The Primordial Flame

Informing the Guild master

The imperial princess flare sparks back to life through the exhaustion, sheer stubborn defiance cutting clean through the nausea.

"No, I’ll be fine," I say, planting my hands on the floorboards and pushing myself up, even as my knees wobble beneath me. "I can’t spend nine months in this bed, Vane. I need to learn to deal with the smells."

I catch the heavy oak post of the bedframe to steady myself, tossing my hair back and glaring at him with as much haughty authority as a woman in a rumpled linen shift can muster.

"But what you can do," I add, my voice softening as a sudden, intense craving hits my tongue, "is make sure I get a bowl of heavily sweetened porridge. With lots of butter. That is the one thing that doesn't make me want to empty my belly."

Vane stands up with me, hovering so close his hands twitch at his sides, ready to catch me if the floor tilts again. He looks at me—pale, fiery-eyed, trembling slightly, yet ordering breakfast like an imperious sovereign in an imperial palace.

A low, disbelieving laugh rumbles deep in his chest. The heavy, suffocating panic that had gripped the room finally cracks, replaced by that familiar, dangerous affection.

"Heavily sweetened porridge with lots of butter," he repeats slowly, the scarred corner of his mouth curving into a wry, helpless smirk. "Gods help me, the runaway princess is back."

He reaches out, his large hands settling firmly on my hips, pulling me half a pace closer to his chest. His thumb traces a gentle, deliberate stroke over the curve of my hip bone before sliding up to brush a damp strand of auburn hair from my brow.

"You're impossible, scout," he rumbles in a low, gravelly rasp, his eyes softening into molten silver. "Fine. You want to march into that dining hall and brave the grease, we do it. But you take my arm, you sit next to the hearth where the air is clear, and if you look even half as green as that velvet dress was, I’m carrying you right back up these stairs."

He leans down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to my forehead that feels more like an oath than a tease.

"I’ll raid the larders myself for the sweetest jar of honey we have," Vane whispers against my skin, his chest rumbling against mine. "Now find something that actually laces, Your Highness, before I decide you look better wrapped in my cloak."

I don’t bother fighting with leather trousers or stubborn laces. Instead, I yank a heavy, charcoal-wool knit dress from the wardrobe and pull it over my head in one fluid motion. The thick fabric settles softly against my skin, hugging snug over my swollen chest and falling flush against the subtle, delicate curve of my waist and belly.

I don’t care that the lines are softer, or that it shows every change my body has begun to harbor.

I don't even look at my boots.

Letting my fiery curls tumble loose down my back, I march straight to the heavy timber door and wrench it wide, stepping out onto the cold floorboards of the corridor. I turn over my shoulder, tossing a cool, resolute glance back at the towering operative standing half-dressed in the centre of the room.

"If I'm telling Bram about us right now," I state plainly, my bright blue eyes flashing with stubborn, unwavering royal resolve, "there’s no reason to sneak out anymore. Just make sure you’re armed, please."

Vane freezes, staring at my bare feet against the raw wood as if I have just brandished a vial of black-lotus poison.

"Amelisse, what the hell—no! You're not walking down there barefoot, it's freezing!" he barks, panic and exasperation warring across his rugged face.

He hastily snatches my woollen socks and leather boots off the floor, his belt daggers already buckled at his waist, and lunges after me. "Ame! Put on the goddamn socks! You're going to freeze your—Amelisse!"

I ignore him entirely.

My bare feet pad swiftly over the chill stone steps, unbothered by the draft. Behind me, the guild’s most terrifying, lethal shadow is practically tripping over himself, boots in one hand, socks in the other, his dark hair a disheveled mess, cursing under his breath in three different provincial dialects as he scrambles down the stairwell to keep up.

I breeze past the threshold of the dining hall like an unstoppable squall.

A few early-rising operatives cleaning daggers at the perimeter tables look up, their mouths falling open in utter shock—not just at the sight of their royal assassin marching past in an unarmored woollen dress with bare toes, but at the lethal phantom Vane trailing in frantic pursuit behind her like a flustered hound.

I march straight to the head table.

Bram is sitting with a clay mug of bitter black chicory, a ledger spread open before him. He lifts his head at the sound of hurried steps, his scarred brow furrowing in deep bewilderment as he takes in the spectacle before him: me, standing tall and defiant with cold toes on the flagstones, and Vane skidding to a halt beside me, towering, armed to the teeth, breathing hard, and aggressively clutching a pair of fur-lined boots like a weapon.

