A storm rolled over Highcrest that night, thunder punctuating the darkness like a heartbeat. Eliza stood at the window of her private chambers in the Vantian wing, watching lightning arc across the sky. Each flash illuminated the courtyard where that morning's execution had taken place, the rain washing away the last traces of what had happened there.

  But it couldn't wash away the memory. The image of Tarek's face as he'd swung that blade of pure magical energy—distant, cold, almost serene in his deadly purpose. So different from the man she'd first known. The reluctant prince with amber eyes that showed every emotion, held nothing back, concealed no secrets.

  The man she'd fallen in love with, despite every warning from her father, despite every lesson of court politics that taught attachment was weakness and love was the most dangerous liability of all.

  A knock at her door drew her from her thoughts.

  "Enter," she called, expecting her lady's maid with the evening tea.

  Instead, Captain Frost appeared, his weathered face grave. "Lady Vantian. Forgive the intrusion."

  Eliza straightened, smoothing her expression into polite neutrality. "Captain. What brings you to the Vantian wing at this hour?"

  "His Majesty requests your presence." Frost's tone was formal, his posture rigid. "Immediately."

  Eliza studied the captain's face, searching for clues. "Has something happened? More news from the south?"

  "It's not my place to say, my lady." His eyes, however, held a warning. "The king awaits you in the Western Tower."

  The Western Tower. Not the royal apartments, nor the council chambers where official business was conducted. The secluded tower contained a suite of rooms seldom used since Queen Elisabet's death—private spaces away from the court's prying eyes and constant scrutiny.

  "I see." Eliza reached for her shawl, draping it over her shoulders. "Lead the way, Captain."

  They walked in silence through the castle's twisting corridors. The late hour meant few were abroad, only guards standing at attention and the occasional servant hurrying on some errand. Lightning flashed through the high windows, casting dramatic shadows across stone walls hung with ancient tapestries.

  "He's changed," Eliza said quietly when they were far from any who might overhear. "You see it too."

  Frost didn't look at her, his gaze fixed ahead. "Every king is changed by his crown, my lady."

  "This is more than the burden of rulership." She lowered her voice further. "The Bloodright is altering him, Captain. You saw what happened today."

  A muscle worked in Frost's jaw. "I serve the crown, regardless of who wears it or how."

  "As do I," Eliza countered. "But service includes honesty when it's required. And honestly, I fear for him."

  Frost paused, turning to face her directly. His eyes, usually so guarded, held a rare flicker of emotion.

  "Then we share that fear, Lady Vantian." His voice was barely a whisper. "But take care. Walls have ears, and not all who serve the crown serve the king."

  Before she could respond, he resumed walking, his silence now pointed and absolute. They reached the Western Tower's entrance, where two of the king's personal guard stood at attention. At Frost's approach, they stepped aside without a word.

  "His Majesty awaits within," Frost said formally. "I'll remain here."

  Eliza nodded her thanks and passed through the heavy oak doors into the tower staircase. Torches in iron sconces lit her way up the winding steps, their flames dancing in the draft that whistled through arrow slits in the ancient stone walls. At the top landing, another set of doors—these elaborately carved with the Blackthorn crest—stood partially open, a warm glow spilling out.

  She hesitated, her hand on the cold metal of the door handle. Something in Frost's manner, in the late-night summons to this secluded place, set her nerves on edge. Yet beneath the apprehension fluttered something else—a quickening of her pulse that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the man who waited beyond these doors.

  Eliza pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  The chamber took her breath away. Unlike the austere functionality of most castle rooms, this space had been transformed. Dozens of candles burned in silver holders, bathing everything in golden light. A fire roared in the massive stone hearth, warming the air against the storm's chill. On tables of polished wood stood platters of food—bread still steaming from the ovens, cheeses, fruits, and a decanter of deep red wine beside two crystal goblets.

  And before the fire stood Tarek, his back to her, hands clasped behind him as he watched the flames. He'd shed the formal regalia of his office, wearing instead a simple white shirt, open at the throat, and dark trousers. Without the crown, without the heavy robes of state, he looked almost like the man she'd known before—younger, less burdened.

  Almost, but not quite. Even in this relaxed attire, power radiated from him—a physical presence that filled the room.

