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Chapter Text

You had pictured the Black Dragon King as many things—an iron-clad tyrant, monstrous in both shape and soul; a crowned warlord with fire in his breath and blood on his hands; perhaps even a grizzled veteran cloaked in shadow and grandeur, veiled in the solemn dignity that is the way of kings.

“It is my deepest honor to present His Majesty, King Sylus Onychinus of House Onyx, the Black Dragon of the North Kingdoms,” the ambassador proclaims, his voice ringing through the high, vaulted chamber like the toll of a bell.

You eyes turn toward the obsidian throne at the end of the hall, where the King of the Great Ice reclines like a carved monolith brought to life.

He does not rise. He does not speak. One gloved hand props his chin upon the armrest, the other draped loosely across his knee, fingers curled lazily over his thigh. The torchlight dances against the black stones and gilded columns, catching the flame in his gaze—eyes the color of amber caught mid-smolder, sharp and glinting beneath a heavy brow.

He is hardly the barbarian that you had imagined. No blood-crusted warlord, no wild-eyed beast in furs and rusted mail. The rumors had painted him monstrous—a savage tyrant who burned villages for sport and feasted on the spoils of conquest. But the man before you is something far more unnerving.

King Sylus is breathtaking.

His beauty is the kind that kills—ice-glass cheekbones, a mouth unsmiling and severe, and hair white as snow, just as cold as his chilling gaze—in spite of the amber burn.

He wears scaled black leather like armor sculpted to his frame, and a mantle of dark fur falls across his shoulders like a beast’s pelt. A silver band clasps his upper arm, set with a firestone that pulses faintly, as though something deep within it still burned.

He looks hardly older than thirty years, but carries himself with the stillness of someone who has long since grown tired of being impressed. There is no crown atop his brow, no flourish, no fanfare—only presence, heavy and unyielding. The air seems to thin around him, as if the hall itself has drawn breath in anticipation of his every movement.

“Majesty, King Onychinus,” the ambassador continues, bowing low, “may I present Princess MC.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance once more, old friend,” your father offers, voice clipped with rehearsed courtesy as he lowers his head.

“The pleasure is mine, Majesty.” King Sylus’ voice is low and musical, a dark baritone threaded with smoke. It carries easily through the hush of the grand hall, resonant but restrained, refined past the jagged edges of the Northern tongue. Languorous accent and smooth, deep tone, dulled by years walking among foreign courts.

“And Princess,” he adds, your address slipping from his lips with the faintest trace of a northern lisp, soft and serpentine as ever.

You dip into a practiced curtsy, keeping your gaze lowered. “It is an honor, my lord.”

“You may raise your head, Princess,” he says, the words heavy with faint disdain. “I am no god-king that I require women to bow and avert their eyes.”

You look up. And find yourself caught.

His eyes—those strange, glinting eyes—burn like embers through the shadows thrown by the torches. For one dizzying breath, she cannot look away. They are not cruel, exactly. Nor kind. Only ancient. Only watching.

“Now,” Sylus says, rising with fluid grace, his voice echoing like thunder muffled by snow. He descends the dais with deliberate, unhurried steps, every inch of his frame commanding and exact. Up close, he towers over you in you heeled boots, broad-shouldered and coiled in stillness. His face holds no smile, no warmth, and yet the weight of him—the sheer presence—leaves no question as to why the King of the North bears no crown.

He is a crown all in himself.

He stops just short of your father, the height difference almost theatrical, and turns slightly toward you both with the cool poise of a statue grown bored with reverence.

“We have much to discuss,” he says. “Have you eaten? Come. We have roasted boar prepared in your honor. Two, in fact.”

He does not wait for an answer. With a flick of his mantle, the Black Dragon turns on his heel, guards falling into step, and the sea of courtiers parts around him as if the very air has learned to make way.

You follow, heart pounding in your ribs, your father silent at your side. The dining hall you enter is long and dimly lit, warmed by high hearths and thick carpets, a banquet already laid in rich disarray—roasted meats glistening, bowls of spiced vegetables steaming, goblets brimming with dark wine.

You sit beside your father, across from the King. Sylus’ eyes find you again the moment you sit, expression unreadable, gaze unrelenting. He does not speak. Does not blink.

The servants pour wine in reverent silence. You hesitate. Your father does the same.

“You do not eat in the South?” Sylus inquires at last, lifting his goblet and sipping slowly. The trepidation casts his irises in amusement.

Your father glances at you, then quickly begins to eat. You follow suit, You hands shaking slightly as you lift your fork. Sylus watches you both for a long moment, then nods once, slowly, as if granting approval to creatures beneath his notice. He leans back in his chair and drinks deeply.

“It has been some time since we met,” he begins, voice smooth and deceptively idle. “Much has changed. And more is coming.”

“Indeed,” replies your father. “I trust your lands prosper?”

Sylus hums, languid and aloof, eyes flicking to his plate as he toys with a knife. “My armies swell by the day,” he murmurs. The words are not a boast, not quite. They fall with the quiet weight of inevitability.

“And the Great Walls?” your father asks, too quickly. “Do they still hold?”

Sylus stills. He lifts his head slowly and glances up beneath dark lashes, the flicker of flame catching in his eyes. A long breath draws out the silence before he speaks.

“Deep,” he says softly, “and impenetrable as night, Majesty. None shall cross the river and see morning—not while I reign.”

"I am glad to hear that, my friend," your father says, and raises his goblet. "To your continued reign, and to the prosperity of our Kingdoms."

The King lifts his goblet in turn, and you follow. The wine is strong and thick, and burns your throat. You’ve never had liquor quite so strong, nor so bitter.

"You have not brought your son," King Sylus goes on once they've drunk, picking up his knife and slicing off a chunk of meat.

"Occupied with his training to the east, I'm afraid," your father says, taking a sip of his wine. "He is to marry soon, the daughter of Lord Kallios."

"I have heard. He will do well." Sylus pops the meat into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "It is good to strengthen one's bonds to the eastern border. They grow restless.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Our spies tell us there have been... disagreements," your father agrees, looking as if he has tasted something foul. "It will not come to war, surely."

"No," King Sylus agrees. "It will not. If they come for our lands, they will find themselves with a new crown."

Father smiles, tight-lipped and insincere. "I wish only that my boy will be half the King you are, Majesty."

King Sylus looks up and glares, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of his wine. "Your praise is wasted.” His voice is bitter. Cold and dark as the impenetrable polar night. "Flattery will get you little, in my lands."

“Forgive me,” Father says with a forced laugh, waving a hand as if to sweep the moment aside. “Old habits, old friend. I mean no disrespect.”

King Sylus lifts a hand in a gesture that could almost be mistaken for courtesy, though it lacks all warmth. “It is quite all right,” he says, voice smooth but stripped of pleasantry. “But understand—it does not become your station to grovel. If you mean to ask something of me, then speak it plainly, as a man would. Or else return to your homeland and await my messengers."

Sylus’ eyes settle on the King with the glint of polished steel—unblinking, unhurried, and absent of even the faintest flicker of sympathy. You sit beside your father in rigid silence, shoulders squared, spine straight. You had prepared yourself for violence, for brutishness—for some predictable expression of masculine dominance. But Sylus is something else entirely. Not beastly. Not mad. Only… still. Still and patient.

It is not fury that lives in him, you realize. It is absence. His eyes burn like amber only on the surface—beneath that glow, they are hollow and old, like the embers of a fire long since gone cold. He is empty and unfeeling.

“Very well, Majesty,” Father says, shifting in his seat. He clears his throat and lays down his utensils with deliberate care, folding his hands atop the table. “We have yet to discuss the terms of our union.”

Sylus does not move, save for the slow swirl of wine in his goblet. His gaze drops to it, watching the liquid spiral as if it speaks more truth than the man across from him.

“Your price,” he says flatly, without looking up.

“If it pleases Your Majesty,” Father says.

The King sets the goblet down and sighs, a puff of breath barely stirring the strands of hair that fall across his forehead. He looks up, the firestone on his arm glowing faintly in the shadows.

"What is it you seek in trade?" he asks. "Your mines are not as they used to be, if your delegations are to be believed. You are in need of gold. Gems. Iron."

"We are in need of protection," Father answers.

King Sylus cocks his head, his brows pulling together in an expression almost like pity. “I am no guardian. And not nearly a hired hand.”

"Our south shores have withstood many attacks as of late," Father goes on. "Raiders and pirates, from across the Sea, origins yet unknown. We have repelled them for now, but should another such attack happen again, our shores will be left weak."

"Surely, you can afford a standing army," the King says, glancing towards a servant. The servant nods, refilling his goblet. "Or are you so destitute now that you cannot pay for your own defense?"

"Not of the sort we need, Majesty," Father says, taking a deep draught of his own cup. "The raiders strike hard and fast, and are gone as quickly as they came."

"How very curious," the King remarks, looking completely uninterested. "I am no ferryman, Majesty. The northern seas are too frigid to fare. The land is my expertise, as you are surely aware."

"We are, of course," your father returns. "That is not what I am looking for."

King Sylus narrows his eyes, tapping his long fingers on the tabletop. "Then, what?"

"I had wondered after the prospect of offense from the skies," your father says.

The King of the North stares, his expression blank, betraying nothing. You watch him carefully, his amber eyes swimming in the shadow of the torchlight.

"I had thought you an intelligent man, Majesty.” His voice is a low rasp, like a serpent slipping through grass. "Reasonable, perhaps."

Father holds his gaze, though his jaw is clenched. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are aware what you ask of me, yes?"

"Of course," your father says.

King Sylus drains his wine again, setting it down a bit too hard. "You are a fool."

"But, my lord," Father says, "is our alliance not worth such a sacrifice? Surely, the cost—"

"I will pay you handsomely for your daughter's hand, but I will not give you a dragon," the King says, his words clipped and short, gaze hard and steady. "Not even should the whole of your kingdom be under siege. Do you know why, Majesty?"

Your father looks taken aback, his composure cracking. "My lord, if you will only—"

"The animals are not property to be bought and sold," King Sylus goes on, his amber eyes burning in the firelight. "They are not weapons or beasts. You would ask me to sell my own children. You insult me."

You feel a pang of shame at the words, and wonder how many other Kings and Lords have come begging to the throne of the Black North with the same offer. With the same request. How many others have dared?

"Your Majesty," your father says, bowing his head. "I apologize. I had no intention to insult."

King Sylus does not look the least bit moved.

You sit up straighter and gather your courage, looking the King in the eye and clearing your throat. "If I may, Your Majesty."

He turns his attention toward you, his eyes glinting, but otherwise unreadable. You swallow, but refuse to shrink from the scrutiny of his fiery gaze. "You may."

"If I understand correctly," you begin, choosing your words with care, "you consider the dragons your family."

He regards you for a long moment, eyes sharp. "Yes."

"And so it is an insult, an unforgivable one, to ask after your kin," you say, meeting his eyes, "and yet, I have been sold. For an alliance, for my father's ambition."

Sylus is silent. You cannot read him.

"You ask for my father's only daughter," you go on.

"You are not being sold to—"

"Then for what reason do we speak of a price at all, my lord?” you interrupt. The King narrows his eyes further, the muscle in his jaw ticking. "Surely a man who does not consider marriage a contractual transaction would not have need to discuss a price."

Your father tenses beside you, and King Sylus leans back in his chair, staring down his nose at you. You refuse to squirm, looking upon him directly, chin raised.

"They are not pets," he says.

"Nor am I," you say. "And so you do not consider your children as property. Only me, then."

The King opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it again, his sharp teeth clicking together. He sits back in his seat and folds his arms over his chest, staring at you. His eyes jump from your face, upward to your thin silver crown, then back again. Your heart races, but you do not look away.

He is quiet for a long, tense moment, the silence thick in the air, before he sighs, his shoulders dropping.

"It would appear," he begins, "the insult is mutual." He looks at Father, levelling a glare. "She is clever."

"I apologize for my daughter's tongue, Majes—"

"Apologize?" King Sylus scoffs, shaking his head. "You are a fool if you mean to apologize for a woman's wit. Do you have shame in your daughter's cunning, Majesty?"

"No, Majesty, of course not," Father stammers. "I merely wish not to cause offense."

"Offense has been taken only on your request, than on the base of your daughter's tongue," King Sylus snaps, his expression dark and his voice low. "Had you wanted to offer me an empty-headed trophy, perhaps you should have sent your son." He lifts his goblet, draining it, and shakes his head. "Here, we have pride enough in our daughters not to muzzle them in the company of men. Do you not, King Oren?”

Your father is silent, looking rather put off by the conversation. You glance at him, then look back at the King, offering a slight smile. King Sylus glances towards you and arches a brow, his lip twitching in the barest hint of a smirk. He reaches out and plucks a grape from a bowl of fruit on the table, examining it.

"You will have an egg then. One." He pops the grape in his mouth and looks at Father, his voice hard. "And you will thank your daughter for the gift. Not that you deserved it."

"Yes, my lord," your father says, bowing his head. "Thank you.”

"My pleasure, father," you say, nodding. "And thank you, King Onychinus, for hearing me."

He scoffs. "I do not have need for a silent Queen," he says. "But do not thank me yet." He nods at Father. "The egg will cause your father trouble enough. It is a great gift, but its infancy will not be easy."

"You have my thanks, Majesty," your father says.

"As well I should," King Sylus says. He pushes his plate away and stands, beckoning for a servant. "Miss Sazha will show you to your rooms, Your Majesty," he says. He looks at you. "Princess, may I escort you?"

"Certainly, Majesty," you say, standing and giving a slight curtsy. The King offers his arm, and you take it, resting your hand on the black, scaled leather of his sleeve, muscles firm beneath his jacket.

"Come, then," he says, his voice deep and smooth, and leads you out of the dining hall.

The castle is large and cavernous, dark and gloomy. You feel as though you are being swallowed by a beast, its walls and floors a ribcage, the ceiling the stomach. The servants and nobles that roam the halls are equally as intimidating, tall and broad, pale-skinned and dark-haired, their expressions impassive. They watch you and the King walk past, their gazes lingering.

You feel small here, in these dark, stone halls, dwarfed by the towering men and women who stalk the corridors. Your skin is warm, the heat of the hearths and your furs making you flush, your heartbeat quick in your ears.

"You will find the North cold and dark, I'm afraid," King Sylus says, leading you up a winding flight of stairs. "The night is not forgiving.”

"I have experienced winter back home, my lord."

"Your snow is nothing like ours, I assure you," the King says, looking down at you. "We have a saying. That a true King will bow to the north winds."

"I will be sure to remember that.”

"Do," the King replies, his voice flat.

You reach the top of the steps, and the King leads you down a long, dim hallway. It is dark, the torches casting flickering shadows upon the stone. The doors are thick and carved with images, mostly of dragons and warriors, though a few are more abstract, a twisting design that snakes around the edge. At the end of the hallway, King Sylus stops at a door.

"These will be your chambers," he says, opening the door and ushering you inside.

The chamber is vast and lavish, a large canopy bed draped with furs and silk curtains, a crackling fireplace, and a large wardrobe. There is a vanity, too, with a large mirror. You walk inside and look around, your heels echoing on the stone.

"Will it suffice, Princess?" King Sylus asks, leaning against the doorway, his arms folded over his chest.

"Of course," you reply, turning to face him. "Thank you, my lord."

"My chambers are across the hall," the King says, gesturing behind him, "should you need anything. You will notice my palace has no locks. For this, we have guards. They will let you in. Yours are named Luke, for night rotations, and Kieran, for days."

You pause, studying his face curiously. Your father would never bother to learn the names of his servants, back in your own palace, much less a guard. Yet this man, this King, a tyrant of the north, speaks as if the names are precious and important. As if they matter to him.

"Majesty," you say, "might I ask you something?"

"You may."

"When my father first told me I was to wed, I had imagined a man as brash and fierce as his reputation,” you say, smoothing your hands over your silky white dress. "Not a man who could hardly be bothered to rise from his throne."

King Sylus’ eyes gleam in the low light, the fire's rays catching on the stark white of his hair. "You find me lacking."

"No, Majesty.” You shake your head. "I find myself rather surprised. I had not expected the great Black Dragon to be so… bored."

He crosses his arms over his chest. His bicep bulges against the scales of his leather jacket, the silver ring around his arm shining. He stares down at you, raising a brow, and tilts his head. "Do I disappoint you, Princess?"

"Not at all, my lord," you answer.

He pauses, his head tilting, his hair falling over his brow. He is striking; a chiseled, sculpted beauty that would be worthy of the gods, if not for the ice in his stare, the detachment. He is cold as the lands he rules.

"You are not afraid of me," he states, his tone flat.

"No, Majesty."

He searches your face, his amber eyes glowing like embers in the dim light. He seems to find whatever it is he is looking for, and nods, pushing off the wall.

"I should like you to join in discussions with your father and I," he says.

"Pardon?" you stammer, and the King scoffs.

"I have no patience for coddling, Princess," he says. "You have spoken for yourself today, why should I not have your insight in matters of your marriage?"

You swallow, heart thundering in your chest. "My father is not accustomed to—"

"With respect, Your Highness," he says, glancing back at you, "I do not give a fuck what your father likes."

You stiffen at his language, fighting down the semblance of a smile that creeps up to your lips. No one has ever spoken of your father like that, and certainly not to your face. Much less insinuated that he should change his behavior to accommodate you.

"Understood, my lord.”

He looks at you and arches a brow. "Your wit is valuable, Princess," he says. "I have hope you will be a far better negotiator than your father."

"Thank you, sir," you say, and the King gives a nod.

"Now, sleep well," he says, and turns to leave. "Madame Sazha will wake you. Goodnight, kitten."

You blink. "Goodnight, Majesty."

He leaves without another word.

Chapter Text

Sazha wakes you bright and early. The maid, a short and slight old woman with curly hair and warm brown skin, opens the shutters and lets the morning sun pour into your room, bathing the space in warmth and light. The sun is pale yellow and distant, and you feel the bite of winter's chill through the glass. You rise slowly and sit on the edge of the bed, yawning, and look around. In the early morning light, the castle is far less sinister than it had seemed the night before. Your room is lavish and comfortable, the furniture dark wood, rugs covering the stone floors, a plush divan before the hearth. It is a far cry from the marble and granite, the cool, sterile stone, the minimalist, clean style of your own home. It is almost cozy, like a den.

But the sun will only last mere hours before the chilled, endless night sets in once more.

"Good morning, my lady," Sazha says, giving a curtsy, a bundle of clothes draped over her arm. "His Majesty, King Onychinus, would like you to have this."

She holds up a garment made of thick, white fabric. It is a dress, lined high and low with white fur, a wide, thick belt, and a hood and cloak of the same soft fluff. Polar bear pelt, if you had to guess. Or perhaps arctic fox.

You take it and run your hand over the fur, smiling softly. "How kind."

The maid nods. "His Majesty is generous," she says fondly. "You are very fortunate, my lady."

"Fortunate?” you ask, looking up.

The maid smiles. "A great many people have wished to marry the King," she explains, coming forward and laying out the dress and cloak on your bed. "He is a good man. I have served him since he was but a quiet, brooding prince."

You snicker, stifling yourself with the back of your hand. “And now?”

Sazha looks over and offers a wink. "Still brooding, my lady."

You laugh together, and you feel a bit lighter, more at ease. Still, there is the lingering fear of the unknown, the fear of the stranger that awaits you, the future you have been given. You have heard many rumors, some more believable than others, about the cruelty and viciousness of the Black Dragon. You wonder which parts are true.

"Tell me," you start as you rise to your feet, "is he always quite so..."

"Apathetic?" Sazha asks, smiling.

"I had meant to say reserved, perhaps," you amend.

Sazha chuckles, waving her hand. "My lord is not the warmest of men," she says, folding a pair of white silk stockings. Her eyes are distant and fond. "He is not a loving man, not the sort to show his affections easily. He will not write poems and speak sweet words, but he will be true. He will always provide."

"You speak highly of him."

"I have served him for a long time," Sazha replies, glancing up at you. "His mother hired me when she was just a girl. She was not much younger than you, when the King was born. And not much older when she fell ill. I have cared for the little Prince, and now the young King, for many years. I love him like a son."

You are quiet, thoughtful, watching the maid set out your things. You look down at the white dress, at the soft, white fur of the cloak, the delicate, silken stockings. It is beautiful. It is kind.

"How old was he when he was crowned?"

"Fourteen," Sazha says, shaking her head. "But a boy, but not the youngest, certainly. Why, King Nykolai, his great-grandfather, was only twelve." She takes your hand and pulls you out of bed, seemingly unfazed by your lack of modesty. "Now, come. Let me do your hair. We will not have you late for breakfast."

Your bare arms prickle with goosebumps as you let yourself be led to the vanity. Sazha's deft hands comb through your long white hair, pulling the curls into elaborate braids over and over again in an intricate, weaving pattern. She pins them with silver ornaments, the metal glimmering against your hair, and ties it all off with a wide, leather band.

"Beautiful," Sazha remarks, admiring her work. "I am sure the King will agree."

You smile, a blush coloring cheeks, and duck your head. "He will not say so."

"He does not have to, my lady," Sazha chuckles, patting your cheek. She smiles. "It is in the eyes, always."

The old woman digs through her vanity, finding pans of powders and vials of oils, and washes your face with a wet cloth before dabbing the oils on your skin.

"Will you color my complexion, Madame?" you ask, eyeing the powders.

Sazha raises a brow. "Are you unsatisfied with your skin, my lady?"

"I am deathly pale," you admit. "I look sickly. I would love to have skin like yours."

"Like mine?" Sazha shakes her head, smiling. "What a silly thing. Would you like to be wrinkled as a prune?"

"If the wrinkles were so lovely as yours, perhaps."

Sazha laughs, shaking her head. She massages in the oil, moisturizing your face, and smiles.

"You are a sweet child.”

"Truly. I must paint my face in pink not to look like a corpse."

"Nonsense," Sazha says, dipping her fingers in a pot of cream and spreading it across your cheeks. "My lord adores the sight of snow." She sits back and hums, her eyes roving over your face. "And look at that. Beautiful white hair and sky-blue eyes, a blush like a rose. My lady is an arctic flower."

You glance in the mirror and blink. You smile, recalling the way the King had looked at you. "Perhaps a kitten?"

Sazha chuckles, her wrinkled face lighting up with a grin. "His Majesty has a fondness for cats."

You blink. "Truly?"

Sazha nods, taking your chin in her hand and tilting your head this way and that, smudging the cream and the oil into your skin. "It was his mother's favorite animal," the old woman says, turning to wipe her hands on a cloth. "He has a soft spot for many animals. Plenty here wear rabbit furs for warmth, but the King will have none of it."

"None?"

Sazha nods. "He does not hunt the white rabbit. Not one." She leans forward and touches up a bit of rouge on your lips.

You pause, looking at Sazha's reflection in the mirror. The woman's expression is soft and fond, her dark eyes warm. She is smiling, her lips curled sweetly, her chin tilted, and you cannot help the way your heart pangs. You have never been so fond of your own mother.

"He is gentle, then.” Your voice is quiet.

"In his own way," Sazha agrees, her eyes distant. "He would prefer to make excuses. That the bunnies were too fast for him, or that the foxes will be too small to hunt with nothing to eat. That the feral cats do no harm, and control his rodent population.”

She shrugs, going to the dresser and pulling out a dress of fine silk. A red, flowing gown with a cinched waist and long skirt. She drapes it over her arm, humming.

"He is prideful. Arrogant, at times, but it has a charm to it. And when I have known him since he was just a baby, I could never fear his indifference or his temper." She snickers. "He may be intimidating to others, but to me, he is just a boy."

You watch the old woman's face, her smile warm, her eyes soft. There is love in her gaze, love and respect.

She pulls you up off the chair and ushers you into the new dress, tugging it down over your curves and straightening the skirt, and draping the white cloak over your shoulders. It falls to the floor in a pool of soft fur, thick and warm. She helps lace the bodice and offers you black gloves and a pair of white, heeled boots.

"Now, His Majesty and your father must already be at breakfast," she says. "Go. Eat. There is plenty of time for other matters later."

You glance at the mirror, taking in the sight of her dress and cloak. Your hair is a crown, the braids elegant and intricate, and your skin glowing.

"Thank you, madame."

She scoffs. "Oh, nonsense. You do not bow to me. Now, come, come."

The older woman guides you down the steps and into the dining hall. It is just as lavish and cavernous as the day before, a dark mahogany table and a blazing fire with fine upholstered and embroidered chairs. Your father sits at the end, with King Sylus at the head of the table, his eyes on a stack of paper and a cup of tea in his hand. His stark white hair falls in waves around his face, a lock covering his eye, lips pulled into a tight, thin line.

He looks different than the great, imposing man who had stared down at you from his throne. His scaled leather jacket and vest are replaced with a soft red button-up, collar undone, hanging loose over a silver chain around his neck, and black jacket around his shoulders. His silver arm cuff hugs his bicep tightly, gleaming in the soft light of the morning.

You swallow, your pulse jumping. He is a picture of dark beauty, cold and intense, a chiseled face with high, sharp cheekbones and a square jaw, a hard and piercing stare. You wonder how he may look if he smiled. If he could.

You step inside and walk over, your skirts brushing against the stone floors, and King Sylus’ gaze lifts, his eyes roving over your figure. They stop at your face, and his brow quirks. You wonder what he sees. If he finds you half as lovely as you do him.

"Majesty," Sazha greets, bowing her head. "Your Princess."

"Good morning, Princess," he replies, giving a nod. His amber gaze flicks to the maid. "Madame Sazha. Will you be joining us?"

"Oh, heavens, no, my lord," the woman says, waving her hand. "I could not impose."

He looks at her, and for a moment, you almost think his expression is one of fondness, something akin to it, at least.

Perhaps it is in the eyes.

"Then a pastry for the road," he says, gesturing at the table.

Sazha rolls her eyes, chuckling softly. She nudges you with her elbow, leaning down to murmur, aside, "Before you know it, he shall have me twice the size of a boar."

"I heard that," the King drawls, looking back to his papers. "I will not have it said I've starved my servants. Have a scone, Miss Sazha, and be out of my sight if you are so eager."

The old woman giggles and pats your hand. She grabs a scone from a nearby tray and takes a performative bite.

"Satisfied, Majesty?"

"Out."

Sazha snickers and winks at you, making her way back toward the door. You take a glance at your father, watching the exchange silently, his jaw set and gaze hard.

"Sit, please," King Sylus says, and gestures for a servant. A young boy pours a cup of tea, and offers you a bowl of sugar cubes and a saucer of milk.

"Thank you," you say. You sit and stir in your sugar, the cube cracking under your spoon. The servant boy nods and retreats.

"You allow your servants to eat at your table?" your father asks, his tone terse.

King Sylus does not look up. "When invited."

The King's voice is flat, his tone bored and disinterested, as if the question were a waste of his time. He takes a sip of his tea silently, and sets the cup down on the table, the porcelain clinking. He signs his name on a sheet of paper, his writing sharp and angular.

Father’s jaw flexes. "Surely a man such as yourself—"

"I do not keep slaves, Your Majesty," the King says evenly. "I have plenty to my name. They may eat of my abundance."

The King's voice is a low purr, the deep timbre rumbling from his chest. His gaze remains down, focused on the papers, his brows furrowed. He does not look at either of you.

His indifference is only more enchanting, his disinterested growl sending a line of sparks down your spine.

"Is that so?"

"As it is," King Sylus replies.

Your father is silent for a moment, and you glance towards him. His expression is sour.

"I think it is very kind of you,” you say.

The King finally glances up, his dark lashes fluttering, the bright amber of his eyes gleaming. "Kind," he echoes flatly.

"Yes, Majesty."

He meets your eyes, staring quietly. You shift in your seat, heart racing. Sweet lords, he is beautiful.

He hums, noncommittal, and looks back down. "Pleasantries are wasted on me, Princess."

"Of course not, Your Majesty."

You reach forward and take a piece of bread from the center of the table, a servant rushing forward to put a bowl of jam and a knife in front of you.

"How was your evening, my lord?" you ask.

His eyes lift, then dart back down as quickly. "I did not sleep."

Your brows knit together, swallowing the bread. "Pardon me?"

"Pardoned," King Sylus returns, and says nothing else.

The King does not speak, or acknowledge either of you further, his attention consumed by the papers on the table. You look to your father, who sits in silence, his hands folded before him, a cup of tea cooling untouched. His eyes are locked onto the King, his face drawn and serious, lips pressed into a hard, thin line.

"I thank you for the coat, Your Majesty."

He hums, scribbling his signature once more. "I will not have you freezing to death. It does me no great favor to be married to an ice sculpture."

You snort, raising your hand to cover your mouth swiftly. Your father's head whips around, his gaze hard, his dark blue eyes narrowing.

King Sylus’ pen slows, and his eyes flicker. He sets the pen down and leans back, looking at you.

"You find me amusing?" he asks.

You smile. "Not particularly, Majesty. Your humor is rather dry. I am parched."

Your father coughs into his hand.

The King blinks, his expression unchanged. He signs a final paper and pushes the stack away. "How very disappointing it must be, to find I have any manner of a personality."

You grin and sip your tea, the porcelain warm against your lips. "Quite, my lord."

His gaze is locked on you, unwavering. You wonder what is going on behind those beautiful, molten eyes. You wonder if you have angered him, perhaps—though that idea only blazes a line of sparks through your body. What would he look like when angry?

The King watches you silently, his gaze intense. You feel heat rise to your cheeks, and his eyes flicker. He looks down and taps his fingers against the table.

"I have asked of your daughter to join in our meetings, King Oren," he says, his voice a low rumble.

Your father pauses, setting his fork down. He wipes his mouth on a cloth napkin and clears his throat.

"Is that so?" he asks, his tone flat.

"Yes," King Sylus says. "She speaks well, and seems to have her wits about her."

Your father hums, taking a sip of his drink. His brow is furrowed, his stare hard and piercing. "If that is your wish, Majesty."

"It is."

The King does not look away from you, his blazing amber eyes locked with yours.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," you say.

King Sylus sighs, shaking his head. He runs a hand through his hair, the silver streak falling back across his forehead.

"Your gratitude insults me," he mutters, looking back at his work. "Save it for a man worthy of such a thing. Now," he looks up at your father, his face impassive as ever, "the breeding season is not for a month, yet. The dragons will begin laying their eggs, then, and the hatching will begin in the early summer."

"That is quite some time, Majesty," your father says.

King Sylus sighs. "It is. But it is a delicate matter. They do not breed like cattle, and not often. At most, five or six eggs will be laid each year."

"And you cannot simply offer a whelp?"

The King's brow twitches, his jaw flexing. "The hatchlings do not answer to me, they must have their mothers. It is inhumane to separate them, and the whelp will not be cooperative with you."

"You said the hatching would be difficult," you say, sipping your tea.

King Sylus hums, glancing at you. "It is," he says. "The eggshell is strong, and will require heat and pressure to crack. You cannot simply place a rock atop it and hope for the best. A kiln, running twenty-four hours a day for several weeks would be best. And then, if you are not there at the moment the egg breaks, the baby will be distressed by the separation, and will likely not bond with you." He glances at your father and frowns. "And it should be known, should the baby die in infancy or fail to hatch, you will have made an enemy of the Black North."

Your father narrows his eyes, his brow furrowing. "You threaten me?"

"It is no threat," the King replies, his voice low and rumbling. "It is no small thing. While you will not be attacked outright, my people are proud. They will not forget the animal's death, and they will not forgive."