"Morning, Bram," I say smoothly, cutting right through the silence before either man can open his mouth. "Could we go sit somewhere and chat where there are no lingering ears?"

I reach out and pluck the wool socks and boots from Vane's rigid grip, the exasperated scowl melting off my face as a soft, fond smile touches my lips.

"I’m not going to freeze into a solid pillar of ice because I’m barefoot, you i***t," I murmur, my tone dropping into an affectionate tease that makes his eyes flare with defensive warmth. I place both hands flat against his broad chest, giving him a firm, playful shove toward the steaming kitchen archway. "Porridge. Off you go."

Vane hesitates, his jaw clenching as his silver gaze darts sharply between Bram and me, clearly loath to leave my flank for even a heartbeat. But the stubborn command in my blue eyes wins out. With a low, warning rumble under his breath and one last lingering glance over his shoulder, he turns on his heel and stalks toward the kitchen to bully the cook out of butter and honey.

Across the trestle, Bram watches the entire exchange with raised brows, a strange, calculating quiet settling over his scarred features. He lifts a heavy hand, signalling the two scouts lingering at the far end of the bench.

"Clear the table," Bram barks, his deep baritone leaving no room for argument. "Take your plates to the corner. Keep your heads down and your ears to yourselves."

The men don't question the Guild Master. They snatch their bowls and scatter to the dim periphery of the hall, leaving the wide bench deserted.

Bram gestures toward the empty seat across from him. Once I drop the boots to the floor and slide onto the bench, tucking my cold toes up beneath the charcoal wool of my dress, he leans forward on his forearms. The gruff commander softens, a rare, gentle smile tugging at his mouth as he gives me a slow nod.

"Alright, Ame," he says quietly, his dark eyes studying my pale face. "You have the floor."

I take a slow, steadying breath, resting my hands flat against the rough oak table, feeling the frantic, fluttering pulse beneath my ribs.

"Alright, well... promise me you’re not going to lose your mind and your head, Bram," I say, my voice steady, though laced with quiet, unyielding gravity. "Promise me."

Bram’s scarred brow knits together, his dark eyes narrowing with heavy suspicion. "I promise," he mutters reluctantly, his rough baritone cautious.

"Now spit it out, Ame."

I take a deep, steadying breath.

The cold morning air hits the back of my throat, carrying a sudden phantom whiff of smoked bacon from the kitchen. My stomach twists violently. A sharp, involuntary gag rips through my throat; I clamp a hand over my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut as I violently choke down the rising bile, forcing my ribs still until the nausea subsides.

Bram leans forward, alarmed. "Ame—"

"Well," I cut in hoarsely, dropping my hand to grip the edge of the trestle with white knuckles, my bright blue eyes locking squarely onto his. "There’s no way to cushion this, Bram. I’m pregnant."

The words hang between us, stark and unvarnished in the chilly hall.

"And Vane is the father."

The silence crashes down instantly, deafening and thick enough to choke on.

For a full two minutes, the Guild Master does not move. He doesn't blink. He doesn't breathe. The scarred stone of his face goes completely blank, his heavy hands resting on the ledger slowly curling into tight, white-knuckled fists that strain the thick leather of his bracers.

My heart thumps frantic against my ribs. I brace my heels against the bench, muscles tensing, half-expecting him to roar, kick the heavy oak table through the rafters, draw his broadsword, and tear through the kitchen doors to cut Vane into ribbons.

Then, the tight line of his jaw twitches.

The hard tension across his shoulders shatters. A low, breathless chuckle rumbles deep in his massive chest, and right before my eyes, the terrifying Guild Master completely transforms.

A massive, ear-to-ear grin splits Bram's scarred face. His dark eyes ignite with an incandescent, joyful light—crinkling at the corners with genuine, unrestrained delight.

"By the blood of the ancients," Bram breathes, slamming an open palm down onto the table with a resounding crack that rattles the earthenware mugs.

He leans back against the bench, throwing his head back in a booming, thunderous laugh that echoes off the stone arches, grinning at me as if I have just handed him the crown jewels of the realm.

"A baby," Bram rumbles, his voice thick with raw, beaming pride, shaking his head in absolute wonder. "A little shadow. In my guild."

He leans over the table, his broad grin softening into immense, unexpected warmth, his eyes sweeping over my snug wool dress with fierce, fatherly reverence.

"Well, I'll be damned. The phantom actually did something right for once in his miserable life."