  "You came," he said without turning, his voice soft yet carrying easily over the storm's rumble outside.

  "You summoned me," Eliza replied, allowing a hint of dryness in her tone. "One doesn't ignore a royal command."

  Now he turned, and the firelight caught his amber eyes, making them glow like the Bloodright itself. "Is that the only reason you're here, Eliza? Royal command?"

  She allowed the door to close behind her, remaining near it. "Why else would I come to a secluded tower in the middle of the night during a storm?"

  Something like hurt flickered across his features, quickly mastered. "We used to meet in far less comfortable locations, as I recall. The abandoned observatory. The forgotten gardens below the east terrace."

  Memories flooded back—stolen moments during his tumultuous rise to power, when every encounter had been fraught with danger and heavy with unacknowledged emotion. Her teaching him court etiquette one moment, pressed against him in the shadows the next. Politics and passion inextricably intertwined.

  "That was before," she said simply.

  "Before the crown?" He moved toward her, his movements fluid and deliberate. "Or before the execution?"

  "Both." Eliza stood her ground as he approached. "The man I met in secret wasn't the Amber King who wields magic like a butcher's knife."

  Tarek stopped, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the familiar scent of him—amber and cedar and something else, something new, like the air after lightning strikes.

  "And yet you're still drawn to him," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Despite your misgivings."

  "Is that why you brought me here? To test your theory?"

  Instead of answering, he reached out, his fingertips just barely brushing her cheek. The contact sent a shock through her, like touching a live ember. His skin was unnaturally warm—the Bloodright running hot beneath the surface.

  "I brought you here because for six months we've circled each other in public, maintaining the fiction that you're merely an advisor, a representative of House Vantian." His eyes held hers, unflinching. "I'm tired of pretense, Eliza."

  "Pretense protects us both," she countered, though she didn't pull away from his touch. "A king with a bastard's background needs allies among the Great Houses, not scandal."

  "Always the pragmatist." His lips curved in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "But we both know there's more between us than political alliance."

  Eliza took a step back, needing distance to think clearly. The air felt charged with more than just the storm outside—with memory and desire and the dangerous current that had always flowed between them.

  "There was," she acknowledged. "But things have changed, Tarek. You've changed."

  "Have I?" He moved to the table, pouring deep red wine into the crystal goblets. "Or have I simply become what circumstances demanded?" He offered her one of the glasses. "The naive messenger boy you first instructed in court etiquette could never have held this fractious kingdom together."

  Eliza accepted the wine but didn't drink. "There's a difference between strength and cruelty. Between necessary hardness and... whatever I saw in the courtyard today."

  "Tell me." He stepped closer again, his voice intensifying. "What did you see, exactly?"

  "Pleasure," she said bluntly. "You enjoyed it. Not just the execution of justice, but the power. The fear you inspired."

  Tarek didn't deny it. Instead, he studied her over the rim of his goblet as he took a slow sip of wine. "And that disturbs you."

  "Of course it disturbs me!" For the first time, her careful composure cracked. "Six months ago, you were horrified by the violence your Bloodright could inflict. Today you beheaded a man with it and felt satisfaction."

  "And if I did?" He set his goblet down with deliberate care. "The Bloodright responds to emotion, to intent. Would you have me pretend revulsion when executing a traitor who would have seen me dead? Would false remorse make the act more palatable?"

  "It's not about palatability." Eliza set her own untouched wine aside. "It's about what the power is doing to you. How it's changing you."

  Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the room beyond the candles' glow. In that stark white light, Tarek's face seemed carved from marble, beautiful and unforgiving.

  "The Bloodright isn't changing me," he said when the thunder had faded. "It's revealing me. The man I was always meant to be."

  "And who is that, exactly?" She stepped closer, challenge in her stance. "The street runner with a good heart? The reluctant prince who put kingdom before self? Or this—" she gestured to encompass him, "—this Amber King who executes nobles with magical blades and summons former lovers to secluded towers?"

  Something dangerous flickered in his eyes at the word "former."

  "Why did you really come here tonight, Eliza?" His voice had dropped to a near whisper. "If you truly believe I'm becoming a tyrant, if you fear what I'm becoming, why walk willingly into the lion's den?"