"I do not intend on killing your dragon," your father hisses.

"Intent does not matter," King Sylus says. "You must be diligent. The babies are dependent and cannot be left alone. It is a great responsibility."

Your father is silent for a moment, his jaw clenched. "You speak of the animal as a sacred beast, yet you wear its leather."

The Black Dragon's eyes narrow, a shadow falling over his face. "It is an act of respect. We do not slaughter the dragons, they die of natural causes, and we honor them by using all we can. They grow over with flowers, and they die peacefully. The scales are durable, the leather is thick. It is used in clothing, in armor. If we did not, then the bodies would rot and the death would be wasted. We would dishonor their lives leaving their flesh to fester."

Your father glares, and the King's expression is unchanging. You clear your throat to break the tension.

"Majesty," you say, setting your teacup down, "I am sure my father has much to learn from you. You ought to tell him what a baby will eat."

The King's eyes flicker. He nods. "Yes, of course," he says. He clears his throat. "It will want small creatures, first. Offer it mice or fish. Live, if the baby will accept it. If the whelp cannot kill the mice by itself, you will need to feed it for the first few weeks. After that, offer it cuts of meat, raw and on the bone. It sharpens its teeth and claws on the bones, and must learn to tear the meat away from it. Watch the baby as it eats, and encourage it to cook the meat itself. Do not fret if the baby burns itself, it is learning. Its own fire will harden its skin."

"Will it hurt itself?" you ask.

The King hums. "It will sting, but it is as the mother would do." He waves his hand. "The mother would spit fire at it in short bursts in its infancy and harden its skin. By letting it cook its own food and burn itself, you are doing the same."

"You cannot stop the burns?"

"It is necessary," the King says. "The dragon must have a thick hide. It is important to their survival. But the fire does not kill it. Its scales are made for the flames. It will cry, but it will not die from the fire. It is only learning."

"I see," your murmur. You glance at Father. He is still scowling, his gaze sharp.

King Sylus nods, taking a sip of his drink. "It is a good sign, if the baby hurts itself early on. If it has not burned by its second month, then the scales will not form correctly, and its skin will be soft and susceptible." He nods at your father. "Someone must watch it closely."

"It will have the finest care, Majesty," your father drawls.

"Good," King Sylus says. His tone is impassive. "Once it is further grown, and the scales have hardened, it will begin to enjoy the fire, and will not mind the heat. Usually, the mother would bathe the adolescent by breathing fire at it. You can mimic this by keeping a kiln or brazier running so the child may clean itself. When it is older, this will not be necessary, and it will light fires itself."

He pauses, sighing.

"The adolescent will want to fly, and it will become rebellious. Be mindful of its growth, and try to keep it from flying for too long. It must develop its muscles and lungs, and will tire quickly. Let it fly and hunt, but watch carefully."

Your father scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. "I am no nursemaid, Majesty."

"This is a great responsibility," the King drawls, a hint of anger breaking through his veneer. "It is not unlike a human child. Only this child will eat you if you cannot bond with it. You understand why I hesitate to allow this honor to anyone."

"Of course, Majesty," you rush. "He thanks you sincerely, do you not father?"

Father’s lips twitch. "You have my thanks, Majesty."

"Good," King Sylus drawls, tapping his finger against the table. "In any case, I will have a rearingmaid write up a guide. She will visit frequently to aide."

"That is very kind, Majesty," you say.

King Sylus huffs. "It is necessary," he corrects. "Do not assume kindness of me."

It's quiet for a moment, the tension palpable. King Sylus’ stare is cold and distant, his jaw clenched. Your father sighs.

"We will send two hundred of our finest stallions and one hundred pounds of gold as a wedding gift," your father says, his voice stiff.

King Sylus does not smile, though he looks at you, his eyes flicking over your figure. He looks to your father. "And I will accept."

Father nods. "Good," he returns. "And of course, we shall expect the lifting of the tariffs in short order."

"Of course," the King says, his voice a low, even drawl. He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest, his brow arched. “Any other difficult requests?”

When your father says nothing, King Sylus’ gaze shifts to you, and his expression softens, just for a moment. "I have no quarrel with you, Your Majesty. But you ought not become a high-priced mouthpiece for foreign interests."

Your father is quiet. King Sylus’ stare is piercing, his brows drawn together. He takes a sip of his drink and clears his throat.

"Tell me, sir," the King says, his voice a soft, gentle hum, "how do you like the palace?"

Father sighs, glancing to you, then back at the King. "It is lovely, Majesty."

"Thank you," King Sylus replies. He pauses, and takes another sip of his tea, the cup clinking as he sets it back on the saucer. He looks up, his amber eyes glowing in the low light of the room. "Adequate for your daughter, then?"

Your heart leaps into your throat. Your cheeks flush, and your fingers twist into your skirt as the two men’s gazes fall upon you.

"Adequate," he says. "Yes."

"My father meant it is beautiful," you say, shooting a glance towards the other man. "And we appreciate your hospitality."

Your father grunts, setting his fork down. He wipes his mouth and tosses his napkin onto the table. "Quite grateful."

King Sylus hums, his brow furrowing. He taps his finger against the table, a slow, rhythmic pulse. He stares at your father silently, his molten gaze piercing.

You clear your throat before Father can dig himself a convenient grave.

"Your Majesty," you draw his attention, smiling, "if it is not an imposition, I have heard great tales of your palace. I should very much like to see it, if that is alright."

A thin, fleeting excuse to steal a moment with the King, certainly. But you can hardly be blamed—a woman with half a brain would flush for a smile in the icy King’s presence.

He looks away, glancing at your father, who glares down at his plate.

"Very well," King Sylus says, and finishes the last of his tea. He stands and smooths down his shirt, straightening the collar and rolling up his sleeves. He offers you a gloved hand.

You beam, placing a hand in his and letting him pull you up.

"Thank you, my lord.”

He does not reply, only glances at you, his expression blank, amber gaze flickering. You feel small under his velvet regard, his imposing stature. A head taller, lean and muscled, the veins standing out in his neck. He towers over you.

"Shall we?"

You feel his warm breath on your cheek.

"Yes, please," you answer.

The King leads you through the halls, his pace leisurely, boots clicking against the stone floors. He is silent, his hands clasped behind his back. The air is frigid, even within the walls of the castle, and you shiver, pulling your cloak tight.

"I thank you sincerely for the interruption," he murmurs after a moment.

"The pleasure was mine, my lord," you return, heart hammering. "I know my father can be..."

"Intolerable and rude," King Sylus finishes flatly.

You stifle a laugh. "Stubborn. I apologize on his behalf."

The King is silent. His brows are drawn together, his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck straining. You glance up, finding the King staring forward, his gaze impassive and blank. His white hair falls across his forehead, mussed strands framing his face.

"May I ask a question, Majesty?"

King Sylus blinks and glances at her. "You may."

"Your hair," you lead. "You are not old."

He hums. "Twenty-eight, soon."

You swallow hard. Much older than yourself, then.

And yet, somehow, that fact does not nearly push you away from the arrangement.

"Your mother did not have white hair. You were born with it, then.”

He shrugs. "My mother often said it was a mark of the Great Ice."

You nod, looking at the strands. It is thick, and shines like molten silver in the light of the lanterns. "It is very unique."

He says nothing, his expression unchanged. He stares ahead, the line of his jaw rigid. Cut like marble and just as pale, his skin flawless, his face carved with the careful, practiced hand of a master sculptor. His beauty is like nothing you have seen.

"What is it that you wish to see?" he asks, after a moment.

"Anything, Majesty," you say. "Anything you should wish me to see."

He nods. "Follow me, then."

The King turns a corner, steps long and unhurried. You rush to keep up with his large stride, and the cold air rushes past you, chilling your skin and stinging your nose. You bury your face into your coat and follow him, eyes burning.

You reach the end of a hall, and the King pushes open a heavy door. It creaks on its hinges, the wood groaning. He steps through, and gestures for you to enter.

The room is large and round, the ceiling tall and domed. It is a library, a spiral staircase leading to the upper levels. There are shelves and shelves of books, tomes bound in leather and wrapped in chains. A large window, stained glass depicting a dragon, is on the far wall. Along the side are rows of tables surrounding a stone bar and towering wine cabinet.

The shelves are lined with books, scrolls, and papers, the spines and edges worn and ragged. They look old, ancient, the paper yellowed with time. There is a desk, cluttered with inkwells and papers, the top scratched and scuffed. A tall, wooden chair is tucked beneath it, and there is a plush rug on the floor, the corners singed.

King Sylus walks ahead of you, stepping around the center table and waving a hand. A shoot of red mist swirls from his extended fingers, and paws at the wine cabinet. The doors open, and the bottle floats through the air, coming to rest in his hand.

He turns and pulls the cork free, tossing it onto the table.

"You will have your own wine cellar, when we are wed," he says. He calls over two large goblets and fills one, holding it out. When you do not approach him, he sighs, and the red mist wraps around your wrist, tugging you gently.

You stumble forward, and he catches you with an arm, the goblet of wine held aloft.

You blush, the blood rushing to your face. He is very close, his warm body pressed against yours. The red mist brushes your skin, the tendrils wrapping around your ankles, crawling up your legs. You swallow hard.

The King steps back and holds out the glass, his amber eyes dark, his expression neutral. You take it from him, and he walks away, sitting down and taking a long sip.

"You should know," he says at length, "there is a certain formality you will be expected to uphold very soon."

"I beg your pardon, Majesty?"

He sets the goblet down, and runs a hand through his hair.

"You will have a tutor," he explains. "And a trainer. You shall need them for what is to come. When our betrothal is announced, the court will join us at the castle for the trial."

"The trial?"

He shrugs. The red mists steal a small silver dagger from a drawer, and the blade floats through the air, settling into his waiting palm. He twirls it between his fingers and crosses one leg over the other, lounging in his seat.

"A formality," he says, waving his hand. "To test you, to judge if you are capable of ruling at my side. You must prove yourself a capable Queen. Capable of defending your Kingdom and your subjects. That you have the power and fortitude."

"How?"

He glances up. He does not smile, but amusement dances in his fiery iris. "You will be set against a member of the Kingsguard in combat."

Your mouth goes dry. "Combat?"

"Mm," he hums. He leans back, his head tilted. "A duel. You shall have a weapon and a trainer. A formality, truly. You are expected to draw first blood, and prove yourself a strong and powerful Queen."

You swallow hard, fingers clutching your goblet. "I do not have the training to defend myself, Majesty."

"That is why you will have a trainer," the King drawls.

"Majesty, please—"

"I will not have a weak wife," he says, his voice rising slightly. He is not angry, but firm, his jaw clenched. "It may be different where you come from, Princess, but in the Black North, our daughters are fierce, our wives are strong. You have already spoken up against your inept father, no? Have I underestimated your determination, or overestimated your intellect?"

You glare, chest burning. "You are unkind, my lord."

"And you are unprepared," he retorts. "The court is not kind, and they will eat you alive. You are not the first foreign princess to wed the King, nor will you be the last. They will try to use you. If they find a weakness, a hole, they will exploit it. They will find you wanting, and will use it against you."

He rises, the dagger still clutched in his hand. He stands before you, and presses the hilt of the blade into your hand.

"You are to be my wife. And for that, you must draw blood."

His gaze is hot, searing. He is close, his body pressed against yours, his breath washing over your face. The scent of his soap, the warmth of his skin, the sharp tang of his Evol in the air. You cannot speak.

"It is a test," he continues, his voice low, "a demonstration. And I will not have you fail. I have chosen you. So," his voice dips, "do not embarrass me."

You stare up at him, fingers curled around the handle. His stare is heavy, and the room is thick with tension. Your heart races, blood roaring in your ears. The fire in the hearth crackles, the logs spitting embers onto the rug.

He is quiet, and you find yourself studying his face, tracing the curve of his cheek, the shape of his jaw. His skin is pale and flawless, the veins in his neck standing out, the tendons flexing. You can only imagine the taut muscles traveling down under his shirt, and you feel a stirring within you, a heat coiling deep inside. Is his chest smooth and muscled, arms thick and powerful, abs sculpted just as the rest of him?

You steel yourself, determination burning in your gut. In one swift motion, you wrap your arm around his neck, just enough to lift you up to bring the dagger to his throat.

You press the flat side of the blade against his neck, and he stares down at you, his molten eyes narrowed. Slowly, he raises both hands in the air, palms flat, his expression unchanged.

He steps away, and your feet touch the floor. You pull the dagger back, the cool metal resting against your palm. The red mist curls around the handle, and he pulls it back from your grip into his.

"I trust you will not let me down, Princess," he says, voice a soft purr. "It would be...most unfortunate."

You do not speak, only clutch the front of your gown. You bow your head, and take a deep, shaking breath. It feels sour to bow your head, but you do not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing your frustration.

"Of course, Majesty," you whisper, and turn away. You make it two steps before his hand wraps around your upper arm, pulling you back. You turn, and he presses the dagger back into your palm. You stare down at it, the metal still warm from his blazing touch. He is a hearth, exuding heat, a living, breathing furnace.

"Keep it," he murmurs, and steps away. He does not look at you, but his hand lingers. His gloved fingers brush your bare skin, sending shocks of electricity down your spine. He releases his grip, and returns to his seat, crossing one leg over the other and reclining, a picture of calm ease.

You clutch the dagger, the hilt pressed into the meat of your palm. Your hands shake, and you stare down at the ground, trying to catch your breath. The flames dance along the walls, shadows cast on the stones, and you feel yourself burn.

"Your tutor will find you in the morning," he says, after a moment. He clears his throat, and the silence is shattered. "I suggest you get some rest."

You bow, and walk towards the door. You reach the threshold, and hesitate, glancing back at the King. He stares straight ahead, and the red mist swirls around him, glowing embers dancing on the currents.

"Goodnight, Majesty."

His eyes flick up. "Kitten."

Chapter Text

"Tell me, what style of weaponry do you prefer?"

You glance around the armory, blinking at the rows upon rows of swords and spears and axes, all lined up and mounted on the walls. They are shiny and bright, and the steel shines in the torchlight, glinting against the polished blades. The weapons are ornate, decorated with jewels and gold, and the handles are wrapped in fine leather.

You look back at the woman before you. Tara, she had said. Short, slight, silky brown hair and a wide smile—but her stature belies her. She stands tall and proud as she can, her arms crossed and her eyes focused, legs spread wide and stance powerful. You feel hopelessly out of your depth.

"I'm not sure," you answer. "My father had not seen fit to give me instruction."

Tara's lip twitches. She hums. "That is a shame," she says. "But it will only make your victory all the more sweet."

"So it will be you who I will face?" you ask.

Tara shrugs. "That remains to be seen. His Majesty has yet to make the final decision."

Your mouth opens, and your lips part, tongue sitting heavy. You are not sure what to say, or what to ask, and you cannot help the nervousness that wells in your chest. Will he choose his finest warrior? Perhaps the captain of his guard, or the champion of his army?

Tara tilts her head. Her eyes narrow, and she hums. "Worry not, my lady. We have time. And I am the best. You could not find a better teacher."

"I apologize," you say. "I have a thousand questions, but none seem appropriate."

"There is no need for apology," Tara replies, grinning. "This is all new to you, and there are things you must learn. Do not be afraid to ask. I am here to teach."

You hesitate, but nod. You look around the room, the shelves covered in swords and knives and arrows. "How did you come to serve the King?"

"His Majesty is a kind and generous ruler, though he would not want anyone to know it," Tara says. "He is a skilled warrior, and a wise and gentle man. He saw potential in me when I was young, and has offered me a place at his side."

You blink. "Gentle?"

"His Majesty has a temper," Tara warns, "and a fiery Evol. But he hides a tender heart, and would not let harm come to any of his people. Whether that mean he flatten another nation to a pile of ash or not."

You stare, heart racing. You remember the look in his eye, the spark when you met him. He is a dangerous, powerful man, but his cold, calculating facade cannot hide the kindness Tara sees. Surely not.

Tara snorts, and it is a rough, ugly sound. "You are not the only one who has been surprised by the King's nature. Do not be fooled; he has a rough exterior, certainly, and he does not smile, nor laugh. But he is good."

You hum, your brow furrowing. The King is not the sort of man you would expect to be called kind or gentle. He is rough, and his tone is always stern. But now, Tara and Sazha both seem to speak kindly of him, and you cannot help but feel out of your depth, confused and uncertain. You know so little about your betrothed, truly, and that has never felt quite so apparent as now.

"What will happen if I lose?"

"If you lose?"

"During the trial. If the guard defeats me, or if I lose my nerve."

"The guard will be instructed not to hurt you," Tara assures her. "The King will not allow for that. So do not worry, Princess. You will not be maimed or humiliated."

"What must I do to win?" you ask.

Tara grins and walks across the room, reaching up and picking a blade from the wall. She turns and shows it to you, the blade thin and elegant, the hilt long and covered in a red, patterned leather. Tara turns and points to the center of the room, where a straw dummy is mounted.

"Draw blood," she says, and steps into the center of the room, her boots clicking against the stone. "One clean strike, enough for the moderator to see. Put on a show, then bare his blood." She glances at you and looks you up and down, smiling. "And it should be quick. You are not meant to defeat him, after all. You are simply meant to impress."

"Impress the court," you say.

"And impress His Majesty," Tara adds.

You frown. You look down at the sword, and imagine yourself in front of a crowd of people, all cheering and laughing, watching you humiliate yourself for the sake of tradition.

"A serious wound will not be tolerated, of course," Tara says, walking back towards you. She stops in front of you, and holds the sword up. "A Queen's humility and honor should allow her to show mercy and restraint, and her King's mercy and kindness should reflect upon her."

You take the blade from her, and she smiles.

"It is a formality, as His Majesty said. A way for the court to understand you, and to respect you."

"A silly game," you scoff.

"Tradition," Tara corrects.

You hum. "Is it not cruel?"

"Cruelty is a matter of perspective, Princess," Tara answers. "His Majesty will not let the guard hurt you, and will ensure the strike is not deadly. He will protect you, and his guard will protect him. That is what a King is for, after all."

You purses your lips. The steel is cold and heavy, and the handle is smooth.

"You will do excellently. You will parry his sword for a moment, land a strike, and the court will accept you as His Majesty's bride. It is that simple, Your Highness."

"Right," you murmur, and look at the blade. "That simple."

"It will work well in your favor," Tara assures you. She gestures to the straw man. "You are not meant to win. You are meant to show the court you are a capable warrior, and a good Queen. That is all."

"I understand," you say, gripping the hilt of the blade. "I will do my best."

Tara smiles, nodding. "Now," she says, "where do you think the best places are to aim for a clean strike?"

You look the mannequin over. It has a painted face, its lips a crudely painted red, its eyes empty and hollow. Its head is topped with a wig, and its arms are adorned with gauntlets, a shield in its left hand.

"I would imagine the areas on the body with the thinnest skin," you try. "Certainly not the legs, they have too much fat and muscle. Nor the face."

"Correct," Tara says. "Your throat is vulnerable, obviously, but you would not want to kill him, nor the court."

"Then the forearms or biceps, perhaps?"

Tara smiles. "Very good, Princess," she says. "I have faith you will be ready in no time."

"Will it be a quick fight?"

"Not too quick," Tara says. "Long enough to show off a bit."

You hum and glance at the dummy. It's face is eerie, its eyes empty, and painted smile crooked and unpleasant.

"Now," Tara starts, "let us see how quickly you can strike.”

Your lip twitches. You nod and adjust your stance.

"Good," Tara praises. "Very good."

She turns and grabs a sword, and gestures for you to attack.

"Give it a go, Your Highness."

You nod.

"I will not be easy on you," Tara says. "A real enemy would not be. Give me your best strike."

You adjust your grip. You lift your sword and fix your eyes, and lunge forward, swinging wildly, the way she taught you.

"Do not be afraid, Princess!" Tara shouts, her sword clacking against yours.

You take a breath. You grit your teeth and swing, meeting her strike. The sound is deafening, and it echoes through the hall, metal hitting metal, clattering and clanging.

"Good!" Tara exclaims, and pulls back. "Very good!"

"You are not going easy on me," you grunt.

"And you are not afraid," Tara replies, her smile wide. "Good."

"I will not be made a fool of,” you insist, pulling back.

"That's exactly what I like to hear," Tara says, striking your blade again.

The two exchange blows, your swords clanging and clattering against one another, your strikes strong and swift. You are clumsy, tripping over your own feet and barely managing to block Tara's sword, but your tutor praises her with each strike, her eyes shining.

"That's it, Your Highness," she says, blocking a swipe.

You strike again.

"Yes, good!"

You huff.

"Keep your shoulders down, don't let them slump," Tara orders.

You correct yourself, straightening up with a bit of effort. "Like this."

"Yes, yes, that's perfect, Your Highness."

You grit your teeth. Tara strikes, and your swords clash again. The steel clangs loudly, and the sound rings through the room, echoing off the walls.

"Remember to breathe.”

Tara pulls back, and her smile is bright, her eyes gleaming.

"Correct your posture," she says. "Stand straight. Shoulders back. Feet planted, give yourself a strong base."

"I feel a little foolish," you admit. You have never fought in your life, but if your tutor is to be believed, you are doing rather well.

"You are learning," Tara says. "There is nothing to be ashamed of."

Tara lunges, and swings her sword, the sound echoing through the hall.

Your heart beats loudly in your ears, body moving on its own. You parry, striking and blocking and clashing, your blades ringing out loudly.

Tara smiles. She pulls back, and swings her sword again, and you stumble backward, foot slipping. You squeak as you fall, and land hard on your rear, sword clattering to the ground beside your tutor’s feet.

Tara laughs, her shoulders shaking.

"Are you alright, Your Highness?"

"I'm fine," you snap, and push yourself up, dusting your hands off. "This is never going to work. I'm not meant for a sword, or fighting, or any of this. I'll make a fool of myself in front of the entire court."

Tara's smile fades. "Nonsense," she says. "You will do wonderfully."

You shake your head and sigh.

Tara walks over and takes your hand. She places the blade in your palm and closes her fingers around the hilt, smiling softly.

"Trust me, Your Highness," she whispers. "You are not a fool. You are a stranger in a foreign land, and you are afraid."

You swallow thickly, brow furrowed. "I am not afraid. Not of the King, and not of his court."

"I did not imply that you feared him," Tara says, tilting her head. Her eyes flash, her green irises reflecting the firelight. "You are afraid of disappointing him. You fear his rejection. Do you not?"

You open your mouth, and it hangs there, silent and useless. Tara is right. You want his approval. His attention. You have not known him long, and yet the thought of his rejection fills you with dread.

"It is only natural," Tara assures you. "You are a young girl, and he is a very powerful man. It is only natural to want his affection."

You clench your teeth. "I do not need his affection. I need his signature. Our union is political, nothing more. He does not care for me, and he will not."

Tara sighs. She squeezes your hand and nods, stepping back.

"Again."

Chapter Text

On the morning of the arrival of the noblemen, the castle is aflutter with servants. The floors are polished, the rugs are beaten, the tapestries are cleaned, and the furniture is dusted. Everything is bright and sparkling, and the entire palace smells like lavender and citrus.

Sazha sits you down before the vanity and combs your hair, humming under her breath as she braids and twists. You read as your hair is braided, flipping through a phrasebook of the northern language anxiously, trying to memorize a few key words before you embarrass yourself in front of the King's guests. You repeat the words over and over, and Sazha corrects your pronunciation patiently as she works.

"It is beautiful, is it not?" Sazha asks, looking up and smiling. "The way your hair shines. Like silver."

You look up and meet her gaze in the mirror. "Thank you," you reply. "Though I have always wished for darker hair, like yours."

Sazha chuckles, her eyes sparkling. She looks down at the comb, her fingers moving deftly, twisting and braiding, pinning and combing. "I think it is lovely. Of the moon."

You smile faintly. "Of the Great Ice," you recall.

Sazha laughs and takes your face in her hands, turning you this way and that, studying you closely. "And look at that. You match my lord, don't you? A beautiful couple. A sign of fate."

"Oh, don't be silly," you scold, cheeks flushing.

"I speak only the truth, Your Highness," Sazha says, and steps back. She walks around and places her hands on your shoulders, smiling down at you. "He will not be able to resist."

"Sazha," you chide.

"I have known him for a long time, my lady," Sazha murmurs. "And I know when he is intrigued. I have never seen him look so."

You scoff, but can't help the little burst of hope that springs up inside you. "That is ridiculous. I hardly think he likes me at all."

Sazha's hands stop. She tilts her head. "What would make you think such a thing?"

You shrug, looking down at your fingers. Slender and pale, nails perfectly manicured and trimmed. You play with the hem of her nightgown. "He does not seem interested in speaking to me," she says. "He hardly dares to look at me."

Sazha shakes her head. "I have been his closest companion since he was a baby, and I still do not ever hear him laugh." She leans down and whispers, conspiratorially: "I think he is shy, my dear."

You blink. "Shy?"

"He has his mother's temper, and his father's pride," Sazha explains, walking back around the vanity and picking up a vial. She sprinkles the sweet-smelling powder into her hands and fans the air. "I have never known him to be soft. And here is a pretty girl, suddenly in his home, and he is unsure what to do."

You roll your eyes. "The King does not like anyone."

"Oh, that's not true," Sazha says. "He likes his guards. Luke and Kieran, especially. And his bird."

"His bird," you echo.

Sazha snickers. "Do not tell him I told you, but he has a pet, of sorts. A little crow, with the blackest feathers. He feeds it from his hand and lets it sit on his shoulder, and talks to it, sometimes. He thinks no one knows. He thinks he looks rather intimidating."

"And does he?"

"Oh, not at all. He has a soft spot for that bird. He calls it Mephisto. It is a clever little thing, as well. Steals food from the kitchens for His Majesty, spies on the staff, and brings back shiny little gifts. Sleeps in the King's chambers, as well."

You laugh into your hand. The very thought of the great Black Dragon, sitting cross-legged on the floor and petting his little bird makes you want to laugh even harder. It is absurd, and almost unbelievable, but Sazha has no reason to lie to you, and there is a mischievous glint in her eyes that convinces you.

"That is… rather charming."

Sazha laughs. "Indeed, it is," she agrees. She pats your shoulders. "Come. Stand. We will have you dressed and ready to greet the nobles, and we will worry about your betrothed at another time."

You nod, and follow the maid, eyes fixed ahead. You wonder what the nobles will think of you, if they will whisper and gossip about you, or if they will praise you. If they will laugh at your accent or pale skin.

When Sazha presents you with a pair of fleece-lined pants, you still, eyes wide and expression slack.

"What is this?" you ask, reaching out to touch the fabric.

"Your clothing, Your Highness."

"But... that is indecent."

Sazha raises a brow. "Is it?"

"These are the garments of a man."

Sazha hums and sets them on the bed. "They are practical," she says. "And very respectable for a warrior. And if you wish to keep your footing in the duel, you would be wise not to trip over your skirts."

You frown, your lips pursed and brow furrowed. "They will not laugh at me?"

Sazha offers a small, reassuring smile. "Certainly not, Your Highness. Women should always wear pants when they fight. There is nothing peculiar about that."

You bite your lip and take the pants, running your fingers over the soft fabric. It is thick and sturdy, and the inside is lined with a thick, warm fur.

"Do not let them see you frightened, Princess," Sazha advises.

"I am not frightened," you argue, though you sound far too defensive for it to be believable. You pull on the pants to emphasize your point, and they hug your legs perfectly, the waistband snug around your middle. Sazha offers you a bra, and a black top with long sleeves, the fabric soft and flexible.

"Good," Sazha praises. "You look like a proper warrior."

"A proper warrior," you repeat, and frown. "I feel foolish."

"Do not," Sazha warns. She offers you a pair of tall boots, the soles made of a thick, brown leather. They have a short heel and the insides are lined with fur.

You look up and glance in the mirror. Your hair is tied back, face flushed. The pants hug your curves in all the right places, and the boots make you look taller. Your figure is accentuated, and you can't help but admire the way the shirt hugs your flat stomach and thin waist, and the way the pants are cuffed just above the ankles, exposing the fur lining the boots.

You look strong, and confident. It is not what you expected.

But you look beautiful, too.

"Will the court find it vulgar?" you ask, turning to look at the maid.

"Of course not," Sazha says, laughing. "How can a woman be a warrior if she is not dressed appropriately?"

She steps back and looks you over, and hums, satisfied.

"Lovely," Sazha says. "Now, the court will be waiting for you, surely."

"Yes," you agree, nodding. "Thank you, Sazha."

She bows. "Your Highness."

"Remember, Your Highness," Sazha reminds you. "Do not show them fear."

"I will remember."

"Very well," Sazha says. "Now go on, the King is expecting you."

You hesitate, palms sweating. You wipe your hands on your pants, and go to the door, chest held high.

You step into the hallway and close the door behind you, finding yourself instantly flanked by two guards. They both bow, and one smiles, his teeth a bright white. They escort you through the hallways to the ballroom, the castle full of noise. Servants run about, carrying trays and boxes and bundles of fabrics, their feet pounding on the marble floors.

The guards stop at the large wooden doors and knock twice. One pulls the door open and bows, and gestures for you to enter.

The room is full of people, and your footsteps are drowned out by the sound of chattering voices and laughter. The nobles are milling about, drinking wine and eating fruits and breads, their conversations a blur of noise in quick words you cannot understand.

It's not hard to spot King Sylus towering above the crowd. He stands by the window, arms crossed, posture perfect and back straight. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. His hair falls over his eyes, his face stern and severe. His red dress shirt is form-fitting, hugging his muscles and broad shoulders, pants tucked into his boots, and a black jacket hangs from his shoulders. His hands rest in his pockets, his posture relaxed.

You can't help but stare, admiring his height and figure. You wonder if he could lift you with one arm, and if his skin is as soft as it looks. If his hand would dwarf yours as your fingers interlock.

You hold your breath as you make your way toward him, the crowd parting before you. A few people stop and stare, their expressions curious and intrigued. You don't know if it's your appearance or the way the guards move so closely beside you, but their eyes seem to follow you every move.

His amber eyes fix on you as you approach, and his brow furrows, his gaze sweeping you from head to toe. His jaw is tight, and his expression is unreadable. You feel hot under his scrutiny, and your face is flushed as you finally stand before him.

"My King," you greet, and curtsy, dipping low and keeping your eyes downcast.

He stares at you for a long moment, his gaze boring into you. He looks down your form and back up again, his eyes lingering.

"Princess," he says finally, his voice deep and smooth. He speaks with a note of hesitance that sounds foreign to his tongue. "You look well."

You look up and meet his eyes, and feel your breath catch. His right eye glows just slightly, the fiery red blown wide, and pupil a dark slit. He blinks, and his iris shifts back, the glow fading.

You swallow hard. "You look very handsome yourself, Majesty."

"Tch," he scoffs, looking away. "Of course I do."

You laugh quietly and tuck your hair behind your ear. His arrogance is almost charming.

You look him over once again, admiring the way his white hair hangs over his eyes, his high cheekbones and curved nose, his broad shoulders and tall figure. He is a vision of royalty, his very being commanding attention. The Royal Seal shines on his chest, the polished silver glinting in the light. A thin silver chain dips under his shirt, out of sight.

His red eyes flick to you. "Have you never seen a man before, or is this just some southern custom I am unaware of?"

Your cheeks flush, and you scoff, looking away.

"I am very aware of how I look," he goes on, "but most try for some version of subtlety, Princess. Have you never heard of such a thing?"

