Page 78 of Severed Heir

Ellison didn’t flinch.

“I was there,” I whispered. “He was killed by his own portal. And I stood there helpless. I’m scared I’ll never stop reliving it.”

“Like you said… that wasn’t your fault.”

My fingers clenched the iron railing until the metal bit into my palms. “Maybe you are right.”

Maybe my dead quell had manifested into despair, the ability to turn every conversation cold.

“I think you need a piece of him,” Ellison said gently.

He reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a silver chain. It was a gray pendant that gleamed softly in the low light.

“My father,” he said. “His ashes were smelted into this. Hadrian had him killed after the affair.”

“Hadrian sounds like a monster.”

But I didn’t need a piece of Damien. He was the sharp edge of every glass. My reflection in wine. A thousand cuts I’d poured into him. Every part of him was something I’d made worse.

And I missed him.

“He’s a highly respected leader,” Ellison added. “I never met my real father. Hadrian claimed me as his own. But... you can’t treat grief like something you can control.”

“Icanhandle grief,” I whispered.

But even I wasn’t sure I believed it.

“We should head back. Visitors will be arriving soon,” I said. Honestly, I just needed a moment alone before my titling ceremony.

He nodded, and we turned toward the estate. In the main kitchen, Amria sat at the dining table, nose buried in a tabloid. At the sound of our footsteps, she looked up and shoved the paper behind her back.

“Oh! Severyn,” she chirped, voice an octave too high. “Your guests will be arriving soon, and we haven’t even started your hair!”

“Was that theSerpent Press?”

She flapped a hand too quickly. “No, no. Just my personal journal. I jot things in the margins.”

I stepped forward. “Did Cully’s article get published?”

She froze. Her eyes darted to the sink—then she lunged.

“I’m terribly clumsy,” she muttered, cranking the faucet.

“Amria!” I shouted. “Why are you acting so strange?”

But it was already too late. With a sudden motion, Amria grabbed the paper and shoved it under the running water. The pages buckled and curled, the ink bleeding into the stream. Words unraveled in dark streaks. My name blurred, smeared by the current until it disappeared entirely.

“I’m not acting strange,” she insisted. “Just embarrassed by what I wrote, that’s all!”

“Why didn’t you want me to see it?” I demanded. “And where is Cully’s article?”

Her smile wavered. “It’s nothing, Severyn. Just gossip. You know how journalists are. They twist everything.”

The lie clung to her—in the way she wouldn’t look at me, in the tremble of her hands, in how her voice fought to stay light.

“Amria,” I said again, low and steady. “What did the Serpent Press say? Don’t lie to me.”

She inhaled too sharply. Wiped her hands on a towel. “Now, now,” she said with forced cheer. “Let’s focus on you. We have so much to do before tonight.”

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