  The question struck too close to the truth she'd been avoiding. Why indeed? Duty would have compelled her to answer his summons, yes. Politics would have made refusal unwise. But neither explained the quickening of her pulse when Frost had delivered the message, or the care she'd taken with her appearance before leaving her chambers.

  "Perhaps I hoped to find some trace of the man I knew," she admitted. "The one who didn't hide behind crowns or titles."

  "He's still here." Tarek closed the remaining distance between them, near enough now that she could feel his breath against her skin. "Beneath everything else."

  Eliza looked up at him, searching his amber eyes for the truth. "Prove it."

  The challenge hung between them for a heartbeat. Then, with a swiftness that took her breath away, Tarek's hands cupped her face, and his mouth claimed hers in a kiss that burned away months of careful distance.

  It was like the first time and nothing like it—familiar yet altered, his lips remembering hers even as they demanded more than before. Heat surged through her, a rush of desire so immediate and overwhelming that she gasped against his mouth. Her hands fisted in his shirt, whether to push him away or pull him closer, she couldn't have said.

  The Bloodright responded to his passion, amber light glowing beneath his skin, warming her wherever they touched. It wasn't just his kiss burning her now—it was the magic itself, reaching for her through his touch, electric and insistent.

  Tarek broke away first, his breath coming quick and uneven. Golden light pulsed visibly along his forearms, beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. His eyes had darkened, pupils dilated until only a thin ring of amber remained.

  "Tell me to stop," he said, his voice rough. "If this isn't what you want—if I'm not what you want—tell me now."

  Eliza trembled, as much from the abrupt absence of his kiss as from the intensity of his gaze. She should stop this. Should step back, maintain the careful distance she'd cultivated since his coronation. The political risks alone were substantial—House Vantian's influence tied too closely to the king's personal favor, her own reputation vulnerable to court gossip.

  And there were greater dangers. The man before her wielded power unlike any seen in generations. Power that was changing him in ways neither of them fully understood.

  Yet beneath that power, beneath the crown and the magic and the weight of kingship, she glimpsed the truth—that Tarek was just as conflicted, just as torn between duty and desire as she was.

  That he needed her, not just as an advisor or ally, but as the one person who had known him before everything changed.

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  "Eliza," he murmured, her name a question and a plea all at once.

  She answered by reclaiming his mouth with her own, her decision made. Whatever he was becoming, whatever risks lay ahead, she would not abandon him to face it alone. Not tonight, at least.

  The kiss deepened, unleashing months of suppressed longing. His hands moved from her face to her waist, pulling her against him with an urgency that matched her own. The thin barrier of their clothing did little to disguise the heat between them, the desperate need for closeness after so much careful distance.

  Eliza's fingers found the open collar of his shirt, trailing down to where the fabric closed over his chest. Without breaking the kiss, she began unfastening the buttons, needing to feel his skin against hers. Tarek groaned into her mouth as her hands slipped inside his shirt, tracing the contours of his chest—familiar territory made new by the golden energy that hummed beneath his skin.

  "You're burning," she whispered against his lips. "The magic—"

  "Responds to desire," he finished, his voice low and rough. His hands found the laces at the back of her gown, deftly working them loose. "To need."

  The dress loosened, slipping from her shoulders as Tarek's mouth traced a burning path along her jaw to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. Eliza tilted her head, granting him better access, a soft sound of pleasure escaping her as his teeth grazed her earlobe.

  "I've missed you," he murmured against her skin. "Every night, every day. Surrounded by courtiers and counselors and not one of them seeing me—truly seeing me—the way you do."

  His words pierced her heart more effectively than any blade. Because despite her fears, despite the changes in him, she did see him—the good and the troubling, the strength and the danger, the king and the man beneath the crown.

  "I've missed you too," she admitted, her hands pushing his shirt from his shoulders. In the candlelight, the planes of his chest gleamed like burnished gold, amber light pulsing beneath the skin in time with his heartbeat. "But I fear what's happening to you."

  Tarek paused, drawing back enough to meet her gaze. "Then help me," he said, vulnerability breaking through his carefully maintained control. "Don't pull away. Don't leave me to face this alone."

