ll be lucky if a Scavenger even reads his scraps now.”

This was my fault.

All of it.

Hadrian stepped in, voice cool and practiced. “Perhaps that’ll teach the journalists to think twice before slandering royal names in their press.”

“Where did they send him?” I asked, barely managing to keep my tone level.

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