You cross your arms and purse your lips. You say nothing, and simply glare at him. He huffs an approximation of a laugh and squares his shoulders.

"Well?"

"Well what?" you reply, raising a brow.

"Did I pass muster, then?" he asks. "Will you find me adequate?"

You huff and roll your eyes. "If it is a matter of 'adequacy' for my hand, then yes. I suppose."

Sylus hums and tilts his head, a smirk on his lips. "A shame. I would hope to be found at least moderately pleasing."

You turn your head and press your lips together, trying to hide your smile.

"It is a good look on you, though," Sylus admits, his eyes raking down your form.

Your skin prickles with goosebumps. "Sazha and Tara told me it would be proper. To dress this way for the duel. That I might avoid tripping over my skirts and embarrassing you."

"They were correct," King Sylus replies, his eyes roaming over you once more.

"I feel a bit ridiculous, admittedly," you say.

"You should not," he says, looking up over the crowd. "Between us, Your Highness, it suits you to look dangerous."

"To look like a warrior," you say.

"Mmm."

The conversation lulls, and the silence between you is almost comfortable. You lean back against the window frame, and watch the crowds, the people mingling and speaking in hushed whispers, their eyes occasionally flicking to the two of you.

"What do they say about me?" you ask.

Sylus scoffs, and the corner of his mouth turns up. "Most are curious," he says. "A few are jealous. None are unkind. You have done well thus far. They are anticipating the duel. Myself included."

You furrow your brow and cross your arms. "You want me to lose."

"No, I want you to win," he says, looking down. His eyes glitter, a wicked glint in them. "But the odds are certainly stacked in the favor of my guard. And I would hate for him to humiliate you in front of the entire court."

You scowl. You open your mouth to reply, but a Kingsguard appears at Sylus' side and whispers something in his ear, and one side of his mouth quirks up. He looks at you and tilts his head with a mischievous look in his eye.

"I suppose we shall see."

"If I may have your attention," he announces.

The room hushes, and he bows his head to the King, the guests turning to stare. There is a murmur of excitement and anticipation, and the doors on the opposite side of the hall open.

You feel a shiver down your spine, your hands clenching into fists, and you straighten your back to stand tall. You will not cower.

From beside you, Tara appears, and takes your wrist, her fingers gentle but firm. She bows her head to the King, who does not acknowledge her, and leads you away from his side, along the ballroom walls out of sight as the guard announces the trial, his voice ringing.

The crowd of courtiers cheers and hoots, and you slip away through a side door, stomach flipping and heart pounding.

"Come, Your Highness," Tara whispers, and pulls you along. You slip away, and back in the ballroom, you hear the sound of the courtiers migrating outside, out the doors and to the training grounds, the air buzzing with their excitement.

The training grounds are empty when you approach, the snow freshly-powdered and undisturbed. Tara leads you to one end of the training grounds, closest to the stone castle walls, the grand towering structure shielding your skin from the harsh wind.

Tara kneels before you and helps you step into new leather boots, buckling them firmly at your ankles and tightening the straps as far as they'll go. She squeezes the material of your fleece pants into the calves of the boots, and ties kneepads onto your legs securely.

"Do not be nervous," Tara murmurs, her hands steady. "You have trained for this. You know how to perform."

"I am not nervous," you deny, and it's not a lie. You are not nervous. Your heart pounds and your blood rushes, but it is not fear. It is a sense of purpose, and your entire body is filled with a need for action, for movement, for a release. You have worked hard for this, and will prove yourself. They will accept you, you will be married, and your future will be secure. All it will take is a show duel, a bit of blood and sweat, and you will have won the King's hand.

Tara smiles, her eyes sparkling, and stands as the noblemen file into the training grounds, chatting idly as they take their places on the benches: some sitting, some standing at the edges of the grounds, peering across the yard. They're dressed in fine, expensive fabrics, their cloaks heavy and long and trimmed with fur, bundled up tight for the cold. Some are wearing hats and gloves, and the ones sitting are clutching cups of mulled wine, steaming in the frigid air.

You look back at Tara as she holds out a jacket toward you, and you pauses. Scaled dragonleather lined with fox fur, with a collar of red velvet and brass buttons. It's thick and heavy and sturdy, and the lining is soft. You pull it over your arms and wraps it tightly, the leather stiff and creaking. It is warm and comfortable, and fits snugly at your waist.

You can see the King's shadow approaching the yard, his cloak billowing out behind him, his broad shoulders straight and his gait purposeful. His hands are clasped behind his back, his posture proud, his chin lifted. The crowd parts for him as he passes, the noblemen dipping their heads and the ladies bowing, the guards saluting.

You force yourself to look away.

You pulls your hair out from the neckline of the coat, and let the long, white locks and their braids fall loose down your back.

"You look very regal," Tara says, her smile warm.

"Thank you, Tara," you whisper. You feel strange. This coat, her outfit, the way the court watches you. Your skin prickles. "For once, I believe I feel it."

Tara nods. "Do not forget it, Your Highness."

"Never," you vow.

She offers you a long, thin sword, double-edged with a leather-wrapped hilt and silver inlays. A beautiful piece, clearly made to impress. Elegant and decorative, were it not for the razor-sharp edges. You take the blade and test the weight in your palm. It's a heavier blade than you are accustomed to, and y ou wonder if that was intentional.

You smile. You spin the blade in your hand and give it a few experimental swings, adjusting your stance to compensate for the weight, getting a feel for the metal, the length, the way it moves. It's not ideal, but you can adjust. You know you can. It is only for show.

You look up as heavy footsteps approach, expecting the King, and instead meeting the dark eyes of Kieran.

Perhaps he would be intimidating were it not for the round face and wide, toothy smile, his eyes sparkling. He bows his head and grins.

"Good morning, Your Highness," he says.

You incline your head. "Kieran."

"May I have a look at your sword, Princess?" he asks.

You hold out the weapon, and the guard examines it carefully, twisting the blade in his hands and giving it a few testing swings. He holds the hilt, his fingers wrapped around the leather, and he looks you in the eye.

"Do you feel comfortable with the weight?"

You nod.

He returns the sword, and his smile is bright. "I am sure you are familiar with the rules, Princess?"

"I am, sir."

"Excellent. I will be the final judge of the match, and should anything happen, I will intervene. Though I do not imagine that should be an issue."

Tara clears her throat. "Captain, I was under the impression that you would be Her Highness's opponent, yourself," she says, "as you are the master at arms. Has there been a change to the proceedings?"

You swallow hard and look at Tara. You are not sure whether you are relieved not to have to fight Kieran, or terrified to face whoever King Sylus has determined as his best fighter.

The guard just smiles. "I apologize, Your Highness. I will not be your opponent."

You nod, murmuring, "That is a relief."

His laugh is loud and boisterous. "Do not be so sure. His Majesty has replaced me with only his best."

You blink, your heart a wild drumbeat in your chest. You glance around, gaze darting over the crowd, but the King is nowhere to be seen.

"His best," you echo, voice faltering as unease settles in your stomach. You look at Tara, her expression twisted in confusion. "Who is my opponent, then, if not yourself?"

The guard's grin widens as he straightens to his full, imposing height. Slowly, deliberately, he steps aside, his heavy boots crunching against the gravel. He bows low, his eyes sparkling with mischief, and gestures grandly.

And there, at the far end of the field, adjusting his gloves lazily with a silver blade strapped at his hip, is King Sylus himself.

His expression is bored, his posture slouched, one hand on his hip, the other hanging loosely at his side. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him.

"Kieran," Tara hisses, "this is unorthodox!"

The guard just shrugs, looking down the length of the grounds and nodding at the King. "It is what His Majesty wishes," he says. "He insisted."

You watch the King as he finishes fastening his gloves, and grip the hilt of your sword tighter. "Tara, I cannot possibly win this," you say, voice strained. "What do I do?"

You turn to watch King Sylus leisurely slipping off his black cloak and tossing it aside. Beneath, he is wearing a sleeveless black shirt, and the muscles of his shoulders and arms are clearly defined even from across the yard. The silver pommel of his sword is embedded with a shining red firestone, the metal and stone reflecting the dull sunlight. He pulls on his own heavy, black dragonscale jacket, and buckles the straps across his broad chest, pulling them tight like a harness. He stretches his arms, his muscles flexing, and adjusts his gloves once more.

He toys with the hilt of his blade, unhurried, as if without a care in the world. He does not even look at you.

It dawns on you at that very moment that Sylus does not intend to play along with the ceremony of the show-trial. He does not mean to make a spectacle to satisfy the court, to go easy on you. This is no show duel. This is an ambush. A true challenge.

He is going to beat you.

"Is this allowed?" you question, eyes fixed on Sylus across the field. "What is he doing?"

"It is unheard of," Tara says. She sounds as nervous as you feel.

"But it is not like I could deny a King," Kieran says.

"You will be fine, Your Highness," Tara says quickly, turning her face away from the guard and lowering her voice. She adjusts your collar and fixes your jacket, tugging the cuffs of your gloves. "Do not let him intimidate you."

"How can I not?" you breathe. You cannot take your eyes off of the King. His expression is impassive, but there is a fire in his eyes. He means to humiliate you, and you fear he will succeed. "Look at him, Tara."

Tara glances at him, her eyes narrowing. She huffs and mutters something under her breath, and her expression darkens.

"If you want him to take you seriously," she hisses, her eyes snapping to yours, "then you must first demand that respect. Show him you will not back down from his threat. Do not allow him the satisfaction. It is a test, and one you must pass."

"It is not a test, he will embarrass me and we both know it," you retort.

"Then show him the consequences of that behavior," Tara says, meeting your eyes with ferocity. "You will be Queen one day, and he must learn that you will not be pushed around. King Onychinus does not want a silent bride. He wants an equal. Someone he can be proud of. Prove to him that you intend to be her."

You swallow hard. You look across the grounds and lock eyes with Sylus. His arms are crossed across his broad chest, face impassive. He tilts his head, and stares you down, eyes narrowed. He looks bored. Annoyed.

He wants you to back down. He wants to prove that he is better than you. That he does not have to pretend to be kind, or courteous, or tolerant. He does not need to humor you. If you cannot fight him, then what good are you?

Your heart pounds in your chest. You grip your sword tightly and straighten your back. The wind whips your hair, and you meet the King's glare, raising your chin defiantly. If he thinks you will cower from his burning gaze alone, he is sorely mistaken.

You grip your sword tight and nod, stepping out into the ring. Your boots crunch on the gravel, and the King's gaze follow you. His eyes light with surprise, and you can't help but feel a spark of pride at his obvious shock. You will not be cowed.

You hold your head high as you approach the center of the field. The King murmurs something to Luke, beside him, who lets out a loud bark of a laugh, and the King's eyes flick to yours.

Sylus takes a step toward the center of the grounds, and the nobles' chattering falls to a low, expectant hush. When you meet in the middle, the air is tense and quiet, the tension thick between you.

You stand tall, and look up at the King. His gaze is cold, his stare hard and severe. He says nothing, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, staring you down. His eyes linger on yours, and for a long moment, you wonder if he expects you to speak first.

"Well, Your Highness?" His voice is low and smooth.

You offer him an innocent, sweet smile, tilting your head. "Would you like me to kneel for you, My King?"

The King's eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches. You can see his pulse throbbing in his neck. His right eye blazes, glowing bright and flickering like an ember.

"You are to fight until first blood," Kieran announces, his voice booming. "If either side yields, or I intervene, the match is called. Are we understood?"

You glance at the King. "Understood."

Sylus says nothing. He merely draws his blade and gives it a flourish. You dip into a curtsy, keeping your eyes locked on him.

"Good luck, Majesty," you say.

"Tch," Sylus scoffs. His lip curls up in something that might be a smirk, but the look in his eye is dangerous. "I do not need luck."

You draw your sword, and raise it in time to block a blow from above. The King strikes with speed and precision, his blade clashing loudly against yours. The force of his strike vibrates up your arm and into your shoulder, and you grit your teeth.

You duck and stumble backwards, heart leaping, and swing your blade, catching his with a screech. The crowd bursts into a cacophony of excited shouts and hoots. You can barely hear the noise over the blood rushing in your ears.

Sylus swings again, his blade flashing in the pale sunlight, and you parry the blow. Your teeth grind together and your muscles strain, the force of the strike almost sending you reeling.

The King's lips press together, and he twists his blade, forcing you to disengage and sidestep away. The air is cold and the wind is bitter, but you feel hot, breath coming hard and fast, heart pounding. You spin your blade and readjust your grip, and King Sylus lunges again, his sword slamming down and striking yours. You grunt and stagger, arms shuddering, but do not yield.

The King's eyes narrow.

The court roars with cheers, and your skin buzzes with adrenaline. Your muscles are screaming, the weight of the sword in your palm almost too much, and the King's strength and skill is formidable. His blows are quick and precise, each strike a calculated attack. You parry the blows, but barely. Your feet shift over the gravel, the ground beneath uneven and icy. You slip, and the King takes the opening to strike.

You yelp and stumble back, and Sylus follows through. You raise your blade, but he slams his into it with all his might, and sends it flying from your hands. The force of the impact vibrates through your arm and sends pain shooting up to your elbow, and the sword clatters onto the gravel.

You fall to the ground with a grunt, breath coming hot and ragged. You roll onto your back and your heart thunders as you reach for your sword across the frozen earth, covering yourself in gravel. The crowd cheers wildly, and Sylus' boots crunch as he strides toward you.

You roll onto your back and bring your sword up just in time, the sound of clashing blades ringing in your ears. Sylus' blade is locked against yours, and his eyes burn into you. You shove his blade away and swing out your leg, catching his ankle and knocking him off balance. He stumbles, his boots scraping across the gravel, and you spring to your feet. The crowd roars as you catch your footing and swing again.

Sylus parries your strike and slams his blade against yours. You stagger, hissing as your boot catches on a patch of ice. The King lunges, and you dodge, your blade catching his with a metallic shriek. You parry him away, and the crowd erupts in cheers.

Sylus swings his blade and forces you backwards, and the sound of clashing blades echoes around the courtyard. The cold bites at your skin and the wind howls, and you struggle to keep your footing as the King drives you backwards. You duck and stumble away, and the King lunges. The blood drums in your ears, and pain shoots up your arms as you block his attack once more, the force of his strength making your hands shake.

You're close. Too close. You can feel his heat, his breath. You cannot parry at this distance, not quickly enough. You stumble and fall back, your boots sliding, and the King presses his advantage.

King Sylus jerks away and parries, twisting your blade and locking it with his. You struggle, your arms trembling. Your heart drops to your stomach as his sword pushes down on yours, and you're locked in a standstill, blades crossed.

His face is so close to yours. His amber eyes bore into you, his right iris ablaze with a sharp red glow. His face is stoic, brow furrowed. There is no trace of emotion. Not a single semblance of the exhaustion that seems to emanate off of you in waves. He hasn't even broken a sweat.

He's not even trying.

The realization hits you like a slap. Sylus is not even trying.

You're panting and gasping, your limbs shaking and sore, every muscle strained, and the King does not even appear out of breath.

He's playing with you.

It only serves to anger you more.

You snarl and shove him away, breaking the lock, and he steps back. He looks surprised, and a tiny, smug grin tugs at the corner of his lips.

You grit your teeth, and the crowd is roaring, but their cheers are nothing but a dull hum. The cold wind and the snow are forgotten, and the only thing you can feel is your own pulse, and the rage boiling inside of you.

This time, it is you who strikes first.

You lunge, and the King raises his blade. You strike again, and he blocks the blow, the force of the clash rattling up your arms. The crowd is screaming and shouting, and King Sylus meets your gaze. You swing again, and he parries, and once more, the sound of your blades colliding is sharp and ringing. His eyes dance with amusement as he pushes you back.

"Tired yet?" Deep, smooth, like the rumble of distant thunder.

He's enjoying this.

You growl and swing, the edge of your blade clashing against his. His blade moves so quickly it's a blur, and his eyes gleam. He forces you backward, and the edge of his sword catches yours.

A metallic shriek fills the air as your blades catch, and your heel slips on the ice. The world tilts, and the ground rushes up to meet you.

Your sword falls from your hand and clatters to the ground, and you slam into the frozen earth with a gasp. The taste of dust and ice is heavy on your tongue. The King's shadow falls over you, his sword pointed squarely at your chest, the tip gleaming. You lie flat on your back, panting, and look up the length of the blade to its owner. Sylus' face is impassive.

The sight of him above you, the sunlight glinting off the edge of his blade, his chest rising and falling evenly, is almost enough to make you forget the ache in your muscles, the burning in your lungs. A spark ignites in your core at the look in his glowing eye.

You can't stop smiling, your breath coming fast and hard, heart thumping. You let out a shaky laugh, and the King's eyebrow quirks.

"Do you yield, Princess?" he asks, voice smooth.

Snowflakes begin to fall gently around him, catching in his hair, and on his shoulders. They melt on his heated skin, and trickle down the edges of his jacket.

Your lips part. You look into his eyes, the amber glowing and flickering, the red a blazing flame. You let out a soft giggle, your stomach fluttering. You do not know why, only that you feel lightheaded and warm, and you have never felt more alive. You grin up at him, eyes glinting like shattered glass. Your chest still heaves, your limbs still tremble, but your voice—your voice—when it comes, is soft and honeyed as a sweet southern wine.

"Can you make me, Sylus?"

It is bold and reckless, calling him by his name. But you do not care. Your skin buzzes and your head spins with exhilaration.

His impassive expression falters, just for a moment, his brow creasing and his eyes widening, the slightest, most infinitesimal flicker of surprise. The sight of his shock is enough to make the fire in your belly burn hotter, and your heart beat faster.

You smile and let out a laugh as you swing your leg and slam your boot into his knee. His leg buckles, and the crowd roars and laughs as he falls to the ground beside you.

You scramble for your blade and grab the hilt, and in one fluid movement, you roll onto your knees, swinging one leg over his waist and straddling his hips, your knees pinning his arms down to the ground. The court's laughter is deafening, their cheers thunderous. You can hardly breathe, you can hardly see, the adrenaline coursing through your veins like wildfire. Your vision narrows, and all you can focus on is the King's wide eyes, his parted lips, his expression of pure shock.

You pin him down hard against the frozen earth, and hold the edge of your blade to his throat. The courtyard goes silent with anticipation, the nobles' laughter dying down as they wait with bated breath.

The King lies there, his back on the frozen earth, his eyes wide. His hair is mussed, and his jacket is stained with dirt and mud, his cheek smeared with dust. Your white hair falls over your shoulder, curtaining your face from the scrutiny of the audience, the wind howling and carrying the snowflakes around you.

You let your smirk deepen, leaning down until your warm breath brushes his skin, your blade grazing his neck.

With deliberate grace, your hand slides up his forearm to his bicep, where your fingers curl around his cold, silver armband. His crown, the symbol of his reign. You pull the metal free, and slip it up over your own bicep. The firestone winks in the dull light, the silver gleaming around your arm.

The whole court seems to hold its breath.

You look back up into the King's eyes, sharp, unyielding, claiming not only victory, but something far sweeter. His crown, his rule, his pride.

"It looks better here," you whisper. Your voice comes out low, sultry, laced with something dark you didn't know yourself capable of. The King's eye glows and flickers, and his throat bobs. It is all you can do to resist the urge to bite him. "Don't you think?"

You delicately press your blade into his throat, and a bead of blood blossoms on his skin, rolling down his neck to the cold earth.

The silence is deafening.

And then, the crowd goes wild.

"First blood!" Kieran booms. "To the Princess!"

You can't help the burst of laughter that escapes you. You drop your sword and roll off the King's waist, landing back-down in the gravel and wheezing with breathless, joyous laughter. You clutch your sides, cackling like a madwoman.

The King pushes himself upright and rubs his neck, his thumb coming away with a smear of red. He glances at you in his periphery, and you swear you can see the barest hint of pink crown the tips of his ears as he looks upon you.

King Sylus shakes his head and rises to his feet, brushing the gravel and dirt from his jacket. He sheathes his sword and wipes the blood from his neck, and you watch the snow fall around him, flecks of white fluttering and melting into his hair.

He looks down, and his eyes meet yours.

He is a vision. Dark and cold and powerful, standing there, the snow swirling around him, a halo of white surrounding him. The white of his hair blending into the snow, his skin flushed with the chill and amber eyes blazing. His breath comes out in clouds, and the blood on his neck glitters in the pale sunlight.

Your laughter dies, and the two of you just stare at one another. You don't know what it is, only that something is different now, a shift in the air, in the space between you.

He sheathes his saber and offers his hand, and the court cheers, the noise deafening. You take his hand, and he hauls you onto your feet. His hand dwarfs yours. You wobble as you stand, and he catches you, his other hand going to your hip, his touch firm and warm. He twines his fingers with yours, and you crane your neck to meet his eyes.

You stare up at him, breathless, and for the briefest, sweetest moment, everything seems to fall away. The world melts around you, and the only thing you can focus on is the warmth of his hands, and the heat radiating from him, his scent like pine and smoke. You want nothing more than to reach up and brush the snow from his hair, and to wipe the blood from his neck.

But he seems to realize right then what he is doing, and the world comes crashing back. He slips his hand out of yours and takes a step back, and the crowd is screaming, but all you can hear is the blood drumming in your ears.

He clears his throat and looks away. "Well done."

You resist the urge to reach out and take his hand again, to feel the heat of his fingers entwined in yours. You never knew quite how desperately you craved his touch until now.

"Thank you, My King," you breathe, the words falling from your lips like a prayer.

He meets your gaze, his eye searching yours. His jaw tightens. "That was clever. Underhanded, but clever." His gaze drifts over you. "I am… impressed."

A flush of pleasure washes over you, and your stomach flutters. He's proud of you.

He brushes past you, then, his shoulder bumping yours, his hand coming up to your bicep and holding you firmly. He slips his armband from your arm and takes it back, returning it to its rightful place.

"Victory," he murmurs as he slides it back on. His head dips to yours, and his breath ghosts across the shell of your ear. "It looks good on you."

He walks away, and heat floods your face.

Tara rushes to you from the sidelines, eyes sparkling. "Princess, that was incredible!" she exclaims. "You stole the Royal Crest right from his arm! What were you thinking?"

Your stomach twists. "I…" It dawns on you at that very moment what you've done. You called him by his name, you stole the symbol of his reign, humiliated him in front of his court, his guards, his kingdom.

And wore his crown as a show of victory.

"Oh, sweet saints and lords," you mutter, your face burning. "He must be furious with me. Tara, I should not have—"

Tara bursts out in a fit of giggles, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the sound. "Princess, did you see his face?"

You did. You saw it very clearly.

"You straddled the King himself and claimed his crown, and he let you!" she laughs. "For once, the great King Sylus was struck speechless." Tara nudges you with her elbow, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. "He enjoyed it."

Your heart skips a beat and heat floods your cheeks. You recall the feeling of his hand on your waist, his breath on your neck, the way he held your hand and pulled you close. The way his pupils dilated, his breathing growing heavy.

"That is ridiculous," you murmur, but you don't quite believe the words as they leave your lips.

"Princess," Tara says, a knowing look in her eyes. "I know the look of a wanting man when I see it. You have his attention."

Your cheeks burn. Your gaze drifts through the crowd as he strides away, leaning down to whisper to Luke as he goes.

"Attention," you murmur. "What a curious thought."

Chapter Text

The hearth’s fire crackles warmly, its glow casting heat that seeps into your legs. You welcomes the respite from the cold winter breeze. You rest your chin in your hand, watching the world soften under the steady fall of snow. Outside, the city blurs into a dark, muted smear beyond the glass.

You've always cherished the first snow of the season—the crispness in the air, the sharp bite of cold that freezes the earth and cracks the ground beneath. Trees bow heavy with ice, and the wind cuts with a sudden, fierce chill. There is a quiet beauty to it all. The stillness is calm.

Now, thick flurries blanket the courtyard, burying the grass beneath an endless stretch of white that reaches beyond the castle gates.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Sazha murmurs softly.

You turn to her and smile. "It is. We do not have winters nearly this beautiful where I am from. Everything is brown and dry, and the wind is sharp. The snow is not quite so soft."

Sazha chuckles. "I could not imagine, living somewhere so far from the polar night." She takes a sip of her tea, and you mirror the motion. "The cold is in my blood."

You smile and wrap your fingers around the teacup. It's hot against your skin, and you inhale the sweet, warm scent. "The northerners seem to love it dearly."

"Oh, we do. The winter is harsh, but the land is beautiful, and the people are hardy. His Majesty so adores the cold."

Your chest tightens thinking of King Sylus surrounded by the flurries of snow. The sight of him there, above you, snowflakes caught in his hair, is a sight that will be burned into your memory for all time.

Sazha finishes pinning your hair up neatly and steps back, surveying her work. "There you are. Much better. His Majesty gave you quite the beating."

"He did," you laugh. "It was thrilling."

"The fight was not the only thing that left a mark on you, I think," Sazha says, a grin tugging at her lips. "Your face is quite red."

Your cheeks warm and you shake your head. "It is not."

"It is, My Lady." She leans down and tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "The King seems to have an effect on you."

You huff and cross your arms, and she laughs.

"Do not worry, Princess," Sazha says. "I shall keep your secret."

You turn to watch as she goes to rummage through your wardrobe. Relief blooms as Sazha returns with a long black silk dress and a collection of rich red scarves and sashes. You slip into the gown; the cool silk glides over your skin as Sazha buttons and ties the back with practiced hands. A deep scarlet sash drapes across your chest and another cinches at your waist, bold against the dark fabric.

Sazha offers thin silver heels and a necklace, and you accept, sliding the heels on and fastening the ruby-studded choker around your throat. The jewels gleam starkly against your pale skin.

Turning to face the mirror, you exhale sharply. Yuevery bit the princess again: hair swept up and pinned, clothes spotless and elegant. The fierce warrior—the girl who fell to the earth with sword pressed to throat—feels far away, but perhaps not so unwelcome as she thought.

Sazha beams, reaching out to touch your cheek. “Lovely,” she says warmly. “Come, you have earned your dinner.”

You nod and follow Sazha out of your chambers, your footsteps echoing sharply against the marble floors. The King’s words linger in your mind—Victory. It looks good on you, Princess. You bite your lip and look down, toying with the red gemstones around your throat.

As you step into the dining hall, all eyes turn to you.

A flush rises to your cheeks; warmth prickles across your skin. It’s an unfamiliar sensation. You're accustomed to the gaze of the court—you are a princess, after all—but this is different. Now, their gazes hold curiosity, amusement, and perhaps even awe.

They accept you.

King Sylus looks up from his place at the end of the table. His brow raises, and his eyes drift over you, taking you in. He is dressed in a new, pristine black coat and trousers, his hair swept neatly back. He looks more like a King than ever.

His gaze drops to your neck, and you swallow against your tight choker. His eyes flick back up to yours, and the corner of his lip twitches.

Your father sits beside him, to his right, and you take your seat to the King's left. The chatter around the room picks up again, and you take a deep breath.

A servant lays a plate in front of you, piled high with fruit and pastries. A pitcher of wine is set beside you, and you eagerly fill your cup. The scent of the sweet liquor makes your stomach rumble, and your fingers close around the goblet's stem.

"That was quite a display," your father begins gruffly.

You swallow hard as you look up to meet his eyes. He is displeased—that much is blatantly clear.

"Thank you, father."

"Do not thank me," he scoffs. "It would appear my opinion matters little to you."

Your grip on the wine cup tightens. You stare at your reflection in the deep red liquid.

"Please forgive me, Father," you say carefully.

"You have made a spectacle of yourself, child," your father goes on, voice stony and cold. "This is not how I raised you. I did not send you here to make a fool of yourself."

"I am sure we do not know what you mean, King Oren," Sylus interrupts smoothly.

"I am certain you do, Your Majesty," he replies. "You would have my daughter fight in the mud like a commoner."

The King takes a drink from his glass and sets it down gently, his gaze level. "She performed well."

"And to challenge her yourself," your father goes on, as though the King hadn't spoken at all. "Have you no shame, Your Majesty?"

A tense silence settles over the table once more, like frost creeping over glass. The courtiers fall quiet again, pretending to busy themselves with their wine, their eyes flickering between the two kings.

King Sylus does not flinch. He sets his goblet aside with deliberate calm, folding his hands atop the table. “My only shame is in not inviting your daughter to spar sooner. She acquitted herself admirably."

"She is a Princess," your father snarls.

"I am aware," Sylus says. His voice is quiet, but his words carry a sharp edge. "I treated her as one."

Your father's nostrils flare, and he stabs his fork into the meat again, his knuckles whitening. "There is no honor in making a young lady dress and behave as a brute. You forget yourself."

"You forget, Your Majesty," King Sylus says, "that you are a guest in my home. In my kingdom. And that I do not recall asking for your input."

The table goes silent. You can scarcely breathe. A muscle jumps in your father's jaw, and he grips his goblet tightly, his expression dark. His glare flickers to your, his eyes hard and disapproving.

"Father," you try. "The King has shown me great respect. His customs are simply different than ours."

"His customs are barbaric, and the man a savage," Father growls. "Do not make the mistake of thinking the King holds you in higher esteem because you humiliated yourself by rolling around in the mud like a mongrel. He will never respect a woman who acts the way you have today."

Your throat tightens. You grip the edge of the table and force a tight, painful smile. Your pulse thrums loud in your ears, drowning out the scrape of cutlery, the hushed rustle of silks, the barely veiled murmurs of the courtiers. Your father's words sting, not for their cruelty—you have grown used to that—but for the way they unravel what little pride you still clutch to your chest.

"I do not seek his approval through obedience, Father," you say, forcing your voice even. "If I am to be his Queen, surely I must learn the ways of his culture, and adapt to his customs."

"Not at the cost of your pride," your father says. "You are a princess, not a ruffian."

King Sylus leans forward, pushing his goblet aside. "If she is a princess," he begins, "perhaps you ought to treat her as one. I believe the only man to disrespect the princess in my kingdom, is the one who calls her daughter."

Father's nostrils flare, and his lip curls, his gaze snapping to the King. "How dare you."

"Father, please," you whisper.

"You presume to instruct me how to raise my daughter?" he demands.

"No," King Sylus says coolly. "I am instructing you how to comport yourself as a guest. You have insulted not only me, but also my kingdom and my people, and not least of all, my future Queen. And as the man she will call husband, I am inclined to be rather protective."

Your father looks livid, his face red and twisted in fury. "I will not stand for this disrespect."

King Sylus shrugs and lifts his glass again. "Then sit."

You have to stifle a giggle at the sight of your father's scandalized expression. Your heart warms at the King's defense, at his care. He defended you. Your cheeks flush, and the warmth in your chest blossoms.

Your father pushes back from the table, and the wooden chair squeals against the marble floor. He stands and throws his napkin down, his hand curled around the arm of his chair.

"Oren," King Sylus addresses. He does not rise. He meets Father's fury with the stillness of winter stone. "Sit down. Do not embarrass yourself further."

"Thank you," your father spits, "for your hospitality." He turns and storms off, the guards stepping out of the way to let him pass.

A heavy silence falls as the courtiers watch him leave, their gazes fixed on the doors. Then, as if by some silent, invisible command, the court returns to its conversations, the whispers growing louder and more excited, and the laughter begins again.

You stare after your father, appetite gone. You feel eyes on you, and turn to meet the King's bright amber gaze once more. His lip is downturned, and face unreadable as ever.

