The Primordial Flame

The weakness.

"Take the quarters by the solar instead. They're dry. They're warm."

A beat passes, heavy and jagged. His gaze flickers to the stolen potato on my plate, then to Vane's arm draped behind me, before snapping back to mine, aching and desperate.

"You shouldn't have to freeze tonight."

Beside me, Vane lets out a quiet, dangerous scoff, but keeps his mouth shut, waiting to see if I'll let the commander soothe his own bleeding

conscience.

"Vane, please," I say softly, my voice quiet but carrying enough weight to make his jaw set. I give my head a small, deliberate shake in

his direction, warning him to hold his tongue, before slowly turning my attention back up to Bram.

The sight of the Guildmaster standing over us, torn, desperate, and entirely stripped of his usual iron composure, threatens to crack the

fragile seal over my chest. But I swallow the tremor down, meeting those dark brown eyes with calm, impenetrable detachment.

"Thank you, but the room I have is perfectly fine," I say, my tone smooth, even, and thoroughly polite.

"I have sufficient blankets, and it’s small enough to hold heat perfectly well. I will be fine."

I pause, letting a brief, agonizing beat of silence settle over the space between us.

"You don’t have to worry about me."

The words strike him visibly. Bram flinches, his broad shoulders curling in by a fraction of an inch as if the quiet courtesy of my response cut far deeper than a blade ever could. He stares down at me, searching my face for the woman who had sprinted across thecobblestones to jump into his arms only hours ago, finding only the polite distance of a subordinate operative.

His dark brown eyes darken with an ache so profound it looks almost like grief. His jaw works, his hands flexing and clenching at his sides as if fighting the overwhelming, forbidden urge to drag me up from the bench by force.

"Ame," he rasps, the single syllable thick, fractured around the edges. He wants to say more. It’s written in every ragged line of his face, in the desperate, pleading stillness of his posture. But the eyes of the guild are on him, the line has been drawn, and he was the one who cast the iron mold. Slowly, heavily, Bram nods.

"As you wish," he says, the formal cadence returning like cold armor, though his voice sounds stripped raw.

He lingers for a single, suffocating heartbeat longer, his gaze lingering on the stubborn tilt of my chin, before he turns on his heel and walks

back through the hall, his boots echoing hollow against the stone.

"I’m going to bed," I say quietly to Vane as I begin to stand, leaving my half-eaten bowl and the stolen potato behind on the trestle table.

Vane looks up, his gray eyes narrowing with concern, catching the brittle tension in my shoulders. He reaches out as if to catch my hand, but stops himself, his fingers curling against the wood instead.

"I'll see you in the morning, Vane," I murmur before he can speak, stepping around the bench and slipping away into the shadow of the

hall's arched exit.

The cold air of the stone corridors wraps around me, a stark contrast to the roaring fires and clattering plates behind. Every single instinct,every shred of hard-earned tactical sense, every ounce of self preservation is screaming in my skull, Go back to your room,

Amelisse.

Don’t break your composure. Just a few steps to the southern wing. Shut the door, crawl under the wool, and sleep.

Keep the mask on. Don't look back. Don't let him see the cracks.

Yet my boots betray me. They don't turn down the narrow passage toward the damp, modest room Arden found for me. Instead, like a

ghost retracing a familiar haunt, they carry me up the wide spiral staircase, past the heavy tapestries, down the high-ceilinged corridor

of the master quarters.

The hallway is quiet, the torches casting long, flickering amber shadows against the flagstones.

I stop. The heavy iron bound oak door stands before me, the room I packed my entire life out of just two hours ago. My heart hammers

against my ribs, wild and rebellious, drowning out the logical voice begging me to turn on my heel and run.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I lift my hand, curl my fingers into a fist, and rap my knuckles firmly against the dark wood.

Knock. Knock.

The sound echoes down the empty corridor like a gunshot. Inside, there is an immediate, sharp rustle of movement, followed by heavy,

hurried footsteps approaching the threshold.

The iron latch lifts, the door swings inward, and Bram stands there, his dark brown eyes wide with sudden, breathless shock.

The room is dizzy with our mingled, ragged breaths, the heat between us so thick it feels like a fever. Slowly, painfully, I pull my lips awayfrom his, keeping my eyes squeezed tightly shut against the dark, intoxicating gravity of his face.

"I don’t know why I did that," I whisper softly, my voice trembling and stripped of every ounce of pride. "Probably because you’re my weakness Bram, and I wanted one last kiss."

I swallow hard, the reality of the cold stone corridor and my empty, narrow room waiting outside clawing its way back into my chest.

"I’ll leave now," I say, waiting for the heavy, familiar arm around my waist to loosen, waiting for the hard soles of my boots to find the floorboards again.

He doesn't move. His grip around my waist tightens instead, lifting me an inch higher

against his chest, refusing to yield even a fraction of an inch of ground. The rough linen of his shirt brushes against my neck as his

forehead drops forward, coming to rest heavily against the hollow of my shoulder.

His breathing is shallow, ragged, his heart hammering like a war drum against my ribs.

"Bram," I murmur, my hands still pinned flat against his broad shoulders, my knuckles brushing the tense cord of his neck. "You need

to put me down."

"I can't," he rasps, the words scraping out of him raw, broken, and muffled against the fabric of my tunic.

His hand at my back splays wide, his fingers curling into my clothes with a desperate, white knuckled terror, as if the moment he sets my

feet back on the floor, the earth itself will split open between us.

"Gods help me, Ame, I can't," Bram breathes, lifting his head just enough for his dark brown eyes to bore into mine, shattered, feverish,and burning with a misery so profound it swallows every noble speech he ever made about duty.

"If I let you go now, you walk out that door, and you don't come back. You look at me like a stranger in the hall. You look at Vane like he's

the only man alive."

His voice catches on a jagged, suffocating hitch, his thumb tracing the curve of my jaw with a trembling reverence that aches.

"Don't call it a last kiss," he whispers, his lips brushing the corner of mine with agonising gentleness.

"Don't say that to me."

"Vane is my friend, Bram," I say, the words trembling with an ache so heavy it threatens to fracture the quiet room.

"I love you. I have always loved you. Don’t make as if I am running into his arms. You broke it off with me, and he is simply a protective friend trying to make sure I don’t fall apart.”

My hands remain braced against the solid breadth of his shoulders, feeling the violent, ragged hitch of his chest beneath my palms. I force my eyes to hold his dark, bruised gaze, refusing to let him hide behind his jealousy or the ghost of another man’s shadow.

"You broke it off for a reason, Bram," I whisper, my voice cracking on the jagged edge of the truth. "You wanted it to be one last kiss."

A low, agonised sound tears from Bram’s throat, rough and shattered, like something breaking deep within his chest.

"I thought I could survive it," he rasps, his grip tightening around my waist until the air leaves my lungs, pressing my forehead hard against

his. His dark brown eyes are wet, feverish, and stripped entirely of the Guild master’s iron mask.

"I thought if I cut the cord myself, I could

keep you safe. I could keep the guild standing. I told myself it was noble. I told myself it was duty."single, hot tear escapes his lashes, trailing down the rough stubble of his cheek to catch between our lips.

"Then I saw you walk into the yard with him," Bram breathes, his voice shaking with a raw, terrifying vulnerability I have never heard

from him before.

"I saw you smile at him at the table, taking his food, leaning into his side... and it felt like someone was carving my ribs out one by one. I am dying inside, Ame. I made the call, and it is killing me."