The Primordial Flame

Daring me to react.

Vane doesn't snap back with a witty barb. Instead, a slow, humorless scoff slips past his lips as he leans forward, planting his forearms against the table. The movement brings him inches closer across the timber, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that burns through the cool air between us.

"Classy enough to keep a man warm when the rest of the room goes freezing," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, smoky rasp that vibrates under the skin.

His gaze drops deliberately to my lips, tracing the berry stain, and the faint, smeared edge where Bram had kissed me moments ago. A muscle leaps in the sharp contour of his jaw, his eyes darkening to the color of storm-churned granite.

"And here I thought," Vane whispers, leaning in just a fraction more, "you hated public displays of affection, Princess. Or does the performance only come out when you want to put a knife between my ribs?"

"I don't hate public displays of affection," I counter smoothly, leaning my elbows onto the scarred pine and meeting his gaze dead-on, refusing to back down an inch. "I hate being treated like a ghost. There's a difference. And as for the rest of it? You started it, Vane."

I tilt my head toward the empty space beside him where Shelly’s perfume still lingers thick in the air.

"Pasting that girl to your breeches the second we walked through the door wasn't subtle," I say, my voice dropping to a low, quiet murmur that barely carries over the roar of the tavern.

"Don't sit there looking wounded because I chose to show Bram some warmth in return. He's my partner. He made a mistake, he owned up to it, and he's standing by me."

Vane lets out a sharp, breathy exhale that is half laugh, half scoff, shaking his head as his gray eyes bore into mine.

"Shelly is a tavern girl who likes free cider and bad jokes, Ame," he whispers, leaning in so close I can catch the sharp, familiar scent of cedar, clean leather, and rain clinging to his doublet beneath the smoke.

His bruised knuckles rest on the table, barely a hand’s breadth from my fingers. "You know damn well she means nothing. But that kiss?"

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking hard as his gaze drops once more to my stained lips, the roguish mask cracking to lay bare the raw, bleeding frustration underneath.

"You pulled him down like you were trying to burn a brand into his skin right in front of my face," Vane rasps, his voice trembling with an ache so fierce it cuts deeper than any blade.

"You looked at me while you did it. Don't lie to me, Princess. You can tell Bram whatever helps him sleep tonight, but don't look me in the eye and pretend you didn't want to make me bleed."

"And don’t pretend you didn’t hold her on your lap and purr in her ear to do the very same thing to me," I fire back, my voice barely above a whisper, yet sharp enough to split the timber between us. I lean in, matching his distance until the heat radiating from him brushes the bare skin of my throat.

"Like I said, Vane. You started it."

For a second, the words hang in the space between our mouths, raw and undeniable.

Vane doesn’t flinch, but his eyes widen a fraction, caught dead in the snare. The dark, stormy gray flickers with a sudden, searing recognition, the admission of what we’ve both been doing, the petty, desperate war of jealousy we waged across a crowded room because neither of us can say what we actually mean out loud.

A slow, wry smile pulls at one corner of his bruised mouth, stripping away the anger until only the ache and the maddening, familiar affection remain.

"Maybe I did," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, velvet rasp that makes my pulse flutter traitorously against the cinnamon oil at my wrist. His fingers twitch against the scarred oak, inches from mine, itching to cross the line. "Maybe I walked in here after watching him hold your hand like you were made of glass, watching you look at him like he was the only man alive, and I choked on it, Ame."

He shakes his head slightly, a dark wave of hair falling over his forehead, his gaze holding mine with terrifying, unblinking clarity.

"I pulled Shelly onto my lap because I wanted to see if you gave a damn," Vane whispers, leaning in until his breath ghosted across my cheek. "And you nearly broke my ribs with that kiss to prove you did."

Before I can draw breath to deny it, the heavy, familiar tread of iron-shod boots cuts through the sawdust behind us.

"New round’s coming," Bram’s deep, gravelly voice rumbles through the tavern din, his shadow falling long and protective over the table as he returns from the bar.

In the span of a single heartbeat, Vane leans back smoothly into the dark timber of the booth, his hand dropping casually to his tankard, the roguish, untroubled smirk slipping back over his features like armor just as the Commander slides into the bench beside me.

The table quickly fills with heavy pewter tankards, foaming dark ale, and a fresh wooden platter heaped with steaming trencher bread and thick, peppered beef stew. Bram’s solid warmth immediately presses against my side, his arm draping casually across the high back of the booth, fingers lightly brushing the curve of my shoulder as Arden and Collette squeeze back in on the outer rim.

The guild slips into a comfortable, noisy rhythm, Collette loudly disputing the blacksmith’s prices with Arden while Bram tears off a piece of crust and offers it to me with a quiet, attentive nudge.

Then, right on cue, a cloud of sugared almonds and rosewater parts the tavern smoke.

Without missing a beat, Shelly glides back over, catching Vane by the shoulder of his doublet before dropping her full, voluptuous weight right back into his lap. Her golden curls tumble over his chest, one hand instantly straying to the loose collar of his charcoal tunic.