Then, he reaches across, his shoulder brushing your as he fills your wine once more.

"Eat," he says coolly, nodding to your plate. "You have earned it."

You take the goblet and take a drink, savoring the sweetness of the liquor, the way it rolls over your tongue and slides down your throat, the burn in your stomach.

The fruit is sweet, the pastries flaky and warm, but your mind drifts. You glance across the table, where King Sylus watches you with steady, unyielding eyes. His gaze lingers a moment longer than expected, tracing the curve of your jaw, the pale smoothness of your skin, the way your eyes catch the flicker of candlelight. He says nothing at first, his expression carefully neutral, unreadable.

"You keep your composure very well," he finally remarks. "It would seem you have had too much practice."

There’s no softness in his tone, no trace of overt admiration—just a quiet acknowledgment, wrapped in his usual reserve.

You swallow the lump in your throat and shake your head. "I have been chastised often. I am no stranger to my father's displeasure."

"You have done nothing wrong today," the King says firmly. "It is not your fault your father is a fool."

You do not respond. You take a long drink from your cup and look at your father's empty seat, plate still half-full and abandoned.

After a long silent moment, the King says, "If it is any consolation, Princess, I believe he is mistaken. You have my respect."

You glance at the King and offer a smile. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

He does not return the gesture. He is not one for smiling, you suppose, but his expression softens just enough for you to see. He does not move his gaze from yours, and you don't dare look away. You can't. His gaze is like ice, and you feel frozen, paralyzed.

"And you look lovely tonight," he adds, his eyes dropping to the rubies glittering at your throat.

The flush that blooms on your cheeks is involuntary, and you look away, hoping the heat does not show on your face. "Madame Sazha is a miracle worker."

"Hm." He takes a deep draught of his wine, his eyes flicking to her. "I disagree."

You blink. "Pardon?"

He sets his goblet down, and his fingers trail along the rim. "You do not need a miracle."

Your heartbeat quickens. The King's words are so genuine, so simple, that for a moment, they catch you completely off guard. No honey-sweet flattery, no practiced compliment or flowery sentiment. Just an observation, spoken in the same low, measured tone.

"You are too kind, my King."

"On the contrary. I am rarely kind."

You smile and lean back in your chair, folding your hands neatly. The tension that had built in your chest is finally starting to melt.

You laugh nervously, the sound barely escaping your throat, caught behind your teeth. It is ridiculous, really, how easily he disarms you, when he is not even trying. A single look, a kind word, and your resolve crumbles to dust.

He isn’t even looking at you anymore—he’s watching the court again, his posture deceptively relaxed, one elbow resting on the arm of his chair. The firelight flickers against the sharp line of his jaw, painting it in amber and gold. His profile is cast in shadow, and you follow the curve of his mouth, the slope of his nose. You are reminded suddenly, viscerally, of his face beneath you. His mouth twisted, his brow furrowed.

Sweet saints, he's pretty. Not in the soft, golden way of the southern men. He is glacial and inevitable. Effortlessly regal, and painfully striking.

For a loveless marriage, far from home, you could certainly do worse.

The court's chatter fills the hall, and the nobles laugh and whisper among themselves. King Sylus does not engage in conversation. He seems content to simply watch, and so, you follow his lead, eyes wandering through the crowd, though your mind is elsewhere.

When the food is taken away and the wine begins to flow more freely, the King lets out a soft breath and leans forward, elbows braced on the table. He looks to you, his golden eyes piercing, and you meet his gaze, holding it. There's a weight to his stare—something dark and heavy.

"The lords will expect a dance," he says quietly.

Your pulse skips. "A dance."

He nods. "Now that you have proven yourself in battle, we are truly engaged."

Your mouth goes dry. You swallow, and your throat clicks.

He only raises a brow, his eyes drifting over you. "If you wish it, my Princess," he says. "I do have an archive of excellent excuses to avoid my own duties, as well. Should you find need of them."

You blink, and a smile spreads over your face. You stifle a giggle against your hand. "You are teasing me, Majesty."

His shrugs, his face blank, and his gaze sweeps over the crowd. "Would I do such a thing?"

"You are full of surprises, My King," you counter. Something glitters behind his gold irises, a faint hint of amusement that vanishes as quickly as it appears. "I would be honored to share a dance with you."

The King stands and offers his hand. "Let us not disappoint."

You take his hand and he guides you through the tables. His hand is large, and warm. You feel small in comparison, but there is no danger in his grasp, no fear of him crushing you. His palm is rough, and his fingers are strong and firm, wrapped around yours.

At the center of the room, he bows, and you curtsy, dipping low. Your skirts swirl around you, and he extends his hand again. His eyes are unwavering.

He is the King, and his will is absolute. He does not ask for a dance—he commands it.

When he bows and presses his lips to your hand, something inside you breaks. It's like an ice storm, a violent rush that leaves your skin tingling, your heart racing. You can't help the way you stare after him. He straightens and offers his hand, and you take it, stepping close. His scent is clean and sharp, and it makes you dizzy.

He places a hand on the small of your back and draws you into his body. You rest both hands on his chest, feeling the hard, defined muscle beneath his jacket. You're pressed together, your bodies fitting neatly, hips to hips. Your heart pounds, and a wave of warmth floods through you. He's tall and broad, and his presence is dominating.

He looks down at you, his gaze piercing, and then the music starts. The sound of string instruments is delicate and soft, and the song is slow, a gentle melody.

As the music swells, you step in time with him, your skirts billowing, his steps graceful. Your bodies are flush, moving perfectly in sync. You feel a bit light-headed, and you hold onto his shoulders, trying to keep yourself upright.

When you glance up, his eyes are locked on yours, and you're not sure if it's the wine or the way he's looking at you that makes your head spin. His right eye blazes red, glowing in the darkness. It is a look you have come to recognize, though not one you entirely understand. The intensity is overwhelming, every time. Each time his eye glows like this, you can never quite pin down a cause. Anger? Displeasure?

Hunger?

You can hardly imagine what his desire might look like, if the man is capable of it at all. It is a frivolous thought, and the moment you think it, your cheeks flush. He could not truly want you.

It must be anger then. Somehow, you have upset him. Or he is still thinking of your father.

You watch the candlelight play on his pale skin, the flickering flames dancing across his neck. He spins you slowly, his arm wrapping around your waist, his fingers burning you through the silk of her gown. His fingertips trail up your spine, the touch leaving your nerves tingling in its wake, and a soft breath escapes you before you can stop it.

When he draws you back, his brow is raised, and you realize you have been staring. He does not acknowledge it. He leads the dance without missing a step, his hand sliding from your waist and settling at the small of your back. You are keenly aware of his palm between your shoulder blades, of the way his fingers are splayed against your skin, burning through the silk of your gown.

"You look distant." His thumb strokes your back as he speaks, and you feel fit to burst. "You are uncomfortable."

You tighten your grip on his shoulder, and turn to pull your hair over your shoulder. It is an excuse to look away from him, and you accept it readily. You're not sure how to admit that no, you are not uncomfortable, but rather overwhelmed by the feeling of him. You're not sure how to confess that the only thing on your mind is the firm muscles beneath your hands, the way his voice vibrates in his chest, and how much you want him to hold you closer, to keep his eyes on you alone.

"I am not the fondest of large crowds, my King," you say instead.

He spins you slowly as the music swells, and when you return to his embrace, his chest is a breath away from yours. His grip on your waist is possessive, his hand spanning almost the entire length of your side.

"Nor I," he says, his eyes sweeping the hall. "They do not seem to mind you."

You glance out over the crowd. The nobles look on with approval, their whispers hushed and eager, their gazes lingering.

"It is you they admire," you say, keeping your tone light. "And not a bit of me."

"Is that what you think?"

The question startles you, and you glance back to him. His expression is carefully guarded, but his eyes are focused, his jaw tense.

"They are your people," you say softly. "And I have made a spectacle of myself. That is why they stare."

The King huffs, spinning you out and back in, pulling you closer than before. "Perhaps you have far too much free time to think of excuses to belittle yourself."

You bristle, blinking slowly. You meet his eyes, and furrow your brows to make sense of his stoic countenance.

"Pardon?"

"I ought to keep you busier, so that you do not have such time to think so poorly of yourself," he drones, his voice low and flat. He sounds bored, like the whole idea is terribly mundane, and his lips pull into a thin, unimpressed frown. "I should have anyone who speaks so ill of my Queen thrown from my court, were it not herself."

You stumble a bit, your feet catching on his, and he keeps you from falling, his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you against him. The heat of his body is overwhelming, and you're certain he must be able to feel the frantic beat of your heart, the way your pulse has picked up.

You cannot form words. You simply stare, mouth slightly agape, searching for some clever retort. But nothing comes, and the music ends.

He bows, and you dip low, a perfect picture of grace. Your heart is pounding, and the sound of it echoes in your ears. You can feel the flush spread on your face, the heat flooding your chest.

He offers his arm, and you take it, leaning heavily on him. He escorts you from the center of the room, and when you turn back, the nobles are already returning to their dances, their conversations resuming, their laughter bright and bubbly.

"I believe you are owed your rest, Princess," King Sylus says, guiding you toward the doors. "May I see you to your chamber?"

"Of course, Your Majesty."

You don't trust your own voice. The sound is too strained, too high-pitched. But you cannot help the way he flusters you, the way your chest swells with pride when he calls you Queen, when he claims you as his own. You wonder if that is why he does it—if he knows the effect he has on you. He must know very well that he is handsome. And a king besides. Surely, women have thrown themselves at his feet before.

They leave the noise and bustle of the great hall behind, and soon, they are alone, save for the guards standing sentry.

The halls are dark and quiet, lit by flickering sconces. You glance down the corridor, watching the shadows dance along the stone, and try not to dwell on the warmth of his hand.

You wish he would say something. Anything. The silence is heavy and thick, and you find yourself wondering what is on his mind. What he thinks of you, or of the dinner, or anything. You wish he would give you his opinions. You only want to know of him, of his thoughts, his feelings, his desires. If you are to be married, you should like to have a friend.

You arrive at your chamber doors, and he dips into a bow, the shock of white falling across his forehead.

He rises, his height towering over you. He pauses for a moment before slipping a hand into his pocket and emerging with a circlet of silver. You stare, glancing between it and the silver armband glinting around his bicep.

"You will be expected to wear it in court," he says at length. "We do not have crowns or wedding rings in this nation, as I am sure you are aware."

"I— yes, my King."

He takes your arm gently and slips the circlet around. The metal is not heavy, but the cold bites your skin as he slides it up, over your elbow, until it sits at the top of your upper arm. He lets his fingers trail over the band, then his eyes follow the path. His hand lingers a moment longer than proper, tracing the line of soft blue veins beneath your skin, the delicate, pale curve of your arm.

Then, his eyes are on yours, and there is a heaviness to his stare, a gravity that draws you in. He's close, and you're not sure how you ended up here.

"You were right," he says eventually, "it looks better on you."

The flush rises to your cheeks. Your throat is tight. You say nothing, too afraid to shatter the delicate tension that has settled between you.

His hand lifts and brushes a lock of hair behind your ear. The touch is so light, so careful, and his eyes are trained on the curve of your cheek. His thumb brushes the apple of your cheek, his palm warm against your skin.

"Majesty, I..."

Kiss me, you think. Kiss me, kiss me.

His right eye blazes bright red, glowing in the dark, and he seems to shake himself. He takes a step back, dropping his hand.

"Goodnight, kitten."

He turns, his footsteps echoing in the hallway. He rounds the corner and disappears from sight, and you stand in the corridor, watching as he goes, and trying to convince yourself it's just the wine that makes your head swim.

"Goodnight, dragon."

Chapter Text

You spend most of your days in the library or with Tara and Sazha, reciting conjugations and practicing your posture until your spine aches. The King is a rare presence—always somewhere just beyond reach, his absence as constant as snowfall. You see him only at mealtimes, and even then, his appearances are brief, his words clipped. You pass in corridors like shadows, nodding coolly to one another, speaking only when duty requires it.

He is a man of silences and sharp angles, of movements so controlled they feel mechanical. You have learned not to expect warmth. If Sazha is to be believed, the day King Sylus smiles at you without reason is the day the moon turns blue and the rivers run gold.

You tell yourself you do not mind.

But in truth, you watchs him too closely. Notice the way light plays along the edge of his jaw, how his eyes—amber like old sap sealed in frost—never give anything away.

But sometimes, the ice thaws, if only for a moment. Sometimes, his gaze lingers on you, just long enough to make your heart skip, and his eyes shine.

You want to impress him, desperately. You want to match him—not as a bride, but as an equal. And though his regard is hard-won and rarely given, you cling to it like a secret. A single look from him can carry the weight of entire conversations. But his praise, when it comes, is razor-thin and deliberate. Nothing about him is accidental.

Except, perhaps, his disdain for your father.

Of all the emotions King Sylus permits himself, irritation is the most common, and Father earns it more easily than anyone. You find yourself biting back laughter whenever your father tries—and fails—to command the room. The King never raises his voice, never breaks his composure. He simply dismisses Father with the ease of extinguishing a candle, and you savor it more than you should. Her father’s pride frays at the edges every time, and the King never even looks winded.

There is a strange, almost giddy feeling that comes with watching them clash. With being able to watch the King win and win and win, and your father powerless to stop him. It is, you think, the most humiliating thing imaginable for a man like Father—to find himself powerless in another man’s court, unable to dictate his daughter’s fate.

And so you escapes to the library, where the silence is yours and the cold belongs to the stone.

The library is vast—cavernous and echoing, lit by golden sconces and tall, flickering lamps. It smells of old parchment, wax, and smoke. Shelves stretch high overhead, each one stuffed with histories, atlases, treatises, and ancient scrolls in half a dozen tongues, not all of them you have full confidence the King can read. The books are old and musty, leather spines worn with age and use. Some of the pages are brittle, and the ink is faded, but you are always welcome to whatever interests you. That is what King Sylus says, at least. That anything here is yours, if it can be found.

You read until your eyes burn. You study the King's language long into the night, fingers stained with ink and jaw tight with frustration. Sazha says your accent is lovely, but the words feel heavy in your mouth, the grammar sharp and unfriendly. Still, you persist—because the King speaks your language with maddening ease, and it makes you feel like a child. A clever, ambitious child with nothing to show for it.

You want to meet him on his own terms. Want to speak to him in his language, and impress him, the way he impresses you. You want him to take notice. To look at you and see more than a pretty southern bride.

Tonight, the fire in the hearth hisses quietly behind you, and the room is still except for the scratching of your pen. The ink flows dark and fluid over fine paper, a gift from the King’s personal collection. Everything here is elegant—overwhelmingly so. The pens are gold-nibbed and weighted in your hand, the barrels inlaid with fine silver filigree, the bottles etched with his crest. Everything is simple, yet rich, and made of the finest materials. Even the inkwells are a work of art, each one crafted of pure crystal, with a base of solid marble.

If King Sylus resents his reputation as a conquerous warlord, indulgent in extravagance and luxuriant terror, he certainly does not show it.

Your pen scrapes along the parchment, and you sigh, setting the instrument aside and rubbing the ache from your wrist. A drop of ink stains the paper, and you frown.

You look down at your hand—marked, aching—and think of how easily he lifts his goblet, how easily he dismisses men like her father, how easily he wields power.

And you wonder—not for the first time—what it would feel like to hold something that effortlessly.

A log cracks, and the fire flares. A sudden, violent rush, and then it dies down, the embers glowing soft orange and red.

You reache for the rag and wipe the ink from your hand, watching it smudge blue into the creases of your skin. Outside the window, snow spirals through the air in slow, restless flurries, blown sideways by the wind. The glass fogs at the edges, and beyond it, the sky is a dull smear of gray, the world hushed beneath its weight.

The library breathes around you, warm and dim. The hearth crackles softly, its light dancing across polished wood and high-backed leather chairs. Tall windows stretch along the walls, arched and imposing, their velvet curtains drawn just enough to filter the dusk into amber shadow. The scent of smoke lingers faintly beneath the dry perfume of old pages and binding glue.

It is a lovely place to be lonely.

You look back at the page in front of you, the ink still wet, your cursive faltering. The northern script is beautiful—looped and slanted, its letters trailing like ivy along a wall. Softer than your own. You like the way it flows, the way it sounds in your mouth. But your handwriting is crude. Uneven. The loops lopsided, the spacing wrong.

You've been at it for weeks, and still, your pen hesitates.

Your eyes flick to the bottom of a discarded letter—King Sylus’ signature, bold and elegant, cut from iron. His name unfurls with confidence, each letter a blade, each stroke deliberate. You have seen him sign it many times, with the casual grace of someone who never doubts he belongs where he stands.

By contrast, your scrawl looks like a child's.

You turn your gaze instead to the margin, where you've drawn a lamppost in careful graphite lines. Tall and ornate, its wrought-iron curls mimic the architecture of the northern gates. It is delicate, detailed, intricate—the sort of work that earns no applause in a royal court.

You exhale slowly, breath clouding faintly in the chill. Drawing is not the skill of a queen. Nor, apparently, is writing in the tongue of her future husband’s people. If you cannot pen a proper sentence, cannot hold your own in his language, what use are you to him?

What use are you to his kingdom?

You glance up at the shelves, stacked with old texts and maps, some so ancient they are unreadable, the letters and lines long since faded. The King keeps these artifacts for his own enjoyment, you suppose. Or else to impress guests.

The thought of him enjoying anything is novel, and the image it conjures is strangely charming.

You imagine him lounging, one leg draped over the side of a plush chair, a book in hand. You imagine him pouring over ancient maps and forgotten histories, the flickering light playing across his face.

You imagine him smiling, just a little.

"Still at work, Princess?"

You jolt, snapping back to the present. The King leans in the doorway, his shoulder pressed against the frame, his arms folded. His jacket is thrown over one shoulder, and his white sleeves are rolled up, top two buttons undone, his cravat loosened. He looks casual. Relaxed. His hair hangs over his brow, the long, shock-white strands disheveled.

Your heartbeat flutters, and you force yourself to remain composed. "Majesty, I was just—"

He holds up a hand, silencing you, and steps into the room.

"I did not come here to reprimand you."

He comes to stand next to you, his gaze drifting over the books and papers on the table. He looks less a monarch, now, and more a man in the dim light of the library after dark. There is a rawness to him, an ease. He looks younger. Less severe.

And you—you are keenly aware of his proximity. Of the scent of his cologne, of his warmth. Your pulse thrums.

He reaches for a stray quill and rolls it between his fingers, studying the feather. "It is late. You ought to get your sleep."

You watch his fingers twirl the pen, admiring the deftness of his touch. He has beautiful hands, you think. Strong, capable.

You shake your head, and your eyes wander over the page. "I find myself rather restless tonight, I'm afraid."

He raises a brow. "Are you well?" he asks, draping his jacket over the back of the sofa. He sits beside you, the leather cushion dipping beneath his weight. "If you are unwell, I can summon the physician."

"There is no cause for concern, my Lord." You set your pen aside and push the letter from you. "My mind is simply preoccupied, and it does not make for restful sleep."

The King says nothing. His lips are pursed, his brow knit, and his gaze falls on your hands, resting in your lap. He watches as you fold them neatly, his eyes tracing the line of the blue veins, the pale expanse of skin. Then, he turns his attention to the stack of books and scrolls before him.

"You have been industrious," he observes.

"I am eager to learn," you reply, smoothing your skirt. "But progress is… slow."

"Hmm."

The King sits back against the cushions and crosses one ankle over his knee, resting his elbow on the arm of the couch, his chin on his knuckles. He nods at the paper, his amber eyes piercing.

"May I see?"

You nod. Hesitantly, you push the page toward him. "I'm afraid it's not very good."

He glances down at the sheet, his eyes tracing the words. You watch as he reads, his brows furrowing ever so slightly, his jaw tensing.

You sit stiffly, watching, waiting, heart thrumming. You do not know what you want to see on his face—only that you hope desperately it will be approval. You watch as his eyes drift from the first line to the second, then to the scribbles, and your little lamppost.

His fingers drum on the cushion.

"You are too hard on yourself," he says. "You have a fine hand."

You sigh. "I thank you my Lord, but I do not agree."

The King looks up. His brow quirks, his lips curving into a frown. "What troubles you?"

You look away and let out a breath, running a hand through your disheveled white curls. "Certainly you notice my grammar."

"I do," he says easily. "Why is that important to you?"

"It is important because—" You pause. You glance at him, his expression flat. "You have a keen ear," you mutter, and lean back, looking up at the ceiling. "My accent is clumsy, my penmanship is atrocious, and I cannot remember how to conjugate a simple verb without the help of a dictionary. Surely you must agree that your wife ought to speak your language."

He stares for a moment. A long moment, and the silence stretches between you, heavy and tense. The King sits forward and turns to you, his legs spread, his hands clasped between his knees. He fixes you with a piercing stare, his face blank and brows raised.

"For how long have you been in my country, Princess?"

"Perhaps a month," you grumble, shifting and crossing your legs. You smooth the wrinkles from your dress, trying not to notice the way his eyes follow the movement.

"And as such, you expect perfection of yourself? In four weeks' time?"

"No, of course not, but I—"

"Princess," he interrupts, far more softly than is characteristic. "I have no expectations of effortless perfection. You need not exhaust yourself over a trivial matter such as this."

"But I should like to please you, my King," you insist, meeting his gaze. Your cheeks grow warm. "Surely that is not a trivial matter."

He watches you, his eyes searching yours, the firelight casting deep shadows on his face. For a moment, his expression softens, his gaze flicking down, to your hands.

"Perhaps…" you start, hesitantly. You swallow, and your fingers curl. "Perhaps I only wish to speak to you properly, Majesty."

"Do you find our conversation lacking?" he asks, raising a brow.

"Of course not," you reply.

He gives you a wry look.

"But," you concede, "it is true that our conversations are brief and formal, Majesty. It would be... pleasant to speak to you more meaningfully. To learn more about you."

He stares, and a small crease appears between his brows. He opens his mouth to reply, and closes it again, his jaw working. His eyes wander to the stack of books, and the shadows shift as the firelight flickers, his skin golden in the dim.

"And," you continue, unable to help yourself, "you have made such an effort to make me comfortable. I am grateful. I only wish I could return the favor."

"Return the..."

His voice trails off, and his gaze drops to her lips. A muscle twitches in his cheek.

"Very well," he says in his own language.

You blink, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He reaches for her pen and paper and sets it on the table before him, laying it down flat and beginning to cross things out and circle others, his brow furrowed.

You stare, watching his long, deft fingers. They're large and elegant, the nails neatly trimmed and clean. His wrist is broad and his hand is wide, his palm covered in fine, pale scars. His forearms are thick, the veins running up his skin, the band on his forearm sparkling in the firelight.

"Majesty?" you say softly, and he glances at you, raising a brow.

He sits up and hands it back to you, his hand brushing against yours. "I am not as good a teacher as Tara, I suspect," he says. He leans into your side, his shoulder firm against yours, his arm draped along the back of the couch.

"What is this?" you ask, glancing over the page. He has circled a few phrases, and scribbled a list of words.

"I have corrected your grammar," he says, his voice low. He points at the page. "There, and there."

Your face flushes. You try not to focus on his proximity. Try not to notice the subtle notes of his cologne, the heat radiating from his body. Sweet saints, he truly is a furnace made of flesh and bone.

He uses the pen to point at a passage, the words scratched out and rewritten.

"Here," he says, in the northern tongue, his breath warm against your temple. "It is a simple error. You precede the past tense with the pluperfect participle."

You stare at the page. You understand very little of what he is saying.

"We divide each tense into four affects," he goes on. "Your time frame is past, but your affect is pluperfect. So, we must change the ending, yes?"

"Ah, yes," you murmur, and the King lets out a soft, amused sound.

"And here." His hand covers yours as he directs your attention to the paper. "Your spelling is incorrect. This is an h. And this." He drags the tip of the quill along a few lines. "You need only adjust your vowels."

"Ah."

He turns his head, and his eyes flick down to yours, his lips just inches from your cheek. Your skin prickles, spine stiffening. His fingers ghost over your arm, and the hair rises on the back of your neck.

"Do you understand, kitten?"

You stare at him, breath caught in your throat, and nod. The silence stretches. You've scarcely heard him speak more than a sentence at a time, and his voice is a low rumble, deep and warm. He watches you, his eyes burning into yours.

You realize, dimly, that you still have not replied.

"Yes, my Lord," you whisper, and swallow. Your voice comes out weak and shaky, and your heartbeat thunders in your ears.

He hums and sits back, turning his attention to the parchment, and the spell is broken. You release a breath and force yourself to focus.

"I apologize for intruding," he says eventually, clasping both hands between his legs again. "But I saw the light beneath the door and thought I might check on you."

"Oh." You straighten, smoothing your hair, and give a small, sheepish smile. "It is no intrusion at all. In fact, your company is… pleasant."

You chance a look at him, and he raises one brow. It is, perhaps, the only muscle on his face capable of movement, you think.

"Is that so?" he murmurs.

You nod, and glance down at the table. A drop of ink stains the edge, the dark blotch spreading and warping the woodgrain. "Certainly. If only you would speak a bit more."

"You would ask me to speak?" he asks.

You tilt your head, eyes fixed on the paper. "Certainly, Your Majesty. Perhaps I would learn if I could practice with you."

The King's brows shoot up. "I see," he says. He clears his throat and looks down at the page, his hands folded. "I fear I have little to say that would interest you," he says, switching to his own language.

You smile. "Then tell me what has kept you up tonight, Your Majesty."

"You."

Your smile fades, and you glance at him. The word was quick, spoken low. Accidental. The King looks equally surprised. He presses his lips together and sits up straighter, clearing his throat.

"By that I mean, of course, I have been concerned with matters of the ceremony," he adds hastily. "There is much to do, and little time to do it."

"Ah, I see."

You feel a strange pang of disappointment, and immediately scold yourself. What else would it be? The King does not waste time with frivolities. Certainly not with thoughts of you.

"I'm sorry to be an inconvenience, my Lord," you murmur, looking down.

The King frowns. "That was not my meaning," he says. He shifts, leaning closer. "I merely mean to say, the ceremony has left me little time for leisure."

You frown and look away, letting your hair fall over your shoulder. "Perhaps I may assist you, then?"

He looks up and meets your eye. "Do not trouble yourself," he says. "Being there is quite enough."

You blush and smooth your hair awkwardly, and silence settles. The King seems content, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes fixed on the fire, his gaze far away. The light plays across his skin, catching the scars on his brow, the silver streaks in his hair. He is a beautiful man, you think. Sharp-edged and severe, and yet lovely in his own way.

He has the perfect posture, his spine straight, his chin held high. He's always so dignified, so composed. Not a single hair is out of place, and not a speck of dust that would dare land on his clothing.

He's the pinnacle of propriety, and you're envious. Your father would never approve of you being out so late, alone with a man who's not your husband. But to allow yourself to be shown up by the decorum of a foreign savage would perhaps be a greater insult.

And yet, here, alone in the dark, his guard is down.

He seems so peaceful, and you wonder what's going through his head. Does he feel awkward? Is he simply ignoring you? Or is he, too, enjoying the silence, the company, the heat of the fire?

He hums and leans back, and you look away, cheeks warming. You cross your legs and smooth down your skirts, eyes darting to his hand. He taps his fingers on his knee, the fabric of his pants pulled taut. The firelight plays over his knuckles, casting them in stark relief, the scars pale against his skin.

It's difficult not to stare. Not to imagine his hands elsewhere.

"You are staring." There is no accusation in it. Just the cool certainty of observation.

You startle slightly, just enough for the motion to betray you. You hadn't realized you'd been watching him, lost in thought. The King raises a brow, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

"Oh," you stammer. You look away, heat crawling up your cheeks. "I was only— I apologize. It is late. I suppose I am feeling rather absentminded."

The King studies you, and you swallow, willing your heartbeat to slow. His gaze is penetrating, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, and the firelight flickers in the irises. He looks like a predator, you think. Calculating, considering.

"You find my hands interesting," he observes. He flexes them, spreading his fingers. The veins stand out, the tendons shifting under his skin.

"No," you say quickly.

He hums. His smirk widens. "Do not lie."

"I do not—"

"Your eyes are too expressive," he interrupts. "They give you away."

You purse your lips, and he chuckles, low and soft. It sends a shiver down your spine, and you turn your head. He's still watching you, his eyes gleaming. And there it is again—that deep red glow in his right eye, a strange, hazy light that burns across the surface. It looks like blood in a cup of water, swirling and diffusing.

Your stomach twists.

"I apologize," you say eventually. You turn your gaze to the table. "It was unbecoming of me to stare."

The King says nothing.

You swallow, and the silence stretches. Your pulse thuds against your neck. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the warmth seeping through your clothes.

Then, he shifts. He holds his hand out beside him, and you glance at it, hesitating. When he finally turns his head to look at you again, his gaze is coaxing.

"Go ahead," he murmurs, his voice low and rumbling.

You pause.

He flexes his fingers, the gesture almost imperceptible. You can only stare, your cheeks flaming, your palms sweating. It feels as though a stone has lodged itself in your throat.

When you do nothing for a long moment, he sighs and shifts his body toward you, leaning in close. You can feel his breath on your cheek, and his scent surrounds you. You're suddenly acutely aware of how big he is, his broad shoulders and tall frame dwarfing your own.

He takes your hand in his, and a jolt runs up your spine. His skin is hot, and his touch is gentle. You stare down at your intertwined fingers, his hand dwarfing yours, your pale, delicate fingers curling around his calloused palm. His grip is firm and strong, and his fingers are rough with use, and scars. He presses your hand back into the cushion of the sofa, pinning you down with soft pressure. He separates your fingers between his own and twines them together, stroking the skin with his thumb.

Your face is aflame.

"What is it?" he murmurs. "You've not said a word."

You swallow hard and look up at him. His expression is curious, and his brows are furrowed. His eyes burn into yours, and the firelight flickers behind him, casting deep shadows on his face. He cocks his head, his hair falling across his forehead.

"What is it you find so enthralling?" he whispers. His voice is soft, and low. He holds your hand tightly, lifting it to turn it this way and that in the light. He examines the curve of your wrist, the veins running along the back of your hand, the slender bones of your fingers. He runs his fingertips over the inside of your palm, and shivers run up your spine.

"Is it my hands?" he continues, tilting his head. "Or is it what they can do?"

You swallow thickly. Your heart races, and the flush on your cheeks spreads down your neck. His fingers ghost along the inside of your forearm, his touch light, barely there. Your skin tingles.

"What can they do, I wonder?" he asks, his voice low and silken.

He lifts his gaze to meet yours, his eyes blazing, and you're caught. Your breath catches in your throat, and the words die in your mouth. You can't tear your eyes away, can't look away from his piercing stare, the sharp lines of his jaw. His right eye blazes with a deep, bloody red.

The fire crackles. A log pops.

He pulls away, his expression shuttering.

"My Lord," you whisper, and the moment is shattered. He rises to his feet and smooths down his shirt, clearing his throat.

The King's lips twitch, and he inclines his head. He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small tin, the metal shiny and clean. When you do not take it, he shakes it slightly, coaxing.

You take it, confused, and open it, revealing a fragrant balm.

"For your restlessness," he says, his tone gentler. "Rub it into your wrists and temples. It should soothe you."

You can hardly speak, let alone thank him, but you manage a weak, "Thank you."

He nods, and his eyes soften, his brows knitting. His expression is gentle, almost tender. "Sleep well, kitten."