  Something shifted between them—the encounter transforming from mere physical release to something deeper, more profound. Eliza reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with trembling fingers.

  "I won't," she promised, though she couldn't have said whether she was being wise or terribly, dangerously foolish. "But you must let me in, Tarek. No more shutting me out when the magic grows stronger. No more pretending you're in control when you're not."

  Instead of answering with words, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed that dominated the far side of the chamber. Her dress fell away completely as he laid her against the soft coverlet, leaving her in only her thin undergarments.

  Tarek stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at her with such raw hunger that Eliza felt herself flush from head to toe. Slowly, deliberately, he removed the rest of his clothing, standing before her as he had that first night they'd surrendered to their feelings—powerful, beautiful, and entirely hers.

  Except now, amber light traced patterns beneath his skin like living tattoos, pulsing brighter as his desire mounted. The Bloodright, responding to his emotions, heightening them, amplifying them.

  "Show me," she whispered, extending her hand to him. "Show me what the magic feels like."

  He joined her on the bed, his weight settling over her with delicious pressure. "It might be too much," he warned, even as his body aligned with hers. "I don't know if I can control it."

  "Then don't." Eliza wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer. "Just feel."

  Their mouths met again, and this time when Tarek's hands moved over her body, they trailed amber fire in their wake. Not burning, but warming—pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, sensation amplified beyond normal human limits. Eliza gasped, arching into his touch as magic and desire intertwined, indistinguishable from each other.

  Outside, the storm intensified, rain lashing against the tower windows as thunder shook the ancient stones. Inside, a different kind of storm built between them—urgent and primal, fueled by months of separation and the dangerous edge of power barely contained.

  When they finally came together, the Bloodright flared around them, bathing the chamber in golden light. Eliza's cry of pleasure mingled with Tarek's as they moved as one, finding a rhythm as familiar as breathing yet made new by the magic that surged between them.

  It was unlike anything she'd experienced—even their previous encounters paled in comparison. The Bloodright heightened every sensation, created a connection beyond the physical, almost as if their very souls touched through the barrier of flesh and bone.

  In that moment of perfect union, Eliza glimpsed something within Tarek that stole her breath—the vastness of the power he contained, the ancient magic that flowed through Blackthorn veins, generation after generation. And beneath it, his struggle to maintain his sense of self against its overwhelming current.

  The realization broke over her as pleasure crested—he wasn't being corrupted by power; he was fighting to contain power that would have shattered a lesser man entirely. Fighting, and sometimes losing ground in that battle.

  Their release came simultaneously, a crescendo of sensation that sent ripples of golden energy pulsing outward from their joined bodies. For a moment, the very air around them seemed to ignite, tiny motes of amber light dancing like fireflies in the darkness.

  Then, slowly, the glow faded, leaving them entwined in the aftermath, breath coming quick and uneven, hearts pounding against each other's chests.

  Tarek gathered her close, burying his face against her neck. His body trembled slightly, aftershocks of pleasure mingling with the effort of containing the magic that had flared beyond his control.

  "Are you all right?" he murmured against her skin, concern evident even through his exhaustion.

  Eliza stroked his hair, holding him to her. "I'm more than all right." She pressed a kiss to his temple. "That was... I don't have words for what that was."

  He lifted his head, searching her face. The amber light had receded beneath his skin, though his eyes still held a faint golden glow. "I lost control," he said, voice tight with self-recrimination. "The magic—"

  "Was beautiful," she finished for him. "Powerful, yes. Overwhelming, certainly. But not dark, Tarek." She traced the line of his cheekbone with gentle fingers. "Not evil."

  Relief softened his features. "When we're together like this," he admitted, "it's easier to contain. Easier to direct. As if the magic finds a path through desire that doesn't consume me the way anger does."

  The confession held profound implications. If passion could channel the Bloodright more safely than rage, if connection could balance the isolating effects of power...

  "Then perhaps this is more important than either of us realized," Eliza said softly.

  Tarek shifted, drawing her closer against him, their limbs intertwining in comfortable intimacy. "Is that why you came to me tonight? Political strategy? Magical theory?"

  She heard the vulnerability beneath his teasing tone. Propping herself up on one elbow, she looked down into his face—the face she'd fallen in love with before crowns and magic complicated everything.

