I guided Emma from our private sanctuary back toward the glittering chaos of the summit ballroom, her hand resting lightly on my forearm like a bird that might take flight at any moment. Her scent—wild honey and mountain herbs—enveloped me with each step, a sensory reminder of the connection neither of us had sought but both now navigated with cautious steps. My fingers tingled where they had brushed against hers during dinner, but I felt a warmth in my chest, an expanding heat that I recognized not as the discomfort of royal obligation but as something more primal, more essential: the need to protect what was mine.
The thought should have startled me—two centuries of careful diplomatic training had taught me to curb Aeson's possessive instincts—yet it settled into my consciousness with t