You flush, and the King turns and walks away. You watch him leave, his back straight and shoulders square, his pace brisk and even.

When the door closes behind him, you collapse back onto the sofa and cover your face, groaning. Your chest aches, and your face is warm. You feel flustered and foolish, and the King's scent lingers on your skin.

"Damnation," you whisper. You feel his fingers on yours like a brand.

Chapter Text

The window is cracked open, letting the fresh, cool breeze drift in, the air crisp and clear. Your room is lit by the fire in the hearth, the shadows dancing over the walls, and a knock echoes through the doorway.

You tie your hair off in a soft blue ribbon, and look over your shoulder to the door.

"Come in."

The door opens and the King slips inside, shutting the door behind him.

You turn and rise, bowing your head. "Majesty." You smooth the folds of your dress and straighten, meeting his fiery eyes. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"Good evening, my Queen," he says. "How are you?" he adds as an afterthought. The question is almost awkward, as if he is unused to entertaining normal conversation.

"I am well, Majesty," you say.

He nods, his gaze drifting. He is dressed in his usual black trousers and boots, a simple red tunic and a long cloak fastened around his shoulders.

"I meant to request your presence. I wondered if you would join my men and I for an outing. We are leaving soon."

Your brows raise, and you glance to the window. The moon is high and shining, and the stars are glittering brightly. "An outing."

"A hunt," he clarifies. "Lady Tara will be with us, and a few of my guard."

You consider him for a moment. The King looks at you expectantly, his hands folded before him.

"I am afraid I have very little experience hunting."

"Never a better time to learn," the King says. "Lady Tara asked that I invite you. It will not be too cold tonight, and you will have a chance to get out of the castle for a while."

Your expression falters. “You wish for me to learn how to hunt?”

“Of course. My Queen should know the ways of her people. What do you say?”

You look out the window at the lowering sun, a small smile touching your lips. You turn back to him and nod. “I will get changed.”

“Very well. Meet us by the stables.” His gaze drags over your body, lingering on your face. “Dress warm.”

Your chest warms, your stomach tingling. “Yes, sir.”

You curtsy. The King bows his head and slips out of the room.

You blink, then hurry into your closet, searching for a thick dress. You dig through your clothes until your gaze settles on a wool skirt, a fur-lined cloak, a wool bodice, and a leather corset.

You pull everything on quickly, lacing your corset and settling the fur cloak over your shoulders. You smooth your skirts and check the mirror, pinning your hair with silver combs.

Your gaze lingers on the flush in your cheeks, the brightness in your eyes. Your pulse quickens. You’ve never been on a hunt before. Your mind conjures images of the King atop a tall, white stallion, the wind whipping through his hair, his eyes sharp and focused, his teeth bared.

You tighten your corset just a little more, gather your skirts, and hurry out.

The group is already saddling their horses when you reach the stables. King Sylus stands by his horse, petting its nose and whispering to it quietly. You watch him for a moment—his posture, the broadness of his shoulders—and your heart warms.

“Highness!"

You turn and spot Tara trotting toward you, her cloak trailing behind her as she leads a large white-and-brown horse. She beams, chestnut locks falling over her face.

“Tara,” you say, bowing your head.

“I’m glad you could join us. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. I am afraid I have no idea what to expect.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Tara laughs. She dismounts and clutches her horse’s reins, still beaming. “I will teach you everything.”

“Tara.”

You both turn. The King watches you, stepping toward you, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Do you have the saddle bags, Lady Tara?”

Tara curses softly and hurries past. You smile as she stomps away, then turn back to the King. He is already watching you.

The air is frigid and sharp, and the King steps closer.

"Are you warm enough, my lady?" he asks, his voice quiet.

You nod. "Yes, sir."

His eyes roam over your face, and he tilts his head. He reaches out and rests his hand on your waist, the fabric of your skirt bunched between his fingers. He squeezes gently, and his thumb strokes the small of your back, a barely-there motion. You try not to tremble under his regard, or the gentle press of his palm.

And when he pulls away, it takes all you are not to chase his warmth.

“Here, Princess.”

You glance up as a stablehand approaches, offering a bow and a quiver of arrows. You take them, slinging the quiver over your shoulder.

“I am not a skilled archer,” you admit.

“Do you have a knife?” the King asks.

You shake your head. He hums, then reaches behind his back, drawing a dagger from a leather scabbard.

He steps toward you and takes your wrist, pressing the blade into your palm. You curl your fingers around the handle, your stomach twisting. He clicks his tongue and adjusts your grip—stepping behind you, chest brushing your back as he guides your fingers. His body is a furnace, radiating heat and strength. He smells like soap, and spice, and a deep, musky scent that seems to linger wherever he goes.

“Like this,” he murmurs. “The curve rests in the hollow of your thumb. The blade fits here.”

You glance up at him, but his eyes are on your hands. His touch makes your heart leap.

You swallow and adjust your grip.

The King nods. "Yes. Like that."

He releases you and steps away, his hand lingering. He glances up, his eyes bright, and you meet his gaze, lips parting. He tilts his head and his brow furrows, a strange expression crossing his face.

Then, Tara approaches with the saddlebags, and the moment is gone.

Tara helps you mount, her hands lifting at your waist, and you settle onto the horse, gripping the reins.

Tara mounts her own horse. The King strokes his horse's mane.

“Let’s go,” he calls.

You ride out of the stables as the guards bow and curtsy. You take a deep breath and squeeze your horse's side, and it trots forward.

The party gallops into the woods, cloaks and hair flying behind you. Cold wind stings your cheeks, your fingertips numbing. The forest stretches dark and quiet ahead. You pull up your hood, fur brushing your chin.

The King rides at the front, the hunting party behind him. Shafts of light cut through bare branches. Your gaze keeps drifting to his back, a tightness coiling in your chest.

You ride fast. The King urges his horse off the beaten path, deeper into the wild.

After some distance, he glances over his shoulder. His gaze catches yours. His brows lower. He pulls his horse to a trot, the party slowing.

"Princess," he calls. "Ride with me."

Frost crunches under your horse's hooves as you ride up beside him. His gaze flicks over you—quick, assessing—before returning forward.

“I will not have my Queen in the rear,” he says quietly. “She belongs by my side.”

You bite the inside of your cheek but say nothing. You watch him instead—the firm set of his mouth, the pale streak in his dark hair catching moonlight. He clicks his tongue, and the horses begin to trot again.

You ride until darkness thickens and the trees loom tall. The horses breathe hard, vapor curling into the night.

The King’s voice breaks the stillness as he names the animals of the region, pointing out old tracks and frost-bitten brush. You try to focus, but your mind wanders. Your gaze keeps drifting to him—his proud posture, strong shoulders, steady grip.

You want to be closer.

You wonder what it might be like to kiss him.

You look away.

The forest feels too quiet. Peaceful, yet unnervingly so. A pressure builds in the air. Your nerves prickle.

The sun sinks behind the trees, casting long shadows. A bird shrieks overhead and explodes from the branches. You jolt, pulse stumbling.

Then—a sound.

A low, drawn-out howl splits the silence.

The King slows again, and the others follow. Horses stamp and toss their heads.

Your throat tightens. “What was that?”

“Wolves,” Sylus says, eyes fixed on the dark trees. “Likely starving. They don’t usually come this close to groups our size.” A pause. “We won’t need to worry.”

But his grip shifts on the reins.

Tara trots up beside you. “The pack sounds small, Majesty.”

The King doesn't answer. His horse steps nervously.

You ride on, alert. The howl echoes again, sinking icy fingers into your spine.

Eventually, you find hoofprints in the snow.

“A stag,” the King murmurs. “A large one, and not far.”

You follow him along the path, the horses huffing. The wolves' howls echo through the trees.

You reach the bottom of the hill, and a thin stream of water trickles over rocks, ice coating the banks. On the other side, far away, a deer with large antlers grazes in a clearing.

King Sylus pulls his crossbow from his back, and the rest of the men do the same. Tara nocks an arrow in her own bow. The King raises his arm, and the party draws closer to the water’s edge, their horses neighing softly.

The stag looks up, ears twitching—

and the moment the King shoots his bolt, it dashes away, hooves thudding against the snow.

King Sylus grunts. Tara looses her arrow, but it misses, burying itself in the trunk of a tree.

“Damn,” she mutters. “It got away.”

“It’s alright, my Lady,” King Sylus says. “We’ll track it. The snow will show us the way.”

The stag bounds into the forest, and you move with the party, crossing the stream and following the fresh tracks. The King urges his horse faster, and you follow, your pulse thrumming, and you all take off, chasing the stag.

Its tracks carve a path through the snow and up a steep slope. The horses snort as they climb. Your horse slips beneath you once, but her hooves find purchase, and she pushes onward. The rest of the hunting party follows behind.

At the top of the slope, you burst into a wide meadow. The King slows, and so does the rest of the party, horses neighing softly, snow crunching under their hooves. The tracks lead farther away—straight toward the base of the mountains—and your shoulders tense, that uneasy pit in your stomach deepening.

The King stares into the distance, brows furrowed. He pulls back on his mare's reins, stopping. The party halts behind him, heads swiveling as the wind whispers through the meadow.

The King looks around, then turns his horse to face the group, eyes hard.

“We should return.”

"Your Majesty," Lady Tara says. "I think we can catch the stag. We are almost there."

"I am aware, Tara," he replies. "But the forest grows thicker ahead. We are at the foothills of the great mountains. The dragons are not far. I would not risk an encounter with the beasts in the night."

"They wouldn't attack," Tara argues. "They never come this close to the forest."

"Nevertheless. We are turning back."

You follow his gaze, and your stomach twists. The craggy mountains loom like jagged teeth, their shadows swallowing the forest at their base. The stag’s tracks lead straight toward that dark, foreboding place.

“I have a bad feeling, Majesty,” you whisper, just loud enough for him and Tara to hear.

Tara’s face tightens, her gaze darting around.

“It will not be safe to stay out here after sundown,” the King says. He looks at you and nods. “We should leave.”

“Majesty?” one of his men asks, glancing warily at the treeline.

“We are returning to the palace,” the King replies, firm. He turns his horse, and the party follows, beginning the long trek back.

You ride quickly, the King taking the lead. You retrace your path, crossing the stream and disappearing once more into the wood. Your shoulders tighten, your eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

The forest is quiet, save for the rare rustle of a bird. Darkness stretches deep between the trees. You can barely see the King ahead, and you urge your horse closer, refusing to fall behind.

You pass beneath the boughs, the light fading. Your throat tightens. The forest feels too still—too empty. Your skin prickles.

Behind you, a man downs a wild turkey with a clean shot, and a woman catches a rabbit soon after. The men cheer, patting them on the back, whistles echoing softly through the trees.

You continue on, hooves pounding snow, the path winding into deeper shadow. Tara eases the tension by talking—telling stories of her own hunts, making jokes, describing what food will be waiting at the palace when you return.

You ride slightly ahead of the party, your horses close. Tara nudges you with her shoulder, teasing you gently, and the sounds of the hunters fade behind as the two of you chatter idly.

“I am certain you will impress His Majesty, my Queen,” Tara says, nudging you again. “You must come hunting more often.”

You smile at her. “It was fun. I don’t think I did anything particularly impressive, but it was lovely to spend time with you all.”

“I’m certain His Majesty noticed,” she says brightly. “And your riding is excellent, even in this light. Just being involved will make him very happy.”

You snicker. “I do not think that is right.”

“No, no,” Tara says, waving the thought away. “Men love the thrill of the hunt. It makes them feel strong and capable. You know how boys are.” She glances at you. “Who knows—perhaps he will try to impress you himself.”

You stare at her, cheeks burning, fingers tightening around the reins. “A man like him does not bother with the opinion of a woman. He has no reason to try to impress me.”

Tara smiles, shaking her head. “He is not so different from any other man. And you are his Queen—a very beautiful one. He’d be foolish not to try to win you.”

You snicker softly. “Between us… he does not have to try."

Tara’s eyes widen, then sparkle with triumph.

“I knew it!” she squeals, giggling. “The way you look at him…” She nudges you with her shoulder again. “I knew you were taken with him.”

Your flush deepens. "Is it quite so obvious?"

"Perhaps not to everyone," Tara says, glancing back at the hunting party. "But I can see it. He is very beautiful, isn't he?"

You blush, a light smile curling your lips. "He is," you agree. "I am fortunate to have him as my King."

Tara nods, her eyes flicking over your face. You lean your head back, the cold wind biting at your cheeks. Your breath curls in the air, pale against the deepening dusk, and the trees rustle overhead. The sound of the hunting party grows fainter and fainter behind you.

“It is so nice out here,” Tara says. “So lovely to get away from the castle, isn’t it?”

You swallow. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, a shiver racing down your spine.

“Yes,” you reply, your tone flat. “Very nice.”

Tara looks at you, blinking, her brow furrowing. “Highness?”

You shake your head. “Sorry, I just—”

You pause, glancing around. The pit in your stomach deepens. Something is wrong. Your breath shortens. You pull your horse to a stop and look back—the hunting party is a distant blur between the trees.

Turning forward again, you scan the path. The shadows seem thicker. Your shoulders tense. Something is wrong. Your chest tightens as your brows knit together.

“Tara, do you—”

But when you catch the glint of eyes in the brush, it is already too late.

You shout—your horse rears—

and the beast lunges from the shadows.

A massive wolf, the size of a bear, jaws dripping with saliva, hackles raised.

It slams toward your horse, and you scream.

“Tara!”

Your horse whinnies, hooves sliding on the icy ground. The wolf crashes into her side, sending her staggering. It leaps again, jaws clamping around the horse's leg. The mare screams and topples backward—colliding with Tara’s horse and sending both animals crashing down.

Tara scrambles away, shouting for the others.

And then they come.

Greatwolves burst from the trees—huge, snarling, circling you. Teeth bared. Eyes gleaming. Breath steaming in the cold air.

Your horse kicks one off with a panicked cry, and bolts away, fleeing the woods, leaving you alone.

Alone on the ground. Surrounded.

You scramble back, your hands shaking as you grip the knife the King gave you. The wolves prowl closer, growling, circling, shadows shifting around you.

You slash wildly with the dagger. One wolf lunges.

You shout and rake the blade across its face, blood arcing through the air.

“Princess!” Tara screams.

A knife whips past you, striking the wolf square in the eye. It collapses, whining, thrashing in the snow.

The wolf whines and retreats, and the rest of the pack closes in. The largest wolf snarls, baring its teeth and closing in on you as Tara fumbles for another knife, her eyes wide.

The wolf snaps its jaws, and you lash out with her blade, stabbing the wolf in the throat. It yowls, blood pouring from the wound, and collapses, thrashing, the rest of the wolves closing in, snarling, salivating.

The injured wolf yips, and the rest of the party comes into view, the horses galloping towards them. You gasp, and the wolves turn, baring their teeth and yowling.

"Princess!" you hear the King shout, coming into view from between the trees, his reins clutched tightly in his hands.

You try to back away as the wolves snap at you, and the King fires his crossbow, taking down the closest wolf. He throws the crossbow down on the dirt and dismounts his mare as the rest of the party take aim at the wolves.

"Get down!" he barks. You curl in on yourself and cover your head.

A greatwolf jumps at the King, and he catches it by the neck and wrestles it to the ground, his hands tight around it. The beast thrashes and snaps its jaws, trying to bite the King's arms, and you scuttle back.

He draws his sword, the metal gleaming in the moonlight, and swings, taking the wolf's head clean off, its body limp. Another wolf leaps and snaps at the King's arm, and he slams the hilt of his sword into the side of its head, knocking it to the ground. He stabs the creature and whirls around, slicing another wolf's face, spraying the ground with blood.

He grabs the attention of the rest of the pack, and they snarl, advancing on him.

You scramble backward, fingers clawing at the snow for traction. You throw yourself into Tara’s arms, breath ragged. Tara holds you tight, murmuring softly, her hand smoothing your braids in a practiced, calming rhythm.

The King spins, blade flashing. His sword carves clean arcs through the air—elegant, brutal. He moves like a force of nature: precise, fluid, deadly. Each strike finds its mark. A wolf lunges—he sidesteps and slashes its throat without looking. Another leaps, and he ducks low, driving his blade up beneath its ribs. His teeth are bared in a silent snarl, his expression cold and unwavering.

He is beautiful.

The rest of the party looses arrows, the air crackling with tension. Fletching whistles past as shafts bury into fur and flesh. The wolves cry out, scatter, fall.

You clutch Tara’s cloak, trembling, your breath catching as you stare. The King is relentless. Controlled. Almost inhuman. His movements are too fast, too practiced—more beast than man, more apex predator than prey.

A wolf lunges for him, and dark red mist swirls from his fingers. It curls in a ribbon around his arm, a faint glow in the dusk. It snakes through the air and wraps around the beast's neck, throwing it to the ground and ramming its dripping jowls into the snow. Blood coats the ground, staining the white red, the smell acrid and heavy. The tendrils of red curl around the throats of the remaining wolves, snapping bones and tearing muscle.

The last wolf is the biggest—easily the size of the King's horse.

Its gaze meets the King's. Its eyes burn bright yellow, its hackles raised. The King lunges forward and strikes clean through its neck. It crumples with a soft thud in the snow, and the red mist coils with threads of black, writhing, hissing, before grabbing the final wolf's body and tearing it to shreds.

Your breath stops.

Silence falls.

He stands still, sword dripping red, boot planted on the wolf’s carcass. Moonlight glints off the white in his hair. Not a single bead of sweat mars his brow. His chest rises in calm, measured rhythm—as if the slaughter hadn’t taxed him in the slightest.

The forest is silent.

Snowflakes drift down, settling over the bloodied earth. The hunting party watches, unmoving, weapons still raised.

The King exhales and straightens, sliding his sword into its scabbard.

Then, he looks at you. Your stomach drops. His eyes blaze bright red, tendrils of the crimson mist coiling up his arm and across his face. Blood splatters his cheeks, his chin, his neck, and a dark shadow crosses his expression. His eyes burn gold in the dark, flames licking faintly behind his irises. No one else seems to notice, but you can’t look away. His pupils narrow—reptilian—glowing in the soft moonlight.

"Gather the pelts," he demands, his voice steely and enraged. It's the only time you have ever heard him more than uninterested and disaffected, and it sends a shiver down your spine. You stare, fingers gripping the cloak, mouth parting.

The men hesitate. One stumbles back a step.

Sylus turns his gaze on them.

They move at once.

His eyes blaze. He looks terrifying, otherworldly, powerful, and a shudder ripples down your spine. The red and black mists coil together and start to dissipate, swirling back into his fingers and palms.

He turns back to the fallen beasts and begins collecting their pelts, and you stand frozen, staring, as the hunting party collects their dead.

As the others dismount and begin dragging the bodies, the King steps toward you, the snow crunching softly beneath his boots. His expression shifts—not soft, but quieter. Those golden eyes still fixed on you like a predator that’s chosen not to strike. Not yet.

Tara releases you and spins you around, pulling up your cloak and checking for injuries, and the King cranes his head, looking you over as Tara brushes off your shoulders and pulls your hood up.

The King crowds in close, his heat enveloping you like a furnace. He touches your face, tilting your chin up with a finger. He clicks his tongue and brushes his thumb over a shallow cut on your cheek, and you hiss as he comes away with blood.

He stares at his fingertips, and then he meets your eyes, and the red glow vanishes.

"Are you alright?"

His voice is firm, low, concerned, and you stare at him, lips parted, a shiver racing down your spine. Your skin is hot where his fingertips were, and you're struck with the desire to lean closer, to feel the heat of him pressed against your body, to taste his skin, to let his Evol overtake you, pull you in, consume you, and crush you to his firm muscles.

You swallow hard.

"Yes," you breathe, nodding, and he exhales. "Just a scratch, my King."

He nods shortly, his eyes flicking to Tara. "Are you hurt?"

Tara shakes her head. "I'm fine. Majesty, I'm so sorry, I—"

"You could not have known," he says, his jaw tight. "It is not your fault."

You shudder, the cold setting in, and the King takes your elbow, pulling you up. He tucks his cloak around your shoulders and leads you back to the horses.

"Can you ride?"

You nod, still dazed, and he helps you mount his mare, then climbs on behind you, pulling you close to his chest. You feel his firm muscles against your back, and you swallow hard.

He clicks his tongue, and the horse starts forward, and the party moves as a group, their voices quiet. The King's body is warm, and you lean into him, letting the heat of his body chase the chill from your skin.

Your thoughts whirl, and you stare into the distance, trying to wrap your mind around what just happened. The wolves. His eyes. His inhuman strength.

His Evol.

You shiver again, and he wraps his cloak tighter around you.

"You are cold."

"No, I—"

But he has already pulled his furs off his shoulders and draped them around you, the fur warm and soft.

You lean back into him, letting his heat and strength envelope you, his strong hands gripping the reins. You breathe deeply and smell the leather of his armour, the fur of the cloak, and the scent of him—warm and sweet and masculine.

It's the closest you've ever been. You can't stop yourself from sinking deeper into his warmth, your eyelids heavy. You press your face against his arm, his breath puffing soft against your ear. You can hear the steady, calm rhythm of his heart.

You sigh.

His thumb smooths over your arm.

You're still trembling, the adrenaline slowly fading. Your heartbeat gradually steadies. The King is a pillar of strength at your back.

By the time you return to the palace, the moon is high, and the courtyard is blanketed in thick snow. The guards help the hunting party unload the animals and haul the pelts away, and the King dismounts and turns back, holding out his hand.

You slide off the mare and slip in the snow, and he catches you around the waist, holding you up. His touch is warm, strong, sure, and your heart beats a little faster.

You meet his eyes.

"Majesty—"

"We should get you inside," he says, his hands lingering at your hips.

The party are already dispersing, back into the castle and out to the barracks. But his hands smooth down the small of your back, and he stares at you, his pupils dilating slightly, his nostrils flaring.

"My King," you whisper, stepping closer, and his chest rises. "Will you walk me to my chambers?"

He stares at you, his hands tightening on your hips. His gaze is hot and heavy, and a shiver races down your spine. There it is again—that red glow behind his eyes, brighter than ever before.

"I do not think that is wise," he murmurs, his thumbs brushing the tops of your hips.

Your hands come up to his chest, and you stare up at him, breathless. His body is warm, and yours tingles all over. You're not sure how much of the flush on your skin is from the cold. All you can think of is the look in his eye, the undeniable strength in his large frame. He towers over you, the moonlight falling across his features, illuminating his jawline and his sharp cheekbones, his curved nose and the furrow between his brows.

You want to feel his strength all over you, you realize. You want to feel the power of his Evol, to know his hands and his mouth and his body. Never once in your life have you craved something so deeply, never before have you felt so consumed. But the thought of his Evol taking control of your body makes you tremble, and you grip the front of his tunic, biting your lip.

"Majesty," you breathe. The snow swirls around you, and he stares at you, his chest rising under your palms.

He takes a step away and refuses to meet your eyes. You deflate, your body going cold, and a blush spreads over your cheeks, your own boldness catching up to you. You release his tunic, and he lets his hands fall from your hips.

"Get some rest," he murmurs.

You bite your lip and turn away, heading back into the castle, heart pounding.

Chapter Text

"Goodness me, what a sight you are," Sazha mutters as she tucks blood-red flowers into your braids. She pulls your hair over your shoulder and adjusts the firestones gleaming at your throat. While you balked at another tight choker, the stones are set in a fine, glittering web that drapes around your throat, surrounded by onyx and silver. You'd not expected to wear such a lavish, eye-catching piece on your wedding day, but Sazha insisted the grandeur was not gaudy, but customary.

"I do not know about that," you say, fidgeting with your skirt. "Are you certain this is the appropriate amount of... décolletage?"

"Quite," she replies.

You glance down. The neckline of your dress is cut in a wide 'v', revealing the tops of your breasts, the firestones dipping between them. Your bodice is embroidered in fine gold thread, the hem decorated with intricate silver flowers, the train long and heavy. You look like a bride, certainly. Though not one of your own. No pure white gowns and delicate veils for you. Instead, you're garbed in red and gold, from the roses in your hair to the tips of your heels.

It feels a costume more than a wedding gown, in your humble southern opinion. But where a bride back home is meant to be innocent and chaste, here, a wife is a bold declaration of power.

Looking the part of a dragon's hoarde is, apparently, essential.

You look up at the mirror as Sazha sets about putting away her cosmetics. Your hair is done half-up in braids, twisted and pinned at the back of your head, and the rest falls in loose curls, cascading down your back. The braids are threaded intricately with firestones and gold, the jewels catching the light as you turn your head. Your silver armband glitters proudly around your bicep, and rubies and gold drip down your wrist and fingers like liquid flame. The choker melts over your collarbones, the onyx dark against your skin.

"There we are," Sazha says, dusting off her hands. She smiles brightly and clasps her hands. "You are radiant, Highness. The King will be delighted."

You snort and shake your head, smoothing down the front of your dress. "Are you certain His Majesty is capable of such a feat?"

"Oh, my dear," Sazha chuckles, her dark eyes sparkling, "have a little faith. I know men, and for all his severity, the King is a man."

You swallow and look over your reflection, and your expression pinches. The red gown hugs your figure tightly, and falls straight to the floor, where the bottom grades out into a wide trumpet with a long train. The train is embroidered in gold with thorns and roses, the patterns twisting and winding around each other, and the sleeves are embellished in the same pattern, the vines and flowers snaking around your arms. You're sure you're a vision.

You just don't feel like yourself.

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. "Is it not… vulgar?"

"Certainly not," Sazha replies, and you can hear her moving around, shuffling through her things.

"It is not a gown for a woman to be married in."

"Had I a body like yours, I would flaunt it."

You frown, and Sazha gives a soft laugh. She comes up behind you, and places her hands on your shoulders, her expression warm and kind.

"You look lovely, Your Highness," she says, and her smile widens. "My King is a gentleman, but he is neither a fool nor blind. And no man will be able to keep his eyes off you."

You scoff and turn away. "That is precisely my concern," you mumble.

Sazha laughs, and the sound is bright and warm. "Fear not, my dear. Your modesty does you credit, but a little vanity is allowed."

She smooths down the back of your dress and adjusts the train.

"And," she adds, her tone conspiratorial, "if the King's attention does not suit you, I believe many others will be happy to give it."

"Oh, saints. That is inappropriate, Sazha."

"It is the truth, and you know it," Sazha chuckles. She straightens back up and places her hands on your shoulders, looking up at you like a proud mother hen. "Though, I suspect it is not the attentions of other men that have you concerned."

You swallow. "Do not tease."

"I am not teasing." Sazha's expression is kind and gentle, and her eyes twinkle. "I have caught the way you look at him. You are not so subtle as you think."

"I—" You cut yourself off, teeth snapping shut, and huff. "And if I do not deny it, then? That I find him… pleasant?"

"Then it is no secret," Sazha says with a shrug. "But I think it is more than pleasant. You are fond of him."

You glance at the mirror, and bite your lip. "It matters little. My feelings are unimportant. And he—" You stop. Your gaze travels to the gems around your throat, and your stomach turns. You scowl and pull at the choker, and Sazha grabs your wrist.

"Oh, no, no," she scolds. "Leave it be."

You pause and glance at her, and her expression is gentle. There's a softness to her eyes, a warmth.

"Sazha," you whisper, voice small. "I think I will be sick."

"Oh, darling," Sazha murmurs. She rushes to your side and guides you back to the mirror, her hands firm. "Deep breaths, there we are. Focus on my voice."

She continues talking, but her words are lost in a blur, her voice fading to the background. Your mind is a whirlwind. You've spent so much time preparing, and yet you don't feel ready at all. You feel lost, confused. Your heart races, and you're suddenly lightheaded.

"Do not fret, my Princess, there, there," Sazha soothes. She runs her hand down your back, rubbing slow, comforting circles. "We will do this together, yes?" She lifts your head in her hands and smooths her thumbs over your cheeks, flushing away tears. "When you feel nervous, find my eyes in the audience. We shall get through this."

You nod weakly and sniffle. "I apologize. I'm—"

"No need to apologize," Sazha says gently. She cups your cheek, her fingers soft. "It is only natural to feel nervous, Highness. This is a big day. I would be surprised if you weren't a mess."

You give a wet laugh, and she smiles.

The clock strikes seven, and a knock sounds at the door.

"That will be your escort, my dear," Sazha murmurs. She stands and rushes to your wine cabinet, pouring a finger's length into a crystal cup. "Here. Have a drink, dear, and we will get you right as rain."

You take the glass and tip it back. It burns your throat, and you grimace. You're not a fan of wine, but the warmth spreading through your chest is welcome.

Sazha takes the cup and sets it down, and the door opens.

"Your Highness," the guard calls. "It is time."

Sazha squeezes your hand and leads you into the corridor. The guards fall into formation, boots echoing sharply on the tiled floor as they descend the grand staircase. Your heart hammers.

As they near the throne room, the thrum of drums and the rise of choral voices drift through the stone halls. You swallow hard.

“Breathe, Princess,” Sazha murmurs over your shoulder. “It’s only a ceremony.”

At the great doors, you hesitate. The guards step into place around you. Sazha offers one final nod before retreating, leaving you alone at the threshold.

The murmurs inside swell, then hush. The music fades. You press your palm to your stomach, trying to steady the churn.

Then the doors open. You step forward into the golden light.

All eyes turn. The crowd bows. You keep your gaze fixed ahead, spine tall, expression composed. The hall is vast, awash in warmth and color, yet it feels impossibly distant, like something viewed through glass. You can hear the rush of your heartbeat, the blood pulsing through your ears, the roar of your breathing, but everything else is a blur.

At the end of the aisle stands the altar, and beside it, the Draconite priest—hooded, robed in ceremonial white and crimson, his head bowed, hands clasped. On his breast rests a pendant: a polished black gem, inset with a symbol: two intertwined serpents, their fangs bared, their tails curled.

King Sylus stands beside him, his fiery eyes trained on you, his gaze sharp and intent. His mouth is pulled into a soft frown, his expression otherwise blank, arms folded across his chest. He's dressed in a deep black and red doublet embroidered with gold, the collar high and stiff, and the sleeves tight, his shoulders broad.

A long fur cloak trails from his shoulders, the pelt shimmering like the night sky, the tips dusted with a powdery frost. His stark white hair is swept up away from his face. Silver and firestone sparkle around his bicep, the mark of a King. He wears belts and harnesses around his waist and chest, covered in silver buckles and chains, with a sword sheathed at his hip, a jeweled hilt glittering.

He's a fearsome sight. Regal. Proud. Powerful.

You try to avoid his eyes as you step up to the altar and bow to him, but when you raise your head and are forced to face him, your breath catches. His eyes gleam, his pupils thin, vertical slits. His right iris roars with glowing flame, and you fight the instinct to cower away from him.

What has angered him, already?

He takes your hand, and you lace your fingers together, skin tingling where his warm touch meets your. You look away, eyes darting down to your feet as he helps you up onto the altar, his hand firm.

"Princess," he murmurs, his voice low.

"Majesty."

He lifts your red veil to reveal your face, and drapes it over your shoulders, his gaze lingering.

"Breathe," he commands in such a voice that brokers no refusal.

“Please, kneel,” the priest says, gesturing to the velvet cushions beneath you.

You sink down, the silk rustling, and the priest steps back. The room is silent. You can feel their eyes on you, can feel their judgement.