Vane doesn’t hesitate for a heartbeat. His arm wraps around her waist with practiced ease, his fingers resting casually over her hip. He tips his head back against the wood, looking thoroughly, infuriatingly pleased with himself, a lazy, contented smirk playing on his lips as his gray eyes flick over the top of her blonde head straight into mine, daring me to react.

Shelly leans an elbow against the table, her bright, heavily kohled eyes fixing onto me with sharp, inquisitive amusement.

"So, Your Highness," Shelly purrs, drawing out the title with a teasing lilt that turns a few neighboring heads. "Could I ask you some questions?"

Beside me, Bram’s jaw tightens instantly, his broad chest drawing up as if to cut her off, but I gently lay a hand over his forearm, holding him back.

I straighten my spine, the regal poise of courtly banquets slipping into my posture like second nature. My chin lifts, my eyes narrowing just enough to let the cool, sharp intelligence show through the tavern haze.

"Sure," I say, my voice smooth, velvet-soft, and entirely unfazed as I rest my fingers on the rim of my ale. "I'm an open book. But call me Amelisse."

Shelly tilts her head, her golden curls spilling over the dark linen of Vane’s shoulder as she studies me with brazen curiosity. One of her manicured fingers taps a slow rhythm against the rim of her cider cup.

"Alright then, Amelisse," Shelly drawls, a wicked, sly grin spreading across her painted lips. "Every maid in this province grows up on nursery ballads about velvet cushions, gilded carriages, and court balls where the men smell like lavender water and speak in rhyming couplets."

She leans her weight back against Vane’s chest, her arm casually draping behind his neck as she gestures with her free hand toward the three scarred, broad-shouldered men at our table.

"So what I really want to know," Shelly purrs, her voice carrying easily over the clatter of dice and tin spoons, "is what in the seven hells possesses a royal lady to trade silk gowns, crown jewels, and a palace guard for a pack of bruised, filthy sellswords who smell of dried horse sweat, cheap ale, and road grit?"

Her gaze darts pointedly between Bram’s massive, possessive frame dwarfing me from the side, and Vane, whose arms remain wrapped loosely around her waist.

"Is the swordplay really that much better on the road?" Shelly asks, her brow arching high with pure, unapologetic insolence. "Or did one of these rough bastards steal you away in the night, and you simply forgot to run back?"

At the outer edge of the booth, Collette snorts so hard into her stew that Arden has to thump her on the back between her shoulder blades, her gold eyes gleaming with vicious delight.

Beside me, Bram’s jaw sets like granite, his arm tightening around my ribs until the muscle bunches under his oxblood wool. Across the scarred pine, Vane’s hand on Shelly’s hip goes entirely still, his gray eyes burning through the tavern haze, waiting on a razor's edge to see how the princess answers the tavern girl.

The clatter of dice and the raucous fiddle tunes in the background seem to fade into a hollow hum against the timber walls.

I don't look down. I don't falter. I meet Shelly's painted, curious gaze with steady, ice-cold clarity, my posture perfectly erect in the deep forest green linen.

"You’ve only heard the poetry and tales about royal life written in books," I say, my voice smooth, velvet-soft, and cutting through the tavern air with a stillness that commands the entire corner booth.

"Princesses have life? And no say, Shelly. We are sold off to the highest bidder, a lord or king who can offer your kingdom the most land, grain, or soldiers."

Shelly’s easy, flirty smirk falters, her kohled eyes widening as the blunt reality strips the courtly romance right out of her ballad-fed notions.

"You spend your life obeying them," I continue, letting each word land with measured weight, "enduring their bed and pushing out heirs with no love or passion. In my case, I was groomed to marry King Alaric."

The tyrant's name hangs in the warm tavern air like frost on iron.

Beside me, Bram’s breath catches, his massive jaw tightening so hard the cords in his neck stand out like wire rope. His broad arm pulls me half an inch deeper into his side, a silent, unshakeable wall between me and the nightmare I escaped. Across the table, Arden’s gold eyes turn deadly cold, while Collette sets her spoon down without a whisper of sound, her fingers instinctively grazing the concealed hilt at her ribs.

And Vane, he doesn't move a muscle. His lazy, contented posture on the bench goes rigid beneath Shelly’s golden curls, his gray eyes darkening to the color of bruised iron as he listens to the phantom wounds we both carried out of that hell.

"None of these men stole me," I say quietly, lifting my chin, my berry-stained lips curving into a faint, defiant smile that belongs entirely to the survivor I have become. "I ran. And they took me in."

I reach out, taking a slow, steady sip of dark ale, letting the bitter hops settle on my tongue before looking Shelly dead in the eyes.

"Best decision of my life," I murmur, my tone dropping into something rich, fierce, and utterly unyielding. "I no longer have a hollow life. I live a life full of passion, danger, and my own choices."