Chapter 22: Just Friends

Get in, find it, and get out. That's it, I told myself an hour later, stepping into the cool, metallic scent of Zion’s armory. I couldn't afford to dally; the King of Silvermere was growing restless, and an angry King was a problem I wasn't ready to solve. Besides, the cold steel of the mission was a welcome distraction from the emotional noise inside my own head.

Don’t think about Zion! I lectured myself, my boots clicking with agonizing sharpness on the stone floor. And definitely do not think about Karlos or the kiss. Great. Now I was thinking about both, their names circling my mind like vultures.

To steady my hands, I focused on the weapon racks. The swords were masterpieces—elegant, lethal, and frustratingly beautiful. I moved among them, my quill scratching feverishly against the pages of my hidden journal as I recorded lengths, hilt designs, and balance points. I felt a sharp pang of resentment that I couldn't simply spirit them away. For weeks, I’d been a ghost on the edges of Zion’s life, documenting the rhythm of his army’s progress. It was all valuable, but it felt like a poor substitute for the truth I was actually seeking.

My mind drifted again, landing on Karlos. We hadn’t spoken since the kiss in the woods, and the silence felt heavier than any broadsword in this room. I still didn’t trust his sudden desire to settle down, but God, part of me wanted him there anyway. It was a selfish tug-of-war: he was a wanderer by nature, while my heart was already halfway home. To ask him to trade the open road for my hearth felt like caging a bird.

"We are just friends," I whispered to the empty armor suits, the words sounding thin and unconvincing as I noted the final serrated edge of a blade. "Just friends. Just like Zion is just an enemy."

I paused, the silence of the armory closing in. I wondered, just for a second, if Zion’s thoughts ever strayed to me in the quiet moments between his royal duties—if he saw the girl in the woods or the girl in the silk dress.

I huffed, slamming the journal shut and tucking it into my bodice. Pathetic. I was a spy, not a romantic lead in one of the novels Angela spoke of. I needed to focus on the steel, because the steel was the only thing in Fortundra that wouldn't break my heart.