The priest’s voice rises, echoing through the chamber, but the words blur beneath the rush in your ears. The hall feels too large, the moment too close. Sylus remains beside you, kneeling in perfect stillness, save for the slow circles he draws against your wrists with his thumbs. Each pass of his skin is a spark, steady and maddening.

You repeat the vows as best as you can in your clumsy immitation of the northern tongue, your voice weak and trembling, and the priest turns to the King.

The King’s eyes drop to the floor, then slowly lift to you again. The pause stretches—long enough for your breath to falter. He squeezes your hands, and it takes everything in you not to pull away—not to turn and run.

"I, Sylus Qin Onychinus," he starts, his voice a deep rumble, "do swear to protect and cherish my wife and queen. To share in her burdens and victories, her sorrows and joys." He adds on: "To honor with my life and reign, to provide and comfort."

He says the words with such ease, it makes your throat tight. His gaze holds your, steady, and unflinching, his expression blank.

"The wine," the priest says.

A servant steps forward with a silver tray. Two glasses, deep red and glinting in the light. You accept yours with a trembling hand. The King takes the other, his long fingers curling around the stem.

Then he turns to you, and before you can brace for it, his arm curves around yours, intertwining them. The gesture is ceremonial, but his touch is anything but cold. His forearm is firm against yours, the heat of his body seeping through layers of silk and velvet. He is always so hot. Like a hearth lit within him. It is almost unsettling.

He steadies your glasses in the space between you, close enough that you can smell the spice on his skin.

“We drink,” says the priest, voice rising, “and are forever bound. Heart to heart. Soul to soul.”

His eyes soften, and something inside you twists. Your hands shake, the wine threatening to spill. The wine is dark and heady, bitter as blood. It lingers on your tongue.

The King drinks his in a few short swallows, and places the empty glass down, his arm still wound with yours.

"My Lord," the priest says, his voice gentle, "you may seal your vows."

Your brows crease, but the King's expression remains blank. He reaches forward to take your glass, and his hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lips. You swallow hard, your pulse racing.

He slides his hand over your waist, his fingers splaying across your back, and lifts your chin with one finger. The room spins. You feel weightless, trapped beneath his burning gaze, the air rushing in your ears.

But just as you think to pull away, he leans in.

And lands a soft kiss, just outside of the court's line of sight, to your cheek.

When the crowd erupts in applause, you come back to reality and glance up at him, a soft blush rising to your cheeks, tears beginning to well in your eyes. He offers you a knowing nod, and his hand moves down to take yours, lacing your fingers together and drawing you up to your feet.

"Rise, my children," the priest says, "and be wed."

"Long live the King!" the court shouts, the room erupting in cheers. "Long live the Queen!"

Sylus dips his head, and you hesitate for a brief moment before bowing in turn.

As the crowd disperses towards the dining hall, chattering and laughing, the King lets go of your, his hand falling to his side. He looks down at you, his gaze cold and unreadable, and you blink, heart fit to burst.

"Well done, my Queen," he says quietly, his voice low and husky, and offers his arm.

As you step into the dining hall, the crowd goes silent, and all turn, bowing their heads. King Sylus walks up to the head of the table, and gestures to the seat beside him. You sit down and fold your hands carefully.

The feast begins, the servants coming and going, bringing food and wine. You glance around, smile fading, hands curling into your skirts as you spot Father at the edge of the room, sulking with a glass of wine in hand, making eye contact with no one.

You sigh, and glance at Sylus. He's leaning forward on his elbows, his expression stern, and you look down, swallowing the knot in your throat.

The feast drags, the conversation dull. Father doesn’t look at you—whether by oversight or design, you cannot tell. Instead, he takes a glass from a passing servant with a curt nod.

It is all a bit much. The wine is heavy, the food is rich, and the company is stiff. The room is alive with celebration, the air ringing with laughter and joy, yet you feel distant, as though viewing the whole affair through glass.

The King sits rigid and silent, his gaze sharp, his posture straight. His eyes are dark, his face a blank mask. There's a heaviness to his brow, a tension in his jaw. He does not eat, nor drink, nor talk. He hardly moves.

His attention drifts to you. A quick glance. He says nothing. Does nothing. He just stares at you, his gaze a strange, heated intensity, then returns his focus to the feast. You can hardly bear to pick at the food on your plate, eyes always darting to your father, and the King, and back again, unsure who is more disappointed in you.

Father drains his cup, and waves his hand at a servant for another, his expression sour. He catches your eye, and his frown deepens.

He's hardly spoken a word to you in the past days, save for the occasional cold remark. He is not happy, and the way his eyes flit between you and the King, it's clear he's had plenty of time to decide who's at fault.

The savage King of the North, barbarizing his only daughter. Not to mention bringing her out to hunt and shoot, dressing her in trousers, and giving her a blade. It's a scandal. An embarrassment.

You've become an insult.

You sigh heavily and look away, and catch the King's gaze. His lips are pressed into a firm line, his eyes narrow. He waves over a servant with two fingers.

"A word," he says. He bends down to meet the servant boy's ear. "See my father-in-law safely back to his rooms. And have his cup filled before he departs."

"Yes, my Lord."

The King leans back in his chair and rests his chin on his fingers. You swallow, and your chest aches.

"Majesty," you say quietly, "you did not need to do that."

He gives a noncommittal hum. He doesn't look at you.

"Majesty."

He looks to you, finally, his gaze cool, and raises a brow. "You are my wife," he says. "I will not have you suffer the indignity of a public spectacle at your own wedding."

You look down, and press your lips together, stomach twisting. You nod and whisper, "Thank you."

He gives another noncommittal grunt, and his eyes trail back out into the hall. He sits tall and proud, his spine straight, his broad shoulders squared. His hands are folded, his long, tapered fingers steepled. He wears no rings, no jewelry, save for the mark on his arm. The same one as on yours.

"How did you find the ceremony?" he asks, his tone flat.

"It was—" Your voice falters, and you hesitate. "It was lovely."

"Hm."

The conversation dies. Silence settles like a fog, the tension heavy, the moment awkward.

"Thank you," you say eventually. He hums but says nothing, and you bite the inside of your cheek. "For… for the kiss."

"It was merely a gesture."

"I know," you say quickly, and clear your throat. "But still, thank you. I appreciate the respect."

He pauses, then glances at you. His expression softens, if only for a moment. He gives a small nod, and turns back to the feast.

"You are my wife," he says again. "But you are still my queen."

He raises his cup to his lips, and drinks, his gaze distant.

You swallow hard and look down, and take a shuddering breath. You fold your hands on the table and stare into the distance, eyes drifting to the windows and the night sky beyond.

"It is a beautiful night," you whisper.

"Mm."

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

You want desperately to drag him away from this place, to find somewhere quiet and private, away from the prying eyes and gossiping tongues. You wish you could have a proper conversation with him. Alone. But he seems intent upon making himself an island, his silence and distance a wall.

He's hardly spoken to you at all since the hunt. In fact, he's barely acknowledged your existence.

You can't imagine what he must be thinking, or why. Has your presence offended him so? Have you done something wrong? Perhaps he was merely playing a role, and has had his fill of pretense. Perhaps the idea of marriage displeases him. Or perhaps he was only doing his duty, and is eager to have you out of his way.

Your hands twist in your lap.

You let out a sigh and stand, and the King looks up, his brow raising.

"My Queen?"

"Forgive me, Majesty," you say, bowing. "I fear I have had too much wine. I should like to have some air. I will be in the gardens."

He nods, his expression unchanging. Part of you wants to beg him to accompany you, but you have no desire to embarrass yourself before him. You step away from the table, and the crowd rises, bowing their heads as you pass.

You walk out into the courtyard and draw a deep breath, and the cool, crisp air fills your lungs. The snow crunches underfoot, and the garden is lit by the silver moonlight. A chill breeze blows, and the scent of pine and frost fills your nose.

Your thoughts drift. You're still reeling from the events of the past few days. The hunt, the ceremony, the feast. You don't feel married. You don't even know what marriage is supposed to be. Perish the thought of a traditional wedding night, of course. The King could not be bothered to spare you that.

The moon hangs high overhead, and the wind whispers. You can see your breath, a plume of frost, and wrap your arms around yourself.

It's foolish. You are a hopeless, pathetic child, pining after a husband that does not want you. The King is a warrior, a conqueror, a man with a reputation that precedes him. He's hardly the sort to be bothered by a silly little girl.

And yet, the very thought of him touching you sends a spike of pleasure through you. The image of his fire-red eyes gazing down at you, the moonlight catching the rich silver threads of his hair. The thought of his lips against your skin, his hot, rumbling voice in your ear.

Sinking into you.

You shiver, and bite the inside of your cheek.

You've not allowed yourself to want it—not allowed yourself the fantasy. And yet, here you are. Alone, in the cold, aching with a hunger you cannot satisfy. It is shameful, but the thought of his arms wrapped around you, his hot skin searing your own, his voice a soft rumble in your ear, it fills you with a deep, burning desire.

You close your eyes and try to think of anything but your new husband, but every time the darkness settles over your lids, those lava-rich eyes glare back at you, bright and piercing.

You're about to resign to go back to your chambers and let your fingers drift down your thighs when you hear footsteps crunching through the snow.

Your heart jumps, and you spin around.

The King's eyes gleam, the shadows dancing across his face, and he comes to a stop beside you. He folds his arms across his chest and lets out a breath, his chest expanding beneath his tight doublet. He tilts his head, his gaze fixed on you.

"You will catch your death out here without a cloak," he says. His voice is soft, but commanding. "Go back inside."

You swallow hard and shake your head. "I am quite alright."

He hums and looks away. "You should be celebrating, not out here, freezing in the dark."

"And why are you not inside, Majesty?"

He pauses, his jaw shifting.

"It was difficult to breathe in there."

Your chest aches, and you lower your eyes, staring into the snow. You fold your arms and let out a breath, and a plume of frost rises like a cloud.

"It is overwhelming. I apologize, Majesty. I only needed a moment alone."

He nods and lets out a small huff.

"As did I," he says.

Silence settles over the garden. The wind whispers, and the snow drifts down in lazy flurries, dusting the branches of the pines.

"I should not keep you," you whisper. "Good night, Majesty."

You step towards the door, and his hand closes around your wrist. He draws a deep breath, and his hold tightens, the heat of his skin searing.

"Majesty?"

He pulls you back, and you stumble, catching yourself against his chest. His eyes burn down at you, pupils thin and vertical. His breath fans over your cheeks. He slowly reaches over his shoulder to unclasp his cloak. The fur slides off, and he wraps it around you, his touch gentle. He fastens the button around your neck, and lets his hands linger on your shoulders, his fingers splayed.

He doesn't move.

"You must learn to ask for what you want," he murmurs, his voice husky. "It is not a weakness."

You bite your lip. "I'm sure I do not know what you mean, Majesty."

"You are not a good liar," he says.

You glance up at him, and his eyes soften. He releases you, and turns to stare out at the garden. He folds his arms, and his brows crease, his gaze distant.

"You should be inside," he says.

You let the silence stretch. The night is quiet, and still. There is nothing but the wind, the trees, and the moon.

"If you are worried for my health," you say, "then, perhaps, we should return. Together."

His eyes dart to you, and his mouth presses into a firm line. You reach out to take his hand, and he cannot keep the surprise from his face. He looks down, and his thumb brushes over the backs of your fingers. His other hand curls around yours. You hope you can convey all of your desperation, all of your yearning, in the one touch.

"Will you walk with me, my Lord?"

His chest rises and falls. But he nods, forcing his expression into neutrality.

The walk to the doors is silent, and when you pass through them, he lets go of your hand, and folds his arms behind his back. He does not look at you. His eyes are trained forward, his spine straight.

The King shuts the door behind you and walks around you, the floorboards creaking. You take it in: shelves heavy with books and small carved figures, a desk strewn with open letters and half-used inkpots, a large map pinned above the mantel, riddled with red thread and brass pins. A chessboard rests in the corner, mid-game.

The bed looms at the far end—larger than hers, draped in forest green wool and thick pelts, the frame carved from dark spruce.

He says nothing. Neither do you. He stands at the far end of the room, hands folded, his gaze distant, and you shift, your hands twisting at your sides.

The silence stretches, the tension thick, the moment awkward. The King stares off into the distance, his gaze sharp. You can almost see the wheels turning, the gears grinding. He does not look at you.

"Did I offend you, Majesty?"

He glances up, his brow raising.

"What?"

You swallow. "I apologize, if I have—"

"No," he cuts you off, and takes a step towards you. "Why would you think that?"

"You've hardly looked at me, or spoken to me," you say. "Since the hunt. Since—"

"The hunt," he repeats.

"Yes," you breathe. "I was so foolish, I never should have—"

"It was my fault," he says.

You blink.

He shakes his head.

"It was my fault," he says again. "Not yours. I put you in danger by ignoring your worries from the very first howl." He clenches his jaw. "I thought I was protecting you."

"You did," you say. "You kept me safe."

"You should never have been in harm's way."

You want to thank him, to tell him how grateful you are for saving your life, but you don't know how. All of your gratitude feels insignificant in comparison to the questions racing through your mind. You can't shake the image of him standing over the bodies, his boots soaked in blood, the air thick with iron. How do you thank someone who has not only saved you, but also killed a full pack wolves on his own, without breaking a sweat? Without hesitation, or fear?

It was powerful. Animalistic. You're not sure what to say.

"I..." he pauses, his brow furrowed. "I worried for you."

Your head jerks up. He doesn't look at you. His throat works, and he licks his lips, his pupils narrow and fixed on the fire.

"You did?"

"Of course," he replies. "When we heard you screaming, and found you two surrounded, I thought..." He trails off and shakes his head. "I confess, I am not often rattled. But the sight of you in danger... it troubled me."

Your heart thunders. Your skin prickles, and you swallow thickly, eyes fixed on him. Your chest clenches as he meets your eyes, finally, and the fire dances behind him, flickering and glinting off his irises. They glow like molten metal, and his gaze burns into you. You're stunned into silence.

"I have not known what to say to you since," he says.

You lick your lips.

"Well," you say softly. "I have never known what to say to you, my Lord."

His eyes darken. He takes a step forward. Then another. The floorboards creak beneath his weight. He looks down at you, his brow set. "Do I frighten you, my Queen?"

You shake your head, and reach out. Your hand rests on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat. Strong. Steady. He covers your hand with his, his skin burning.

"No, Majesty," you whisper.

"Tell me the truth."

"I do not know the truth, my Lord," you say, "only that I am not afraid. And that I think of you, and of the hunt, and I..." You swallow, your voice trailing off.

"You what?"

"I am ashamed."

He pauses.

"Ashamed?"

You look down, and bite the inside of your cheek. "Yes, my Lord."

"Why?"

"For... for the way that I feel."

"And how do you feel, my Queen?"

You can hardly bear to meet his eye. He is so close, his scent filling your nose, his skin radiating heat. You want to lean into him, to press yourself against his broad chest, and have him hold you close. You want his touch. His kiss. You want his hands all over your body, and his breath hot on your skin. You want his voice whispering in your ear, his fingers tangled in your hair.

You take a shaking breath and push him away, gently. His hand falls from yours, and he takes a step back, his eyes narrow, his mouth pressed into a firm line. You cannot bear to meet his eye. You know he must be angry with you, and the thought of it sends a shudder through you.

You have embarrassed yourself. Shamed yourself. You're an idiot.

"Good night, Majesty."

You turn for the door, and the King catches your arm. He pulls you back, his grip bruising.

"Stay," he says.

You freeze. He lets go of your wrist.

"Stay," he repeats.

You let your arm fall back to your side, and try to meet his blazing red eye. He reaches for the clasp at your throat and undoes it, his touch gentle. He unwraps the cloak from around your shoulders and sets it aside, his eyes drifting up and down the length of you.

"Just tonight," he says.

"Would that be proper, Majesty?"

"We are married," he says bluntly. "I hardly sleep as I am. You may have the bed."

Your lips part, face burning. Your gaze darts to the bed, the blankets neatly made, and pillows piled high. The fireplace crackles.

"I will get you a book," he says. "And do some work at my desk. I will not bother you."

You nod, and watch as he steps away. He runs his fingers along the spines of the books, and you can't help but glance at his profile, his strong jaw and straight nose. He retrieves a heavy tome from the bookshelf, and returns, placing it gently in your hands. He nods towards the bed, his expression stony, and you move, heart hammering, legs shaking.

He settles down at his desk, and begins scratching something out on a piece of parchment, his quill scratching. You sit down, the mattress sinking under your weight, and pull off your boots, setting them by the bedside.

He does not look at you. You lie back and tuck your knees up to your chest, the book propped up on your stomach. The words blur before your eyes. Your heart thunders in your ears, and you can't focus, not with him sitting there, so close, but so far.

After a while, you hear a match light, and look up. He is seated at his desk, his pen scribbling, and the smell of burning incense fills the room, sweet and smoky. He looks back at you and nods.

"Natural remedy," he says, his accent thicker than usual.

You smile, and look back down at the book, but your eyelids grow heavier, body melting into the mattress, and your thoughts begin to quiet. You close the book and set it aside, sinking down into the pillows.

The room grows warm, the crackling of the fire lulling, and you yawn, the tension leaving your body. The room is still, and the bed is so soft, your eyelids drooping. It's another moment before King Sylus' chair pushes out from the desk, and he walks past the foot of the bed, his steps quiet. You crack your eyes open, watching as he rounds the corner of the bed and pauses, looking down at you.

"May I?"

You swallow. "Of course."

He pulls the blankets back and slides into the bed, his presence dwarfing you. He lies on his back, hands folded on his stomach, his expression cool and unreadable. You bite the inside of your cheek and curl up, facing away from him. The sheets are soft, and warm, and you pull them up over your shoulder. The mattress is softer than anything you've ever felt, and the furs tickle the back of your neck.

You look up at the canopy, the fabric thick, and pull the blanket up to your neck. He sighs and you close your eyes, listening to the sound of his breathing. The space between you does nothing to mitigate the intensity of the moment, the weight in the air. You can hear his heart beating, feel his warmth, his scent filling your nose.

His hand finds yours.

Your eyes dart to his. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling, his expression cool, but his fingers wrap around yours, his skin burning.

You turn onto your other side to face him, and find his bright red eyes already fixed on you, his expression unreadable. You hesitate. You don't know what he wants.

His eyes search yours, and he reaches out, his fingers brushing against the apple of your cheek. He pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and lets his hand rest on the pillow beside your head. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip.

"Sleep, my Queen," he murmurs.

You bite your lip, and he shifts. You reach out and press your hand to his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. His hand closes over yours, his skin rough. You want him so much closer, but the wall between you seems impassable, the barrier uncrossable.

"Goodnight, my Lord," you say.

He squeezes your hand, his fingers threading with yours. He gives a small nod, his face still impassive, and closes his eyes, letting out a breath. He raises your hand between you and presses a soft, slow kiss to the back of your palm, his lips hot. His eyes open, and his gaze burns into you.

"Goodnight, my Queen," he says.

When you wake, he is already gone.

Chapter Text

The knock comes late at night, after the candles have burned low, and the stars glitter outside your window.

The book is still resting in your lap, and you rub the sleep from your eyes, groggy and sore. You've been reading the same page for the past hour, and have gotten nowhere. The knock comes again, and you jump, the book falling from your lap.

The moon is high, and the night is quiet. You've come to something of an understanding with King Sylus since the wedding night; neither of you have to speak it to know.

He allows you into his bedchambers most nights, and you read while he works, the fire crackling, the room filled with the scent of pine and smoke. Sometimes he will work at his desk, other times, he will sit beside you, his long fingers working over the pages, his pen scribbling. His hand will find yours, sometimes, and he will press a soft kiss to the back of your palm, but little more.

It's not a relationship. You're not sure it is a marriage. But you find that you look forward to the time with him. To the warmth of the fire, and the sweet incense, and the quiet sounds of his breathing.

But at the end of the night, you retreat to your own chambers once again, alone. You haven't been able to bring yourself to ask him to stay, or to tell him what you want, or need. You are not even sure what that is. Never mind that your stomach flutters each time your hands brush. That his presence alone is enough to send a bolt of lightning through your heart. That his gruff voice and steely gaze are the first things on your mind when you wake in the morning, and the last before you fall asleep.

He doesn't kiss you, or touch you. Or speak a word about his thoughts, or his feelings. He doesn't seem interested in taking you, but he seems content with allowing you to keep him company. It's strange, and foreign, and you don't know what any of it means.

But you will take whatever he gives you.

You close the book and set it aside, stretching. You pull a blanket tight around your shoulders and pad over to the door, peeking through the crack.

King Sylus stands on the other side, dressed in a white shirt with the laces open, black trousers tight on his hips, and a dragonleather jacket and fur coat over his shoulders. His hair is wild and unbound, silver strands framing his face, his red eye shining like a ruby. You look him up and down, raising a brow at his leather gloves and riding boots, and open the door a bit wider.

"Majesty," you say. "Is everything alright?"

"Get dressed," he replies shortly.

Your brow furrows. "I am sorry?"

"I am going out riding," he clarifies. "I would like you to join me."

Your face scrunches, just as your stomach twists. "It is the middle of the night, Majesty. You are mad."

He shrugs. "Perhaps. But I would like to show you something, if you will allow it."

You tilt your head, studying him. He doesn't look like he's joking. And then again, he is hardly the joking sort.

"Very well," you say. "Just let me change into something warmer."

He nods and bows his head. "I will meet you at the stables, my Queen."

You shut the door and hurry to the wardrobe, pulling out the first pair of riding pants and coat you can find. You shrug into the wool and fasten the buttons, yanking on a pair of boots and throwing on a cloak. You leave swiftly, taking a torch from a sconce on the wall to light your way, and shuffling down the corridor.

It's quiet as you step outside, the wind whistling past the trees. Snow crunches underfoot as you run toward the stables, the wind chilling you to the bone.

Your breath hangs in the air, the sky bright with stars and the clouds moving quickly. Your nose and ears turn pink, and you rub your hands together, a shiver running up your spine. You duck into the stable and welcome the warmth of the fire, sighing and pulling down your hood. The King waits for you by his horse, already saddled and ready, petting her nose and murmuring quietly. She paws at the ground and tosses her head, nickering softly.

He turns to face you, and raises a brow, his eyes raking up and down your body. He doesn't say a word, just turns back to the mare, and you shift, rubbing your hands together.

"Do I pass inspection?"

"You will do," he says, patting the horse's neck. The horse huffs, her breath puffing out in a white cloud. He leads her out of the stall and takes her by the reins, glancing at you over his shoulder. "Kazhik is still in no state from the hunt. You will ride with me."

You swallow. "If you insist, Majesty."

"I do."

He lifts you into the saddle without effort, his hands strong and firm around your waist. He swings his leg over and settles down, and your thighs hug his hips, the leather of his jacket soft against your cheek. He smells like the forest—like fresh pine and wet earth. Your heart jumps as you wrap your arms around his middle, feeling the hard planes of his muscles through his clothing. His hands settle on the reins, and the horse paws at the ground, tossing her head.

He shifts just slightly, pulling away to unclasp his cloak, and turns in his seat, draping it over your shoulders and tying it beneath your chin. He pulls the hood over your head, and his fingers linger, just for a moment, brushing your cheek with the back of his knuckles. You stare, your throat closing around your breath as you meet his eyes.

His hand drifts to your chin, tilting your face up, and you hold his gaze, mouth parted. You swear, for the briefest, smallest moment, that his eyes drift down to your lips, and his touch makes you burn.

His eyes flick back to yours. "Warm?" he whispers.

You swallow. "Yes, Majesty."

He nods and faces forward. He clicks his tongue and his horse whinnies, breaking into a gallop out of the stables. She takes off across the snowy grounds, her mane flying, and the King's cloak billows behind him. The air is crisp and cold, and the trees whip past you, their branches bare and coated with snow. You cling to the King's back, burying your face in his jacket.

The wind rushes through your hair, and the trees become a blur of white and grey, and the moon is a beacon in the black sky, the stars twinkling. Your heart thunders and pounds, and you cling to the King, his back sturdy and warm against you.

He urges the horse faster, the woods becoming a dark, endless smudge. The mare's hooves thud on the ground, her snorts loud in your ears, and the air is freezing, nipping at your cheeks and nose. Your hands are clasped together at his front, and the wind makes his hair flow like water behind him.

"Where are we going?" you call over the sound of the wind.

"Patience, my Queen."

He leans into the gallop, and the mare picks up speed, her hooves kicking up snow. You hold tight, and squeeze your eyes shut, the world whizzing past you.

You hold on tight as you move forward deeper into the woods, the path dark and the trees looming above you. The stars sparkle, the moon hanging heavy and full, and you glance upward, admiring the constellations and their silver glow.

"It is beautiful," you murmur.

"You think so?" he asks.

You nod, your chin digging into his shoulder. "I was something of an astronomer in my past life. Long before..." You trail off, clearing your throat. "Before you."

"Before me," he repeats.

You bite your lip. "A friend of mine, when I was a girl—he knew the stars better than anyone else. He would teach me what he could. We would stay up until the sun rose, counting constellations and looking at maps of the skies. We would talk for hours."

The King's hands are tight around the reins, his knuckles white. He is quiet, his profile stern, his eyes fixed forward.

"You miss him," he says.

"Sometimes," you say softly. "Not as much anymore."

The path twists, and the woods become a thick, dense forest, the trees towering over you, and the stars disappear behind the clouds. Your breath hangs in the air, the chill sinking deeper into your bones.

The beaten path narrows, and King Sylus rears his horse away, steering her into the thick brush, away from the trail. You hold tight as you weave your way through the forest, the branches hanging low over their heads and the King guiding carefully.

You break free after a while, and he leads her through a large clearing, the moonlight pouring down over you.

You approach the glittering surface of a wide lake, its surface reflecting the moon and the stars in a silvery sheen. The King slows his horse to a walk, and guides her around the perimeter, the fallen leaves and soft snow crunching beneath her hooves.

You sit up, peering over the King's shoulder. "What is this?"

"Somewhere only I know," he replies, his voice soft.

The lake is beautiful, its waters glittering and the snow surrounding it a smooth, unbroken blanket. You lean forward, pressing closer against his back.

He swings his leg over the saddle and hops down, and you lean over, resting your hand on his shoulder as he helps you dismount. You stumble when your boots hit the ground, and he holds you tight, his hands on your waist, steadying.

"Careful," he murmurs. "It is icy."

You place your hands on his chest, using finding your footing in the slippery grass as an excuse to linger. Your face burns as he looks down at you.

He takes a step back and lets you go, and turns away, waving you along behind him. You furrow your brows, but keep up, cloak blowing in the wind. He walks slowly, his boots sinking into the soft snow, and you move away from the lake and toward a small grove of trees, their trunks gnarled and twisting, their branches hanging low.

The King moves a branch aside, holding it up for you, and the space between the trunks is hidden, the snow a blanket of white. He lets the branch fall back into place, and the space is dark, only the smallest shafts of moonlight slipping through. You hold his arm as you walk forward, and his touch is hot and firm, his steps slow.

He leads you over a narrow ridge, telling you to watch your step, and helps you down a slope, the trees growing thicker and closer together, the branches and trunks dense. You look around, squinting into the darkness, and swallow, looking back up at him.

"Was this worth waking me in the middle of the night?" you tease.

"We are not there yet," the King replies.

"Will we be gone long?" you ask, rubbing your arms. "I will freeze if we stay out much longer."

"A few moments," the King says, "if you'll trust me."

"With my life, Majesty."

He turns and leads you onward, and you keep your hand on his arm, your other clutching the front of your cloak. You can barely see anything beyond the reach of his torch, the shadows seeming to come alive, and the air is colder, the wind howling.

You make your way through the trees, the snow falling softly, and pass through a small clearing, the moonlight spilling over you. Ahead, a large rock formation rises from the ground, the stones stacked neatly on top of each other, a wide gap between the largest two boulders, the sides jagged and rough.

You're close enough to the mountains now that the snow is thick and the air is chilly. You follow closely behind the King, clutching his fingers tightly. The path opens to the mouth of a large cave, and the wind picks up behind you, the snow falling thick and heavy. The King pulls you forward, and you stumble after him, boots sliding on the icy stone.

"Come," he calls. "This way."

You hold his hand tight as you follow him, the cave stretching wide before you. It's cool and damp, the ceiling dripping with moisture. You keep a tight grip on his hand, and his footsteps are light and sure.

It's warmer inside the cave, the stone insulating against the wind. You walk carefully, the King lighting a torch and holding it aloft, and you make your way down a wide path, the ground smooth and the ceiling high above your heads.

After a moment, he stops in his tracks, and you almost run into him. You step to his side, looking at his face, and follow his gaze.

The cave opens, widening into a massive chamber, and your breath seizes.

A huge, hulking shape is curled against the wall, its sides moving up and down. Its body is covered in scales and plates, its tail thick and pointed, curved horns growing from the crown of its skull. Claws long as swords, shiny, dark wings folded against its body, its back rising and falling with every breath. Its head rests on the stone, and it snores gently, its jaws open just enough for you to see the fangs peeking from between its lips.

Your eyes go wide, and you press a hand to your mouth, holding in a gasp.

The dragon's skin is dark grey, its scales glimmering, its body covered in spikes. Its eyes are closed, its tail curled around its legs, and its breaths are slow and steady.

You pull on the King's arm, hiding behind him, mouth agape.

"Your Majesty, what is this?" you hiss.

"Calm yourself," he says, his warm hand coming up to cover your. "It will not hurt you."

It's bigger than five whales, and could easily crush the two of you in one swipe of its claws. You're not entirely sure it couldn't hurt you.

"Majesty," you protest, trying to push him away.

He holds you in place. "Trust me, my Queen," he whispers. "You are safe. This is one of the few places in the world where you truly are."

He steps away before you can stop him and walks toward the dragon. You watch with wide eyes as he kneels down, and the creature shifts, its tail swaying. For a moment, you think it will wake and attack you both, and you hold your breath.

The King touches its muzzle, stroking his hand over the scales, and the dragon's eyes open, a golden color shining from beneath its lids. It breathes deep, and a puff of smoke leaves its mouth, its nostrils flaring. It stretches its wings and yawns, showing off its rows of teeth, and a long, red tongue curls out.

"King Sylus!" you hiss, taking a step backward.

He whispers something in his own language that you can't hear, and the dragon makes a quiet snorting sound, its eyelids fluttering. He turns back to you and waves you forward, and you blink, your heart hammering.

"Come, sit," he whispers.

You swallow hard, looking between the King and the dragon. Its golden eyes are half-lidded, its pupils slitted, and its breath comes out in a cloud.

Slowly, carefully, you inch forward, holding your cloak around yourself, and kneel down beside the King.

He whispers something again, and the dragon stirs, opening one huge amber eye. It blinks and shifts, and the King strokes its head, murmuring in a soothing tone. You stare, your throat dry, and the dragon makes a sound like a purr.

You take his hand and kneel next to him, hiding halfway behind his shoulders. The dragon looks at you, its gaze piercing, and you feel as though it's looking into your very soul. It stares, unblinking for a long moment, and you swear you can hear the King snicker. He wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, and you hold your breath.

"What are you doing?" you squeak.

"Relax," he says.

He guides your hand up and sets it on the dragon's head, his hand curling around yours. You can feel its warm breath on your face, the scales smooth and hot beneath your touch. You hold still, your hand trembling, and the dragon tilts its head, its horns brushing your palm. It makes another deep, rumbling sound, sighing, and closes its eyes again.