  "I came because despite everything, despite my fears and reservations, I can't stay away from you." Her voice grew softer. "I came because when I'm not with you, nothing makes sense anymore."

  Something in his expression eased, tension she hadn't fully registered until it disappeared. "Even when I'm becoming someone you don't recognize?"

  "Especially then." Eliza leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "Because if I abandon you to face this alone, who will remind you of who you truly are?"

  Tarek pulled her down for another kiss, this one slow and deep and filled with promise. When they finally parted, he rested his forehead against hers.

  "Stay," he whispered. "Not just tonight. Stay by my side, Eliza. Officially."

  She drew back slightly, surprise evident in her expression. "What are you asking?"

  "Be my queen." The words hung in the space between them, bold and irrevocable. "Rule with me, not from the shadows, but in truth. As my equal."

  The proposal struck her speechless. Marriage to the king would make her the most powerful woman in Lore—but also the most scrutinized, the most vulnerable to political attack. House Vantian would gain tremendous influence, fulfilling her father's highest ambitions, but she would lose much of her independence.

  And then there was the matter of the Bloodright, the changes it continued to work in Tarek. To bind herself to him officially would be to bind herself to that power as well, for better or worse.

  "The court would resist," she said finally. "A queen from House Vantian when there are daughters from older, more prestigious houses available—"

  "I don't want a political marriage." His voice hardened slightly. "I've conceded enough to necessity. In this, at least, I will have my way."

  "Even kings must compromise, Tarek."

  "Not in this." His hand cupped her cheek, his gaze intense. "Not with you."

  The declaration should have warmed her heart completely. Instead, it stirred the very concern that had kept her at a distance these past months. This certainty, this absolute confidence that his will must prevail—was it the man speaking, or the power that increasingly defined him?

  Before she could respond, a sharp knock broke the intimate silence. Tarek's expression darkened as he rose from the bed, wrapping a robe around himself before moving to the door.

  "What is it?" he called, voice shifting from lover to king in an instant.

  "Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty." Captain Frost's voice came through the heavy wood. "Urgent news from the south. The keystone at Sunspire has begun to fail."

  Tarek's entire demeanor changed, the brief vulnerability of moments before replaced by royal authority. The Bloodright responded instantly, amber light flowing beneath his skin like quicksilver.

  "I'll be out momentarily," he commanded.

  Turning back to Eliza, who had already risen and begun gathering her scattered garments, he crossed the room in quick strides. "This conversation isn't finished," he said, helping her with the laces of her gown.

  "The south takes precedence," she replied, slipping into the practiced role of advisor. "If the keystone at Sunspire is truly failing—"

  "It means the boundary is weakening." Tarek's jaw tightened. "And it means you were right about House Solari's suspicious silence."

  As they dressed with swift efficiency, the intimate atmosphere evaporated, replaced by the pressing reality of a kingdom perpetually on the brink of crisis. Yet something fundamental had shifted between them—barriers lowered, truths acknowledged, feelings rekindled despite all caution.

  Fully dressed once more, Eliza moved to the door, but Tarek caught her arm, turning her to face him one last time before they stepped back into their public roles.

  "Think on what I've asked," he said, his voice low and intense. "Whatever comes next, whatever we face, I want you beside me openly. Not as advisor or ally, but as my queen."

  Eliza studied his face—the face of the man she loved and the king she sometimes feared were becoming indistinguishable from each other.

  "I will consider it," she promised. It was the most she could offer, caught between love and apprehension, between desire and duty. "But first, we must secure the realm. The boundary cannot fail again."

  Tarek nodded, understanding the implicit priorities. He pressed a final, fierce kiss to her lips, then straightened, assuming the mantle of kingship like a physical garment.

  When he opened the door to receive Captain Frost's report, the Amber King stood in place of the vulnerable lover. Yet as Eliza moved past him with a formal curtsy for appearances' sake, their fingers brushed briefly—a silent promise that what had ignited between them would not be extinguished by the storms gathering on the horizon.

  Fire had been kindled this night—between them, within them, around them. Whether it would forge them stronger together or consume them both, only time would tell.

  Either way, the flames had been set. And in their light, the shadows of coming ruin grew ever longer.