Page 183 of Emylia

I glanced at her hands—not calloused like mine, but not soft either. And there was something familiar in the way she sat: straight-backed, alert, like she was ready to stand her ground if she needed to. Like she had an air of nobility—and being Thrainn’s daughter, she did.

She was held to a level that wasn’t expected of the rest of us. And she had always embraced it, never resented it. Even when she’d backed Josephine, it never felt like she was choosing sides—just being there for whoever needed her.

A true leader.

Definitely Thrainn’s daughter. Raised to be his shadow—even if she was softer. More gentle than him.

She must’ve felt me staring, because she looked up again. “What?”

“Nothing,” I lied. “Just... you remind me of someone.”

She held my gaze a beat too long. “Yeh, I get that a lot.”

“Thrainn?”

“That’s the one–eldest, red-haired daughter of the Chief.”

The way she said it… it landed like a blow. As if she’d heard it before–spoken with spite, or laced with condescension. But that’s not what I meant.

Not at all.

“It’s not the hair,” I said quickly. “It’s your hands. The way you sit.”

“That’s so much better,” her words came out sharp and sudden, a reflex born of fear, not malice. It wasn’t rage in her voice, it was armor. And I knew I must’ve really offended her, because she was someone who never snapped.

“I’m not good at this, Evie.” I sighed. “What I’m trying to say is–you’re not like the other girls. Your hands are beautiful and soft, completely feminine… but there’s an edge to them. A brutality. A skill most women wouldn’t dream of holding.” I met her eyes. “And the way you sit–like a Gods-damned Queen. Like you carry a power just by breathing.”

She looked away. Just for a second.

When she met my eyes again, something had shifted. The bite was still there–but dulled, like a blade worn by use.

“You really think that?” She asked, quieter now. Not snide. Just… unsure.

I nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

Evie exhaled, and the edge in her posture loosened just a little.

“Well,” she said, tugging a loose thread on her sleeve, “I guess there are worse things to be called than a Queen.”

A smile crept into my eyes. “And you know what, I used to get that too. About me being just like dad. It was an honor.”

A shadow flickered across hers. “Uncle Atlas was the best.”

“He was.”

“He watched out for me. Treated me like his own daughter.” Just like Thrainn had done for me. “It still feels like he does,” she added softly.

I nodded. “I know what you mean. Like he’s watching over us. Like I can still feel his presence.”

Because I still felt him—like the wind hadn’t quite let him go.

A heartbeat passed between us. Then another.

“We’re heading down to the cliff near the willow after breakfast,” I said, keeping my tone light. “You want to come?”

“To practice more magik?”

My eyes met hers like she’d drawn a sword and dared me to deny it.

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