You let out a soft, shuddering breath. "It is…"

"Beautiful, yes?" the King murmurs.

"Incredible."

He smiles, and you feel his arm tighten around your waist. His warmth bleeds through the fabric of his coat, and the dragon's scales are smooth and warm.

You look up at the King, and he meets your eyes. His gaze is uncharacteristically gentle, his expression open and curious. His arm is wrapped around your middle, holding you close, and he tilts his head, brushing your hair behind your ear. You're grateful to the darkness to hide your blush.

"Are you afraid?" he whispers, the slightest, gentlest of smirks touching his lips. It takes your breath away.

"Yes," you admit. "A bit."

He smiles again, and his fingers linger on the apple of your cheek, stroking lightly. Your stomach twists and flutters.

He pulls you in closer in front of him, your back steady against the hard planes of his chest. You can feel his breath stirring your hair, the warmth of his hand against the curve of your hip, the hard muscle of his thighs pressed into the back of your own. His fingers trail down your jaw, tilting your head back to rest against his shoulder. You can't help but melt into his touch.

His lips come down to trace the shell of your ear, and you shiver.

"She will not hurt you," he whispers. "Do not be afraid."

You want to kiss him so desperately it hurts. You hope he can't tell that you are not trembling because of the beast before you, but from the one behind you, holding you gently like a cruciger.

You swallow and pull away, just slightly. His warmth leaves a tender ache on your flesh in absence, but the cold is better than the torture. The knowing he does not want you.

The wishing.

You look down, and the dragon's eye is open, its gaze boring into you. You stare, your eyes wide, and the beast makes a quiet rumbling sound. It closes its eyes again, and you swallow. You look up at the King, but his eyes are on the beast, expression pensive.

"She is sick," he says eventually.

You blink. "Sick?"

He nods, his hand resting on the dragon's muzzle. "She will not last the winter." His voice is strained, tight. "Not much longer."

You turn your gaze on the beast, feeling your heart break by degrees. You reach out and pet the dragon's head, your hand stroking over its scales, and its breaths are steady and slow, its eye half-closed. You feel a sudden pang of grief, looking at the beautiful, fearsome creature. But you will not cry. Not for an animal you have just met, and certainly not in front of the King.

"Why did you bring me here?" you whisper.

The King is silent for a moment, watching the beast, his brows drawn together. His jaw clenches and he curls his fingers.

"Her name is Vetyra," he answers. "She was my mother's. And my grandfather's, before her." He pauses, and his throat bobs. "She is not so young as she used to be."

"Oh." You don't know what else to say. You blink back tears as you rest your hand on the King's arm, his skin burning hot even through his coat. He seems to lean into your touch, his gaze fixed ahead, and the dragon lets out a deep, rattling breath.

He scowls, the muscle in his jaw pinching. He looks away. "I suppose she is all I have left of her." He turns to meet your eyes, and you hold his gaze. "I wanted you to see her. Before she dies."

The dragon huffs and stirs, and the King turns to stroke her nose. She sighs, smoke billowing from her nostrils, and the King scoffs.

"You will, you stubborn old wyrm."

The dragon's ears flick, and she makes a low, growling sound. She nuzzles her nose gently against the King's shoulder, and his expression softens.

You bite the inside of your cheek, watching the King with the beast. The King never speaks of anything personal. Hearing him speak of his mother's dragon, and his apparent affection for the beast, is strange, and sad, and a little overwhelming. You feel a sudden wave of sorrow, and a lump rises in your throat. You want to hug him, or to hold his hand, or turn and bury your face in his shoulder and hold him tight.

You don't know why, but he is showing you a part of himself. A side you have never seen. And that has to mean something, right?

"I am honored to meet her," you whisper. "She is beautiful."

The King doesn't respond, his hand rubbing circles over the dragon's muzzle. He pets her head, murmuring in his language, and she purrs. Her tail curls, and her ears flick.

"She is two hundred and thirty years old," the King says, his voice barely more than a whisper. "She is the last family I have left on this earth."

Vetyra yawns, her massive jaw opening, and shifts, nuzzling into your lap. You look up, your eyes meeting the King's, and he freezes, his hand pausing over the beast's cheek. He blinks at you, his mouth hanging open, and you stare back, your heart thudding against your ribs.

"Is this alright?" you ask. Vetyra curls closer.

The King blinks, and he nods slowly, his throat bobbing. "I... Yes. This is fine," he says quickly, clearing his throat. Maybe for the first time in all your time knowing him, he shows an emotion other than stoicism or irritation on his face. He looks surprised. Awed. Proud.

Vetyra lets out a long, slow sigh, and her head settles into your lap. You smile and touch her muzzle, her scales cool to the touch. She nuzzles you, making a rumbling, growling sound. The King gawks..

You giggle. "What?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing at all."

"I can leave if you want," you say. "You two could talk."

He blinks. "She is not much for a conversation."

Vetyra lets out an incredulous grumble, her head rising and her neck stretching. You grin. "It seems you are mistaken."

The King snorts, and you laugh. He looks at the beast, and then at you, and his eyes are soft, the corner of his mouth turned upward.

Vetyra purrs, her head falling back into your lap, and the King reaches out and strokes her cheek. You run your hands along her horns, the tips sharp as daggers, and her scales are cool and smooth to the touch. She sighs, her nostrils flaring.

The King's eyes soften. You look at him, and for a moment, time stops. He watches the dragon with a look of such tenderness, such care, that it takes your breath away. He is beautiful, his face aglow with the torchlight, the fire dancing in his eyes.

You watch the light play over his face, his features cast in shadows and gold.

"We should let her rest," he murmurs.

Vetyra makes a noise of protest, but her eyelids are half-closed, her breaths heavy. King Sylus shakes his head. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to the dragon's nose, and you turn away, your face growing hot.

"Go to bed, stubborn old lady," he says.

The dragon makes a deep, rumbling sound and shifts, her tail uncurling and her wings stretching. She huffs, blowing smoke, and lays her head down, her body shifting as she curls herself around.

He stands and offers you a hand, and you take it. He leads you back out of the cave, and into the cold, and you hold tight, following behind him. The dragon's eye cracks open, and it watches you leave, a low, rumbling growl in her chest. The King looks back, squeezing your fingers, and leads you forward, down the narrow, dark tunnel.

The dragon seems to fall asleep again, and the cave falls silent, save for the crackle of the torch and their footsteps. You look back at the King, but his expression is stony again, his gaze hard and far away. You want to say something, but can't think of anything that might be appropriate, so you bite your tongue and keep walking, squeezing his warm fingers gently.

You don't let go until you step out into the clearing, and the moon is shining high above you. The air is still and the sky is clear, and the King stops and helps you onto his horse, climbing up after.

"Thank you," he murmurs, settling his hands on the reins.

"Of course, Your Majesty." You hold tight as he urges the horse into a trot, and she breaks into a run, tearing across the open field and back into the trees. You hold on, the cold wind biting at your skin, the King's arms caging you in.

He steers her back onto the path, and they make their way toward the castle.

"Your Majesty," you murmur, leaning back against him. "Thank you. For sharing her with me. It means a lot."

He's silent for a moment, and then says, "She seemed to like you."

You laugh. "I liked her, too. Very much."

He chuckles, and the sound reverberates through his chest. "Perhaps you can see her again," he says.

"I would like that."

He's silent, and you can't tell if he's pleased, or annoyed, or somewhere in between. The thought that it might be the former sends a warm flush down your spine.

"Let's get you back to bed," he murmurs.

You pull your furs tighter around your shoulders, and rest your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

Chapter Text

King Sylus is locked away with his breakfast in his office when you find him the next morning, his nose buried in a ledger. You knock quietly, and the door swings open, the guard nodding to you as you slip inside.

The King's eyes are narrowed, his face set in a scowl. He doesn't look up as you enter, his quill scratching, and the fire is roaring in the hearth, his hair glowing gold.

His office is large, with a huge desk in the center and an array of weapons hanging from the walls. There are maps pinned to the back wall, and a fireplace crackling behind his chair. He sits at his desk, his sleeves rolled up, silver armband glinting, and looks over a stack of papers, a half-empty plate of fruit and smoked meats in front of him.

He's so absorbed, he doesn't look up when you enter, and your steps are muffled by the rug. You walk slowly, your skirt brushing the floor, and set a cup of tea in front of him. His brow is furrowed, his lips pursed, and he doesn't look up.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," you murmur.

"Mmm," he hums, flipping a page. "To what do I owe the pleasure, my Queen?"

"I brought you tea," you say, holding your hands in front of you.

"You may leave it, thank you."

"I also wanted to speak to you, if that is alright."

He finally looks up, his gaze cataloguing your face. His eyes are soft, the line between his brows creased. His eyes flick over your form, and rest on your neck, where you sport a tight black-and-red choker, matching your long dress. He rips his gaze away and clears his throat.

"Of course," he says. "Have a seat."

You sweep your red skirts to the side and take a seat on the cushion. He pushes his plate toward you silently, and you take a blackberry, popping it into your mouth.

"I've been thinking," you say, and he watches you. "About last night."

"I thought you might," he replies, his tone flat. "What is it that troubles you?"

"I... Well, nothing. Truly." You pause, and his brows lift. "It is not trouble, necessarily."

The King looks up and sets down his pen, crossing his arms and giving you his full attention. "I'm listening."

"It is simply that after meeting Vetyra," you lead, "and after seeing how fond of her you are, I..." You pause, and he frowns, his lips pressing together. You take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I cannot help but find myself agreeing with you."

"Agreeing?"

"I have given the matter much thought overnight, and I believe that you may be right. They are not property, and they should not be treated as such."

"Oh," he says, his brows furrowing. He leans back, and his gaze sharpens, his eyes piercing. "And this was brought about by meeting Vetyra?"

"Yes," you admit. "I saw a connection between you. She was... affectionate. And smart. And you are protective of her."

"Of course I am."

"She is your family."

His expression falters. "Yes."

Your face softens. You look at the King, thinking of the dragon, the way his face slackened talking to the beast. He was so kind, so tender; so very different than you've seen him before. You wish he would show you that side of himself more often.

"I do not think they should be traded or used as tools," you say finally.

His brows raise. He pushes his papers away and leans forward, folding his hands. "You truly mean that?"

"I do," you answer, sitting up straight and lifting your chin. "And I believe you simply cannot hold up your end of our bargain. It was unfair to ask it of you, and until now, I did not know the gravity of my father's demand."

He glances up, and your eyes lock. The fire crackles behind him, and your pulse quickens. His lips purse, his nostrils flaring, and his eyes flick back and forth, searching you face.

"So," he says slowly, "you wish to renegotiate."

"Yes," you answer earnestly. "Please, my King."

"Your father would never allow it," he replies.

"I do not care," you say, and his brows rise. "It is the right thing to do, and I cannot bend to his whims any longer. Offer him gold, or weapons: anything. Not a baby."

"You would defy him," he says, his voice low, his gaze unwavering. "And risk your father's ire."

"There is no other choice," you answer. "Not anymore."

He takes a deep breath, and rubs his face, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the desk. "You do not have to convince me, my Queen," he mutters. "He will not accept it. We are already married, this is what he has bargained for. Our alliance will be on shaky ground, at best."

"That is a risk I am willing to take," you say. "I cannot live with myself, knowing that a child's life is being traded for my hand."

The King's lips press together, and he turns, facing the fire. He crosses his arms and leans back, his jaw working, and stares into the flames. He's silent for a long moment, and then looks back at you.

"You are kind, my Queen. And brave." He pauses, his jaw working. "I admire your strength."

Your heart races, and your throat is suddenly dry. You swallow and look away, feeling a rush of blood to your cheeks. You hope the blush isn't too obvious.

"You are a good man, Your Majesty," you whisper, meeting his eyes.

"Hardly."

"You are."

He stares, his expression inscrutable, and the fire dances, casting his features in shadows. He looks at the fire, and then at you, his eyes soft. "I will write to him. But be warned, this may be a grave error, on both our parts."

"I am willing to take the risk," you say. "For Vetyra." For you.

"Then it is done," he says, and his tone leaves no room for argument. "We shall send him a letter, and wait for his response. Perhaps the gods will take pity on you and give you the outcome you desire."

You sag, relief flooding through you.

"Thank you," you murmur. "I truly appreciate it."

He doesn't respond. His eyes narrow, his gaze searching yours, and you shifts. His stare is unnerving, and you want to look away, but force yourself not to. He doesn't speak, and your heart beats faster the longer the silence drags on. His eyes are searing, the strange color glowing in the firelight.

"You are an interesting woman, my Lady," he says.

You blink, and feel a sudden pang of nerves. Your belly flutters. "Interesting."

"Indeed," he replies. He looks back down, and grabs a clean sheet of parchment, picking up his pen again and twirling it between his fingers. "You continue to exceed expectations."

You smile. "Thank you, my King. You are quite interesting yourself."

He glances up, and there's a hint of amusement in his eyes. His mouth curves, just slightly. Not a smile, but perhaps close enough. "Am I?"

"Of course," you say. "Very interesting."

His smirk widens, and he looks back down at the paper, dipping his quill and scratching something on the page.

"Now, I have work to attend to, and I'm sure you are busy, as well. Do not let me keep you, my Queen."

"Thank you," you reply. You stand and gather your skirts, bowing deeply and making your way to the door.

The King nods, his gaze trained on the paper. "Of course," he murmurs, scratching a signature across a sheet, and looking up beneath his lashes. His eyes gleam. "But it is not only for Vetyra, is it?"

You stop, a hot flush rising to your face. He knows, of course he knows. You swallow, and look down, heat spreading down your chest.

"You are perceptive, my King."

He shrugs one shoulder and goes back to his work. "It is a gift, I suppose," he says, voice low. "Good day, my Queen."

"Good day, Your Majesty."

You walk out, and the door shuts behind you. You lean against the wall, a hand over your face. He knew. Of course he knew. He's seen you watching him, the way you stare. The way you want. He's seen right through you, and he knows exactly what is happening, and he's letting it happen.

Perhaps not all hope is lost.

You hurry back down the hall, and a smile breaks out on your face.

─

The letter arrives at lunch two weeks later, the parchment rolled tightly and bound with a string, and addressed to yourself, not King Sylus. The letter is thick and sealed with your father’s crest, the wax smeared slightly, as though pressed in haste.

You look up to King Sylus as the letter is laid before you, and he nods, picking at his food.

"You may read it, my Queen," he says. "I already have a guess."

"I believe we both do," you reply.

You reach out and pick it up, sliding your finger under the seal and breaking it. The letter is written in a hurry, the handwriting sloppy, and you can't help but roll your eyes. Of course he didn't even bother with a formal response, and you can tell, just from the appearance of the text, that he is not happy with you.

You unfold the parchment and scan the words, and your face drops.

"I knew he would not be pleased," the King says. "What has he said?"

"He says," you start, looking down and clearing your throat, "'I have received word of this latest insult to our agreement, and I am appalled by your behavior. Have you forgotten your purpose in the North? Do you think yourself above your duty? Your newfound compassion is not a strength; it is a liability.'"

You look up, and the King nods, expression inscrutable.

"Go on," he says.

"'That king you call a husband is no more than a beast, and he will devour you should you give him the opportunity. He has corrupted you, and, foolishly, you have let him. These creatures mean nothing to him, and neither do you, beyond how you might serve his ends. I would not see you waste your life on the whims of a barbarian. You must learn your place, or suffer the consequences.'"

The King's face falls. He looks at the table, his brow furrowing, and the silence stretches on. You set the letter down and take a sip of your tea, looking down.

"'Your brother is as disgusted as I. We expected better of you—far better. The king will pay for this insult, one way or another, and you will deliver that message. Remind him of his place, or I will do it myself. If he refuses to honor our agreement, I will come to his lands and see it enforced. Do not think I will hesitate to take what is ours by right, and you, with me.'"

You frown, face twisting as you read aloud, fingers gripping the edges of the parchment.

"'You are my daughter, and your duty is to me, and your family. Not to some cold, arrogant savage and his dragons. I did not marry you to become a foreign Lord's pet. You were given to him for a purpose, and that purpose is not to coddle him and his beasts. Now is not the time for childish sentiment. Your family’s legacy depends on your actions. Do not fail us again.'"

The silence between you is heavy, and you stare down at the letter, mouth dry. You don't want to look up. You know the King is watching you, his gaze sharp and penetrating. He is a master of composure, but even so, there is a part of you that fears his judgement.

His voice is quiet and low. "Well, I certainly do not recall ever calling you a 'pet'."

You can't help but huff a laugh as you look up. The warmth in his eyes soothes the worry in your chest, and the tension in your shoulders eases. You take a deep breath and set the letter down, smoothing out the creases.

"I believe cold, arrogant savage may have some merit, however," he says.

You roll your eyes, your lips twitching. "I hoped," you say softly, "that I might be able to convince him to change his mind."

"Your father," the King murmurs, his brows furrowing, "is not a man who takes well to being told what he can and cannot have. Least of all when that is his daughter."

"No," you agree. "He is not."

"So now," he says, his eyes flicking between yours, "what will you do?"

"What would you have me do, Your Majesty?"

"I would have you make your own decision."

"I wish not to bring war upon my husband," you say.

He shrugs. "He is only trying to strongarm us into compliance with empty threats. His army is small, and not well-equipped. It would not be hard to fight them off, if it came to that."

Your eyebrows raise as your eyes widen. "Are you serious?"

He glances at you, his gaze cool. "That all depends on how serious you were about protecting the dragons."

"I meant it," you say, your voice firm. You straighten in your chair, meeting the king’s gaze head-on. "I meant every word, Majesty."

King Sylus watches you carefully, his expression unreadable. The flickering firelight catches in his eyes, turning them to molten gold. "War is unlikely, but your father’s threats cannot be dismissed outright. He underestimates my people, as most outsiders do, but desperation makes men unpredictable."

Your heart sinks at the thought. You know your father’s pride too well to believe he would back down without a fight. Still, the idea of bloodshed—of your father leading an attack against this land—sits heavily in your chest.

"Then we will have to do our best not to force his hand," you say.

"I agree," King Sylus answers. "Your father thrives on dominance. A show of deference will embolden him, but a challenge might provoke him. We must tread a fine line."

"He’s not a man who responds well to subtlety. If he feels slighted, he will escalate."

The King leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Which is why my response must be both firm and diplomatic. He needs to understand that we will not yield to his demands, but I will offer him no excuse to claim we’ve broken the alliance outright."

You fold your hands in your lap, clasping your fingers together. "What do you suggest?"

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. "I will offer your father five hundred pounds of gold," he says, his tone measured, almost casual. "A generous sum, wouldn’t you agree? Enough to suggest I value his... contributions to this alliance, but not so much as to concede the dragons."

You blink, startled by the suggestion. "Gold?"

"A compromise. Compensation for the beast he seems to think belongs to him."

You stare at him, trying to gauge his expression. His words are carefully chosen, but the faintest curve of his lips betrays something sharper—a glint of satisfaction that makes your stomach tighten. "You think he’ll see it as an insult."

King Sylus doesn’t deny it.

"You would offer him so little, knowing that it would insult him."

"No one says it will insult him," the King says, shrugging and taking a long sip of his tea.

You smile slightly, covering your mouth with your hand. "Do you think that is the correct move?"

"I do," he answers, his eyes narrowing. "If he wants a war, we will be ready. And if he wants to come and drag you back to your country, he will have to go through me."

The words send a jolt through you. The King's face is as calm and composed as ever, his posture relaxed, his gaze cool and steady. You know there is no malice behind his words, no intent to frighten or intimidate. He speaks as though he is stating simple facts, and yet, you find yourself moved by his defense.

He will fight for you.

It is an odd thought, one that sends your pulse racing and throat tightening. His words are a promise, and the realization sends a chill down your spine.

"Your father," King Sylus continues, "is not accustomed to being refused. That will make this situation volatile, but it also means he is predictable. He will huff, posture, and rage—but he will not act without first weighing his own losses."

"And if he does act?"

The King’s gaze meets yours, steady and piercing. "Then he will find me far more formidable than he imagines. You needn’t fear, my Queen. His ambitions will not find purchase here."

The King is a man who has endured. Who has fought and conquered, and emerged triumphant. And the look on his face tells you that no matter the outcome, no matter the threat, he will not stand by while your father tries to take his empire.

Later that night, after the weight of the day's events has settled into an uneasy silence, you find yourself invited to dinner with the King in the dining hall again. The table is set, a modest but welcoming spread before her, and to her surprise, King Sylus and Tara are already there.

You raise a brow. "A late-night council?"

King Sylus motions for you to take a seat, his usual composure in place but his eyes betraying a hint of amusement. "You've had a difficult evening. I thought you could use a better ending."

"Oh," you say, unable to keep the smile from your face. "I am not certain if I should be afraid."

Tara rolls her eyes and glances at him out of her periphery, a smile playing at her lips. "When my King is involved, it is always wise to be."

You snicker as you take your seat beside the King, folding your hands in your lap. “Do not let him poison me, Tara. I’m trusting you.”

“As you should,” Tara replies, chin lifted. “You’re lucky, my Queen. Not many receive the honor of my protection.”

King Sylus appears to ignore the banter, though a glint of amusement flickers in his amber eyes. He gestures for the servants to bring the meal, and a comfortable silence settles as plates are set before you.

You begin to eat, but your attention drifts—inevitably—back to him. Even in repose, Sylus looks carved from something stronger than stone: broad-shouldered, relaxed, impossibly composed, as though the weight of the entire kingdom has no purchase on him. When he glances up and catches you watching, you smile despite yourself, a warm flush rising in your chest.

“You seem pleased with yourself,” you remark, taking a bite of your fish.

He takes a slow sip of wine, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “I have good reason."

“What are you plotting, Majesty?” Tara asks, raising a skeptical brow.

Sylus sets down his glass. “A surprise,” he says simply. He flicks a glance toward a servant across the room, giving a subtle nod. The man hurries off.

“A surprise?” you echo.

“Yes.”

The servant returns carrying a neatly folded bundle of fabric. Sylus accepts it with a quiet word of thanks and dismisses him. You stare, and Tara looks just as bewildered.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Sylus says, amusement warming his voice.

“I’m simply confused,” you reply. “What is it?”

He begins untying the cord that holds the bundle together, separating two parcels and handing one to each of you.

You unfold yours—and your jaw drops. Tara’s eyes widen in matching disbelief. Sylus watches you both, his expression deceptively unreadable.

You run your hands over the soft grey fur of the jacket, the stitching fine, the texture warm and luxurious. Tara lifts her own jacket with a grin, showing you it’s the same.

“What is this for?” you ask, looking toward Sylus.

He gives a small shrug. “Greatwolf skin.”

You blink, then understanding hits. “The wolves? These are from the hunt?”

“Yes.” His voice softens. “I thought they should go to you.”

Tara stares at him, startled. “Your Majesty, I can’t accept this. It’s too generous, I—”

“I think it’s a fitting gift,” Sylus interjects, one brow arching.

“But it’s far too expensive, Majesty.”

He answers with an exasperated look—though even that, on him, carries a sort of magnetic gravitas. “Without you, I wouldn’t have killed even one. You took down the first wolf. You bought me the time to save the Queen. I owe you a great debt, Tara. Take the jacket and stop arguing with me.”

You hide a laugh behind your hand as Tara’s expression collapses from polite refusal into reluctant gratitude.

“Thank you, my King,” she murmurs.

Sylus nods once. “Good.”

You run your fingers over the fur again, then meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

His gaze softens—quiet, intense, almost too warm—and your heartbeat stutters. “You are welcome,” he says gently.

The heat in your chest blooms, impossible to ignore. His lips curve in the faintest smile, and your breath catches.

Your father’s warnings whisper through your mind, but they are easy to drown beneath the weight of Sylus’ bright red eyes.

You place the jacket on your chair and stand. His brows pull together as you approach, but you only smile and take his hand. Against all expectation, he lets you pull him upright—hesitant, stiff—and you draw him into a hug, pressing your face against his chest.

For a heartbeat he freezes, and you almost withdraw, wondering if you have crossed a line. But then, his arms come around you, pulling you closer. Your heart skips a beat, and a rush of warmth floods through you. His hand comes to rest on the small of your back, his fingers splayed against the fabric of your gown, and his other hand cups the back of your neck, the pad of his thumb rubbing gently at the base of your skull.

His touch is hesitant, almost cautious, but you find comfort in the embrace nonetheless.

From the table, Tara coos. You whip a glare her way as she smothers a laugh behind her hand.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” she teases. “You two are adorable.”

Sylus releases you with a low scoff, leveling Tara with a look sharp enough to cut through steel. You laugh.

“Perhaps that’s enough thanks for tonight,” you say.

“For my life,” Sylus mutters as he sits back down, taking a long drink of wine.

You smile, cheeks warm, and return to your seat, pulling the jacket close and resting your cheek against the fur. Sylus’ eyes linger on you—a slow, heated sweep—before he pointedly turns away.

Tara snickers behind her hand. “Incredible, my Queen. You’ve softened his icy heart.”

Sylus scoffs. “I am surrounded by fools.”

Tara only grins at you. “See?”

Sylus sighs deeply. “Tara.”

“Yes, Majesty?”

“Get out.”

Chapter Text

One morning, as the sun’s first light filters through the frosted windows, you step into the hallway, pulling your shawl tighter around your shoulders—only to find King Sylus striding toward the doors, his dark cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow. You pause, watching him for a heartbeat before calling softly, sleep still clinging to your voice.

“Are you leaving, Your Majesty?”

Sylus stops and turns. Without his silver circlet, he looks less like a king and more like the man beneath the crown—his hair tousled from sleep, jaw shadowed, eyes sharper without the weight of formality. His gaze drifts over you, lingering on your bare shoulders and thin shift, his brows drawing together.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asks, voice low, edged with something warm and surprisingly gentle.

You smile. “Not at all, Majesty. My mind simply refuses to sleep as soundly as my body.”

“I see,” he says, offering nothing more—though his eyes linger a beat longer than necessary.

You clear your throat. “May I ask where you are going? It’s early yet.”

Sylus glances down the hall before answering. “Feeding Vetyra. She’s grown fussy in her old age. She won’t eat unless I feed her myself.”

“Oh.” Your heart flutters, warmth blooming in your chest. “May I come?”

He hesitates, studying you—measuring something in your expression—before nodding. “Dress warmly.”

You hurry back to your chambers and bundle yourself in a thick cloak, wool dress, boots, and gloves. When you return, Sylus waits pressed against the stone wall, arms crossed, gaze distant. But as soon as he sees you, he straightens. His eyes sweep down your figure, slow and deliberate, and a faint crease forms between his brows—approval, concern, or something else entirely.

He offers his arm.

You take it, and the two of you step into the morning chill. The air is crisp and sharp, each breath a ghost before your lips. Snow blankets the grounds in shimmering silver, glinting with the weak rays of dawn. The light of day is growing scarce in the far north—out for mere hours before retreating back behind the horizon and plunging the realm into darkness once more. Servants and courtiers pass, bowing to the King and his Queen, but neither of you speaks; the quiet between you is steady, companionable.

Kazhik has recovered since the wolf attack—good news, though you can’t help a flicker of disappointment. Being without him meant sitting behind Sylus, arms around his waist, cheek resting between his shoulder blades. That excuse is gone now.

But you refuse to let the thought dim your mood. You walk beside him, steps falling in sync, and the silence between you feels easy. In the stables, the two of you saddle the horses and mount up. Sylus sets the pace, slowing just enough that you can ride beside him, and when you aren’t looking, his gaze lingers on you.

The forest is beautiful in the morning light—bare branches rimmed with frost, snow glittering like scattered jewels. The ride is quiet, peaceful. Your breath fogs the air, and you draw your cloak closer around yourself, savoring the stillness.

When you reach the clearing by the lake, Sylus pulls his horse to a stop and dismounts. He looks up at you and extends a hand in invitation.

You hesitate, but he doesn’t wait. His hands close around your hips, strong and warm even through your layers, lifting you down with ease. He holds you there a moment longer than necessary, his breath forming soft white clouds between you, his eyes dark and warm beneath the morning light.

Heat winds through your chest, sharp against the cold.

At last, he steps back, though only barely.

“Stay here for a moment,” he says, voice soft but commanding.

He leaves your side and disappears into the trees. You stand there, pulse quickening, watching his tall form vanish into the shadows of the forest. The quiet presses in around you—only the distant rustle of branches and a few early bird calls break the stillness.

He isn’t gone long. When he emerges again, he carries a full-grown deer slung over his shoulder as though it weighs nothing at all. He drops the carcass with practiced ease, a glint of satisfaction flickering through his amber eyes. Heat rises to your cheeks at the sheer effortless strength of him.

“That should suffice,” King Sylus says as he straightens. His gaze sweeps over you, brow furrowing. “Are you cold?”

You shrug. “A bit.”

“Hm.”

“But the scenery is breathtaking,” you add, trying to steady your breath.

“It is,” he agrees quietly. He grips the deer by one leg and nods for you to follow. “Come, my Queen. If I don’t hurry, Vetyra will decide I’m her meal instead.”

You step into the woods behind him, crunching through the snow as Sylus leads you along the winding path. Eventually the familiar shape of the cavern comes into view, its stone mouth yawning open. As you descend into the hollow, the deep rumble of Vetyra’s breathing greets you. The purrs send a tremor through the stone, rumbling in your bones, and a flutter of nervous excitement settles in your stomach.

Inside, the dragon lifts her enormous head. Her golden eyes glow in the dim light, and she yawns, flashing several rows of razor-sharp teeth. Her tail gives a lazy wag as her gaze snaps to the deer over Sylus’s shoulder, slit pupils narrowing with interest.

Sylus strides forward, dropping the carcass before her. He rests a hand on her warm neck and murmurs something low and affectionate. Vetyra rumbles, nostrils flaring.

Then she turns to you.

Her head lowers, sinking toward the cavern floor. Her golden scales shimmer like molten honey in the low light, and you can’t help staring, transfixed. The dragon nudges Sylus’s side, throwing another glance at you.

“What is she doing?” you whisper.

“She thinks you’re afraid,” Sylus answers, patting her head. “She’s making herself smaller to show she won’t hurt you.”

“Oh.” You smile and slowly approach. Sylus remains beside her, one hand resting between her eyes.

Vetyra lowers her head even more, and you take that as permission. Your steps quicken, and you rest a tentative hand on her scales. They feel soft and smooth.

Vetyra chuffs softly and nudges into your palm. You laugh under your breath, and the dragon purrs—a deep, resonant vibration. You sit in front of her, and she gazes at you with bright curiosity before lowering her head into your lap, eyes drooping.

You stroke her nose, and she lets out a long sigh, eyelids fluttering shut.

“She likes you,” Sylus murmurs.

You look up, finding his gaze already on you—warm, admiring, unexpectedly soft.

“Is that so surprising?” you tease. Vetyra cracks one eye open to peer at you.

“A little,” he admits, voice low. “She likes no one but me.”

Vetyra snorts at him, blowing a puff of air that ruffles his hair. Sylus pats her muzzle and kneels beside you.

The dragon promptly shoves him backward with her snout, sending him onto his rear on the cold stone. He glares at her, deeply affronted.

“Rude,” he mutters.

You press your hand to your mouth, but a giggle escapes anyway. Vetyra gives a pleased chuff and nudges into your chest. Sylus turns his glare on you instead, which only makes you giggle harder. You whisper an insincere apology behind your fingers.

Sylus snorts and returns his attention to Vetyra, muttering something about betrayal and loyalty.

He sweeps a hand through his silver hair, and nudges the deer with his foot. "Go on, old lady. Eat up."

Vetyra gives a delighted rumble and promptly snaps up the deer, tearing off a chunk with a single crunch and swallowing it whole. You grimace, pulling back slightly as she continues eating with messy enthusiasm.

You glance at Sylus, brows raised. He meets your look, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“What troubles you, my Queen?” he asks innocently. “She must eat.”

Vetyra snorts in agreement, flaring her nostrils at him. Sylus pats her head again.

“Can she understand you?” you ask.

“She understands,” he says, lips quirking. “Though I suspect she listens more to tone than words.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head at him. Sylus laughs—a small chuckle, barely there, but genuine. His broad shoulders shake slightly, and the sound warms the cavern more than the dragon’s breath.

It’s a lovely laugh—and you find yourself watching him far too intently.

The sound of his laughter fades, and you realize you’re still watching him. His eyes meet yours, and the playful warmth in his expression dies in an instant. His face is unreadable now, and his gaze sharpens, as though searching for something you’re not ready to give away.

The cavern falls quiet, save for the deep, steady breaths of Vetyra, the crackling of her fire, and the faint, rhythmic drip of water from the ceiling. The air grows thick and stuffy around you, the heat of the dragon's presence and the fire pressing in on your skin. Your cheeks flush, your throat tightens, and for a moment, you feel like you can’t breathe.

Sylus kneels, pulling out a knife and expertly slicing through the deer's skin, removing pieces of meat to offer Vetyra. She eats eagerly, her powerful jaws snapping shut and tail thumping against the stone floor with excitement.

You smile as you continue petting the dragon, your heart lightening with the simple joy of the moment. Sylus hands you a piece of meat, lifting one above his head and tossing it into the air with a practiced flick of his wrist. Vetyra's head darts out, catching it in mid-air without effort.

She chuffs happily, and Sylus shakes his head, a mock reprimand in his voice. "Do not get spoiled," he says, but there’s a softness in his tone. "I can’t keep this up forever."

Vetyra lets out a low rumble, and her ears fold back, clearly displeased. Sylus frowns. "Oh, stop it. You're being a child."

You smile. "She is just playing with you."

He huffs, his frown deepening. "No. She's being spoiled."

The dragon lowers her head and nudges his cheek gently. Sylus’ brows furrow at the gesture, but he pats her head begrudgingly, the sound of her purring filling the air.

You watch them, warmth blooming in your chest. A small smile curves your lips as you take another piece of meat from Sylus and feed it to the beast. Vetyra snatches it eagerly, licking your fingers afterward, the hot wetness of her tongue a startling sensation against your skin. You yank your hand back, laughing.

Sylus grumbles. "You have no manners."

Vetyra snorts as if to argue. She gives Sylus another lick, this time from jaw to hairline. He splutters, swiping at his face with the back of his arm, but his expression is one of exasperated affection.

Your laughter echoes through the cavern, and his gaze slides toward you. You grin, but his expression softens—melts, really, the hard lines of his face easing as he looks at you.

You swallow hard, and your stomach flutters.

"She’s like a cat," you murmur, your fingers brushing the dragon's smooth scales. The corner of his mouth twitches upward.

"But bigger. And far less fuzzy," you finish with a grin.

Sylus shrugs, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Accurate," he agrees, tossing another piece of meat into the air. Vetyra snaps it up with a satisfying crunch, and you grimace at the sight of her devouring it whole.

"Do you... have many dragons, Majesty?" you ask, your fingers still gently stroking Vetyra’s warm scales.

Sylus pauses, then shakes his head. "Vetyra keeps me more than busy enough."

You hum thoughtfully, glancing at the beast. "She’s a good one," you say, your smile softening. "She’s beautiful."

"Do not give her too much praise," Sylus says, his lips quirking upward. "She will grow even more insufferable."

You bite back your laughter. "She knows better, don’t you, my lady?"

Vetyra snorts, giving you a knowing look. Sylus shakes his head, his expression wry.

"I should never have let you two meet," he mutters. "Now I have two insufferable beasts."

You can't stop the laughter that spills from your lips. It's a joyful sound, and Sylus pauses, turning to look at you, his gaze darkening as it drifts over you.

Together, you feed the last of the deer to the dragon. The cavern is filled with the sound of Vetyra’s satisfied chewing, her tail thumping steadily against the stone. When the meal is finished, Sylus pats her head and stands, brushing the dust off his clothes. Vetyra perks up, her ears flicking forward as her gaze shifts to you.

She looks at you for a moment, then tilts her head and lets out a low, rumbling trill. You raise a brow, wondering what she’s trying to say, but she suddenly nudges your shoulder, jerking her head toward Sylus before making another huffing sound.

Sylus rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Leave her be, old lady."

You glance at him, brows furrowing. Vetyra huffs again, her golden eyes narrowing as she presses closer.

"Is she trying to ask for something?" you ask, confusion creeping into your voice.

Sylus shakes his head, frowning. "No. She’s just being ridiculous."

Vetyra growls softly and snaps at him, her sharp teeth missing him by a hair. Sylus sidesteps easily, holding his hands up dramatically.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbles, though it’s clear he’s not actually apologizing. Vetyra growls again, and her tail slaps the ground with force. Sylus turns to you with a weary sigh. "It’s nothing important."

The next moment, the dragon roars loudly and swipes her tail, knocking Sylus back to the ground with surprising force. He lands on his rear with a grunt, glaring up at her.

You can’t help it. You laugh, and the sound catches in your throat as you try to stifle it behind your hand.

Sylus groans, pushing himself back up with a rueful look. "I don’t know if I believe that, Majesty," you tease, still grinning.

Sylus shoots you a playful, half-exasperated look, brushing the dirt from his clothes. But there's something in his gaze that holds you there—something that makes your heart beat faster.

He huffs. A touch of pink rises to his cheeks, and he looks away. "She's an old spinster that doesn't know how to mind her own business, and thinks she's my mother."

Vetyra huffs, her golden eyes focusing on you.

You laugh again, the sound bubbling out of you, and Sylus’s expression softens in response. The dragon chuffs, nudging his side with her snout, and he rolls his eyes at her.

"You should have told me the dragon was the real queen," you tease, your voice light.

Vetyra nuzzles you again, and you reach up to pat her head. Sylus stands, offering his hand, and you take it, hoisting yourself up with his help.

"Do not encourage her," he grumbles, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

You giggle, and Vetyra makes another soft chuffing sound. Before you can move, she gently rams you with her nose, and you stumble forward, catching yourself against Sylus’s chest. His arms immediately curl around your waist, steadying you. You look up, meeting his bright red gaze. His expression is unreadable for a moment, and then he glares at Vetyra, who looks back at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"Behave," he warns, his voice a low growl.

You feel a flush creeping up your neck, but Sylus’s hold on you feels warm, grounding. The dragon steps back, and Sylus releases you, a slight crease between his brows.

Vetyra chirps, her tail thumping softly against the stone. Sylus groans, rolling his eyes.

"Sleep, Vetyra," he commands, but there’s no real bite to his tone.

The dragon snorts, clearly unconcerned with his reprimand. Sylus pats her nose, and her golden eyes slide shut, settling down onto the stone with a deep, rumbling sigh.

Sylus looks at her for a long moment, his face unreadable, then holds out his arm to you. You take it, and he leads you out of the cavern and into the snowy morning.

The sky is a brilliant blue, the sun casting a gentle glow over the glittering ground. You exhale, watching your breath form clouds in the air, and Sylus glances up, shielding his eyes from the brightness. You glance at the lake, its surface frozen and still, and give a small tug on his arm, nodding toward it.

"Come sit with me for a moment, Majesty," you ask, your voice soft.

He gives you a wary look. "Why?"

"Only a second," you assure him, flashing a bright smile.

You don’t wait for a response. Instead, you walk over to the shore, and lower yourself to the snow, sitting cross-legged on the ground. He sighs and sits beside you, his shoulder nearly touching yours.

The presence of the King beside you is a warmth you didn’t realize you craved, grounding and steady. You glance at him, his features illuminated by the soft light of the sun. The pale blue sky stretches above you, and the mountains in the distance seem like a dream, hazy in the morning light. The world around you feels almost ethereal.

"Your lands are beautiful, you know," you say, breaking the silence.

Sylus glances at you, his expression neutral, but his gaze seems to linger on you for a beat longer than usual. He stays quiet for a moment, his eyes distant, before he turns back to the lake. "I do," he replies, his voice quiet.

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. The silence stretches between you, a comfortable, peaceful quiet, filled with the sounds of birdsong and the scent of pine. You breathe deeply, savoring the crispness of the air, the scent of the snow, the freshness of the moment.

Sylus seems lost in thought, his face blank, his gaze fixed on the frozen lake. You watch him, admiring the strong lines of his jaw, the way the light catches the white strands in his hair, his dark brows and lashes, and the intensity of his amber eyes. There’s something mesmerizing about him, even in his quietest moments.

"Is something wrong, Majesty?" you ask, breaking the silence once again.

He glances at you, startled, his eyes widening for a brief second. For the briefest moment, vulnerability flickers across his face before it hardens, his jaw tightening.

"Do not worry about it," he says, his voice more guarded now.

You hum softly, choosing not to press further. Instead, you turn your gaze back to the lake. Your gloved fingers run through the soft, powdery snow, tracing random lines in the frost. The silence settles between you again, and the breeze rustles the branches of the trees, making the moment feel fragile. You want to say something, to bridge the distance between you, but the moment feels delicate, and you’re hesitant to break it.

After what feels like an eternity, you gather your courage and gently pull off your gloves. You slip your hand into his, soft fingers brushing against the warmth of his. Without thinking, you lean your head on his shoulder, the comfort of his strength settling over you like a warm cloak.

He stiffens beneath you, and you glance up, catching the wide, startled look in his amber eyes. They burn with something intense, but you squeeze his hand softly, your heart pounding in your chest.

After a heartbeat, his muscles relax, and he entwines his fingers with yours, his grip tightening just a little as if anchoring you both in the moment. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t pull away.

"Majesty?" you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

"Hm?" His voice is rough, like he’s struggling to hide the emotion you’ve stirred in him.

You pause, considering your words carefully. Finally, you ask the question that’s been on your mind since the dragon’s antics.

"What did Vetyra want?"

He sighs. "To meddle." He pauses. "She has known me a long time."

You hum softly, considering his answer. You can hear the weight of something unsaid beneath his words, and you can sense the tension in his body, the careful, deliberate way he speaks. But he doesn't elaborate, and you can't find the words to ask.

You glance at him. His gaze is on the frozen lake, the sunlight reflecting in his eyes. He's silent, thoughtful, his grip on your hand loose, but steady. He always takes your hand, at every moment he can find a reason. You think it may be his favorite part of you.

The wind picks up, the cold stinging your cheeks, and the trees sway and bend with its force. A few stray flakes of snow land on the tip of his nose, and you watch as his face scrunches up, his mouth twisting in a frown. It's so unlike his usual composure that you can't stop the laughter bubbling out of your throat, a sudden, unexpected sound in the quiet.

His brows lift, and his gaze drifts toward you. You meet his eyes, and he stares at you for a moment, his lips curving into a slow, hesitant smile. Your cheeks burn, and the laughter dies in your throat, a strange warmth filling your chest.

The silence falls over the both of you, and you can't take your eyes off him, your gaze lingering on the curve of his lips. He doesn't move, and neither do you. The world seems to fall away, the air heavy and thick. You can't tell if the tension is from the cold or something else.

Finally, he shakes his head and shifts, turning his body to face you. A soft flush rises to your cheeks as he raises his hand, brushing your hair back behind her ear, and coming back down to trace his fingers along your jaw, tilting your chin up. His amber eyes are warm and soft, and your heart quickens, pulse hammering. His gaze is fond, his face slightly pink, and his breath is warm and sweet on your skin.

He leans down and presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes, and breathes deeply. Your eyes flutter shut and your body burns, your breathing going shallow. His touch is gentle, his movements slow, and a shiver runs down your spine.

Your hands come up to clutch at his coat and wraps his free arm around your waist. His fingers linger on your cheek, and he opens his eyes, his gaze burning into yours.

"If you want the truth," he whispers, his voice a soft growl in the space between you, "Vetyra thinks I am lonely."

You pause, the words sinking in, and nod slowly. His thumb traces the curve of your cheek. You swallow.

"She wants to see me happy. Before she goes."

You nod again, unable to speak. His expression is pained, the crease between his brows deepening.

"Are you lonely?" you murmur, reaching up to touch his face.

Silence settles between you for a long moment, his breath fanning your face.

And in lieu of response, he closes the distance, his lips meeting yours in a soft, tentative kiss. You let out a shuddering sigh, melting into the embrace, and his grip on your waist tightens. Your hand moves to cup his cheek, fingers curling around the nape of his neck. He pulls you closer, and his kisses grow hungrier, more demanding, as though trying to make up for lost time. You curl your fingers in his hair, and he pulls you flush against him, his body heat seeping into yours.

The world fades away, and all that matters is his touch, the feeling of his lips against yours, the soft, quiet noises that escape his throat. He breathes heavily into the charged space between you, and his fingers trail down your cheek, leaving a burning trail in their wake.

Your heart beats frantically as he pulls away and tilts your chin up between his fingers, pressing soft kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, and the space behind your ear. Your hands drift down to his chest, coming to rest on his racing heart. His fingers trace the curve of your lips, and he rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard. The sound of his deep breaths, his wanting, desperate noises, stir something deep in the pit of your stomach. He is music to your ears, his heart beating in tandem with yours.

You tilt your head up and brush his lips with yours, tasting him on your tongue. His arms tighten around your waist, and he pulls you onto his lap, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He holds you close, as though you'll disappear if he lets go, and you can't stop the smile that spreads across your lips.

He exhales shakily and presses a kiss to your collarbone. His kiss is nothing like him. Tender, sweet, gentle. Like a secret, something that is only for the two of you. He presses his forehead against yours, and the tension in his body seems to drain, his muscles relaxing.

He opens his eyes and gazes at you softly under his lashes, and you find yourself lost in his molten red irises. He studies you intently.

"My Quee—"

From inside the cave, Vetyra roars, and you let out a breathless laugh, burying your face in the King's neck, your shoulders shaking. He groans, his arms wrapping around you tightly.

"I hate that woman."

You giggle, nuzzling him. "It would appear she has our best interest in mind."

He huffs and buries his face in your neck. "There. That is what she wanted."

Your hands smooth the white strands of his hair, and you hold him, basking in the feeling of him, the weight of his arms around you. You lean back, and he looks at you, his eyes bright.

Vetyra trills loudly, and you laugh harder, pressing yourself into his chest. His hands slip to your waist, and his embrace tightens. You pull away and look him in the eyes, and he tries to act annoyed, but his lips twitch.

"I thank her for her meddling," you whisper breathlessly. "I have wanted to kiss you for some time."

Sylus swallows hard, and he lifts a hand, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger there, brushing the skin of your cheek. His lips curl into a small smile. His hand trails down your arm and captures your fingers between his once again. You squeeze lightly, and his smile grows.

"And I have wanted to kiss you for much longer," he replies, his voice rough. "I am sorry it took me this long."

Your cheeks flush, and your heart races. You lean in and brush your lips against his again, a featherlight touch that makes his breath catch.

"You may make it up to me now," you murmur. You almost hope he doesn't hear the words, but his gaze sharpens, the heat in his eyes burning into yours.

A wicked grin spreads across his lips. He pulls you back into his embrace and presses a searing kiss to your mouth.

"May I take you home, my Queen?" he murmurs against your lips.

You feel hot, every nerve on fire under his touch. "Yes," you whisper. "Yes, please."

He stands, taking you with him, and he pulls you close, pressing his face into your hair. Your arms wrap around his neck, and you breathe deeply, your nose buried in his chest. You smell pine and leather, a warm, comforting scent that seems to envelop you.

With a final kiss, Sylus turns, taking your hand and leading you away from the lake. His lip twitches, and he glances at the cave.

"Thank you, old lady."

Vetyra lets out a loud, rumbling purr.

Chapter Text

The bedroom door shuts behind you with a resonant click, and the tension hangs thick in the air in the following silence.

Your face burned all the way back to the keep, the cold winter night air doing nothing to assuage your heat. Now, the silence stretches between the two of you, your body warm and buzzing, anticipation curling in your stomach.

You've wanted this for so long; so many weeks spent longing for his touch, his smile, his affection. He moves to light the hearth, and the fire crackles to life, the shadows dancing over his face. You take a moment to admire him, his strong profile cast in warm orange, his curved nose and angular jaw. You've wanted to kiss him from the moment you caught those smoldering red eyes.

But now, the reality of what you are about to do, the implications of the moment, sets your blood alight. Your hands begin to shake, and the nervousness in your chest makes it difficult to breathe. If he is scared, too, he goes to great straights to hide it, his gaze set on the flames as they cast dancing shadows over the tall bookshelves and tapestries. He turns to face you fully, the light in the room casting his face in an almost otherworldly glow, his amber eyes bright and intense. You swallow hard as he closes the distance between you. His hand comes up, but pauses in the space between your bodies, hovering over your waist for a long moment. He does not touch you. His gaze darts from your eyes, to your lips, and further down, and something seems to war inside him, some emotion you can't identify.

"Majesty?" you breathe, the words escaping on a puff of breath.

He looks up, startled, and his hand falls, landing on your hip. You inhale sharply, the sudden touch sending a shiver down your spine.

"Do you want this?" you whisper, the question barely audible, even in the stillness.

His eyes widen, and his mouth opens and closes. A faint flush creeps up to the tips of his ears.

He's held himself back for so long—shown no emotion, no reaction, no vulnerability. And now, it's like all the barriers he's put up have shattered, and he's finally letting his guard down.

For you.

He's letting himself be seen.

It's enough to make your heart pound.

"I fear I cannot hold myself back much longer, my Queen," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, his eyes burning into yours. "I have been a gentleman. A King. All this time. But for you, I have longed to be a man."

You step closer and run your hand up his arm, fingers trailing along the smooth, scaled armor. His hand moves to rest at the base of your neck, his touch a burning sensation. You can feel his heartbeat, the way it races under your fingertips. He is nervous, you realize, just as nervous as you are. He does not show it easily, but the way his hands tremble, the way his breathing has become labored, the way his eyes burn through you, tell you everything you need to know.

There it is again—the bright glow in his iris. You realize all at once that he was never angry with you; his eyes have always shone so brightly when you are near.

He glows not with rage, but with desire.

You can't help but wonder how you missed it, how you could have been so blind. He's made no effort to hide his feelings, and yet you've failed to see the obvious signs.

You curl your hand up to his neck, and bring the other to his chin, tilting his head down until his mouth hovers above yours.

"Then you are not my King. Not tonight."

You brush his lips with yours, the touch as soft as a breeze. You move your mouth over his, slow and gentle, the heat spreading through your chest. Your eyes flutter shut, and you melt into the kiss, savoring the taste of his lips. He lets out a quiet sigh, and his hand moves up to cup the back of your neck.

"When you are with me," you whisper, pulling away just far enough to look him in the eyes, "you have no power. No title. Only yourself."

He shudders, his lips parting, his breathing shallow and ragged. His fingers dig into your waist, the grip possessive. "Yes, my Queen."

You lean up, capturing his mouth once more. He meets you, the kiss growing heated and hungry. You moan softly into the embrace, and his hands move up, sliding over the curve of your back. You shiver, his touch sparking a fire inside you. You're lost in the moment, his body heat seeping through the layers of your clothing, his lips moving over yours.

Your arms wrap around his neck, holding him to you, and his hands move up to your hair, his fingers tangling in the soft strands.

The room is filled with the sound of his breath, and yours, the soft sounds of your kisses. You gasp as his lips leave yours, and he begins trailing kisses down the line of your jaw, and the exposed column of your throat. His hands move down to your thighs, gripping you tightly, and he picks you up effortlessly in just one arm, the other hand coming up to caress your face. You let out a shuddering exhale, the feel of his strong, firm hands, the press of his body, sending a thrill through you. He carries you over to the bed, laying you down on the sheets softly, and settles his weight over you.

You reach up, tangling your hands in his hair, and pull him down for another kiss. The weight of his body over yours, the heat of his touch, the taste of his mouth—it's overwhelming, and the ache inside you intensifies, the desire coiling tighter and tighter.

He shrugs off his jacket, landing in a heap on the floor, and pulls his riding gloves off. You admire the shape of him as he tosses them to the side, his chest heaving, his breath coming in short, labored puffs. Your hands come up to his chest to ubutton his shirt, and he catches your wrist, the touch tender.

"Slowly," he murmurs. His hand slides up to the curve of your waist, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin.

You nod and swallow, slowly, carefully undoing the buttons of his shirt. Your eyes dart up to his face, his brows knit, his lips parted, his expression one of awe and hunger. He gazes at you like a man starved, and his touch burns into your skin.

When the last button is undone, he sits up and shrugs the fabric off, and it joins the pile on the floor. His chest is exposed, dense muscles and sharp planes on full display to the dim firelight of the chamber. You run your hand down the curve of his abdomen, your eyes lingering on the defined ridges of his pectorals. His breath comes heavily, and his hand comes up, covering yours. He leans down, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. His free hand comes up, cupping your cheek, and his thumb runs over your bottom lip, his eyes darkening.

You pull him down sharply, and while he's caught off-guard, his hands fall to the sides, and you roll him over, pinning him under your hips.

You sit up, and his hands immediately move to your waist, his eyes raking over you. You can't help the shiver that runs through you as his hands slip beneath the fabric of your dress, his thumbs massaging your hipbones. You take his face in two hands and kiss him, hard and demanding. He lets out a groan, and you feel his hips buck beneath you. You break the kiss and lean back, and he props himself up on his elbows. His lips are red, swollen, his cheeks flushed.

Your fingers trail down his neck, his chest, and lower, to the hard planes of his abdomen. You admire him, the softness of his skin, the hardness of the muscle. He watches you intently, his hands resting lightly on your waist. You move to pull off his belt, and he stops you, his grip on your wrists tight.

"Do not rush, my Queen," he murmurs. He tugs you back down, his grip loosening, his hands sliding up to your shoulders. He kisses you softly, gently, the moment languid and sweet, flowing like honey.

He is not used to this, you realize—this gentle, easy affection, this freedom. It's something precious, what's transpired between you, and you can't bring yourself to rush him. You follow his pace, letting your muscles relax as he kneads your shoulders. His fingers trail down your back, knuckles digging into the curve of your spine, massaging out the tension. Your eyelids droop, and you melt into the kiss, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.

You've waited so long for him, and now, here he is, under you, his body bare. You want to touch every inch of him, to memorize every line and curve. But there is no hurry, no rush, no urgency.

Just him. Just you.

Just the two of you, together, the moment suspended in time.

The ache deepens, and his breathing becomes heavier, more labored. He pulls away and his forehead falls to your shoulder, his breath hot and heavy against your skin. You bury your fingers in his soft, white hair, holding him close to your body.

He drifts downward, perching you steadily on his lap, and pressing his face into your neck, your chest, your waist. He breathes you in like incense, like a sacred offering, and you arch into his touch, letting out a soft, shuddering sigh. His hands fall to your hips, and he lifts his head, his gaze meeting yours. His eyes are molten, shining brightly, and his lips part, a quiet, strangled noise escaping his throat.

He lifts you slightly, and the friction is almost enough to make you see stars. You let out a small gasp, and his lips twitch. He holds you steady as his hips lift, pressing himself into you, and a groan falls from his lips. You bite back a cry, and he does it again, his hips rolling into yours.

Emboldened, your hands rise to his shoulders, and you shove him down into the mattress. He blinks, his mouth hanging open, and before he can say anything, you kiss him, hard and fierce. He moans into the embrace, his hands moving to clutch your thighs. You reach down and grab his wrists, and pin them over his head, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his collarbone. He gasps, and his hips jerk.

You move down, your lips trailing a line of fire across his chest, and his breathing hitches. You glance up and meet his eyes. He's watching you intently, his gaze dark and hazy. He likes being dominated, you realize, and a rush of heat floods through your veins.

You continue down, kissing and sucking his skin, and his head falls back, his eyes drifting shut. His hands strain against your grip, but he doesn't try to break free. His hips shift restlessly, and you grind down onto him.

"You like being under my power," you breathe, the words barely more than a whisper.

His breath catches, and he nods. "Taking the lead really is your specialty," he manages, the words thick and heavy.

You lean forward and kiss him again, the heat in your chest swelling. His lips move against yours, and his tongue slips into your mouth, dancing with yours. Your bodies press together, and his hands fall to your waist, his fingers digging into your hips. He's lost in the moment, and so are you, your senses drowning in the taste and feel of him.

His breathing grows faster, heavier, and he rolls over, pinning you under his weight. You break the kiss, gasping, and he leans forward, his mouth brushing against your ear.

"You're not the only one who enjoys taking the lead," he whispers, his lips curling. "How shall we proceed, then?"

You reach up and stroke his cheek. "Take me however you like, Majesty."

He leans down, his lips pressing against your jaw, and the heat pools in your core, a deep, aching need. His hands trail down the sides of your body, and his teeth graze your earlobe. You shiver, and he bites down, the sensation sending sparks flying through you.

"However I like?" he murmurs, his breath fanning the skin of your neck. He moves lower, kissing the dip of your clavicle. "In that case…" Down, the swell of your breasts. "I want you to remember every part of tonight." His fingers trail lower, grazing your waist, your hip. "Not just here," he says, pressing a lingering kiss to your parted lips. "Here as well."

His hand finally dips between your thighs, and you let out a soft whimper. He massages the tense bundle of nerves, and his fingers slide further down, teasing your entrance.

"Just like that," he whispers. He pushes the fabric of your gown up and over your legs, his hand slipping under the silk and gliding over your bare skin. You feel suffocated in the dress. Too confined, too tight.

He leans forward, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "May I?"

"Yes," you gasp, and he reaches down, pushing the skirt up further. You shift, and he grips your hips, pulling you up onto his lap, his arousal pressing into the back of your thigh. You raise your arms as he pulls the gown up and over your head, and you let him lay you back down, his hands moving over your body.

He gazes at you, his eyes dark and hooded. You're left only in your undergarments, the silk thin and nearly translucent. You feel vulnerable, exposed. His hands move up and down your sides, tracing the curve of your ribs. His fingertips ghost along the band of your brassiere, and his hands slide back down to your hips, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. He glances up, his eyes seeking yours, and you nod.

When the fabric is removed, he gazes at you, and the look in his eyes sends a shiver through you. He takes you in, admiring the expanse of your skin, his eyes traveling over every curve and plane. His fingers tease the inside of your thighs, and he leans down, his breath hot and heavy on the sensitive skin. He kisses his way down, and when his mouth finally presses against the sensitive bundle of nerves, you arch into the touch, gasping.

"Sylus," you whimper, and he growls, his tongue running over you, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. You let out a shaky exhale, and his hands move up, his fingers spreading you apart, exposing you fully to his gaze.

He presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, and he shifts, leaning forward and pressing his tongue to you, his fingers sliding into you. Your hips buck, and you moan, the sound falling from your lips like a prayer. He keeps his fingers buried deep, the thrusts shallow, as his mouth moves over your torso, back up to your lips, where he presses hot kisses, burning brands into your skin.

You reach for him, and his Evol catches your wrists, wrapping around them and pulling them up over your head, pinning them to the bed. He smiles, and the sight makes your stomach twist, a wave of pleasure rolling through you.

"So obedient, my Queen," he murmurs, his smile widening.

He leans down and captures your lips, and the feeling of his body over yours, his arousal pressed against your thigh, makes you dizzy. His hips shift, and he presses himself against your core, rubbing slow circles over the sensitive bud. You writhe under his touch, a deep ache building within.

His Evol threads out of him in soft red tendrils of mist, the glowing, shimmering smoke caressing your skin. His lips trail a line down your neck, his hands moving over the curves of your body. The tendrils move up, caressing the peaks of your breasts, the tips swirling around your nipples. The sensation is unlike anything you've felt before, the Evol warm and silky. It's a tingling warmth that makes you feel like you're floating, like you're drifting.

Your breathing quickens, and he reaches up, taking your chin in his hand and tilting your face up to meet his. His lips brush against yours, and the pressure inside you builds. His arousal rubs up against you again, and you can hardly take it anymore, the sensations too much, too overwhelming. You writhe, but the red mists hold you fast, pinning your wrists down to the mattress, hard and unyielding.

"Please," you whisper, the word catching in your throat. "Please, Sylus."

His lips curl, slowly, deliberately, the mists swirl down your body, coiling around your legs. They move up, teasing the tender skin of your thighs, and when they wrap around the sensitive, swollen bud between your legs, you can't help but gasp. The coil tightens, and you're so close, so very, very close, the Evol sparking through you, the feeling too intense, the sensation too much.

He leans forward, his mouth hovering above yours. "Say my name," he murmurs, the words barely audible. "I want to hear it from your lips."

"Sylus," you breathe. "Sylus, I need you, please—"

He presses his lips to yours, and his hands find his own undergarments, stripping them away, and when he leans back, you take him in, his naked form on full display, the dim firelight illuminating his skin. His palm wraps around the base of his length, and he sighs, his head falling back. You can't help but marvel at his beauty, the sharpness of his features, the softness of his eyes, his body a work of art, every inch of him sculpted by the gods.

The tendrils of red mist curl around his own arousal, and he groans, his hand pumping slowly. A flush rises to your cheeks. He's huge. Massive, hard, the veins bulging. And the way his hand moves over the thick shaft—you swallow hard.

He lets out a quiet laugh, and his eyes meet yours, bright and hungry. He leans forward, the mist shifting and guiding him down, until he's hovering over you, his hips pressed against yours. The mist releases your hands, and his palms come up to cup your face, his gaze intent, unwavering.

"Can you take it, my Queen? All of me?"

"Slowly," you gasp. "Slowly."

He presses his lips to yours, his hand trailing down to the apex of your thighs, his fingertips sliding through the wetness.

"Oh, I plan on going slow," he murmurs, and the mist wraps around his length once more, lining him up with your entrance. "Slowly, carefully," he whispers. "I want you to feel every single inch." His tip brushes against you, and his head falls back, his lips parting. "Would you like that, my Queen? Everything buried deep, buried to the hilt?"

You can't answer, his words turning your brain to mush. He slides his length along the folds, coating himself in your slick. He moves his hips forward, and the tip slides inside, just an inch.

He's hot and hard, and he's barely even entered you. He teases the tip against your folds, and the ache deepens. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, and he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

"Do you want me to break you in every beautiful place?" he murmurs. "Every way I've dreamed about?"

You breathe hard as he pushes deeper, and his lips trail down the column of your neck, his hands moving to grip your thighs. "Tell me," you say. "Tell me how you dream of me."

He laughs quietly, the sound low and rumbling. He's still teasing you, the tip just barely penetrating, and he moves his hips slightly, his arousal sliding along your slit. He lets out a quiet sigh, and his hand wraps around the base of his shaft. He leans back, his eyes meeting yours, and you can't help but stare, the sight of him holding his erection, the tip coated in your wetness, almost too much to bear.

"Like this," he breathes. His length pushes back in, just the tip, and you can't help the moan that escapes you. "Just like this. On my bed, underneath me, at my mercy."

He withdraws, and you whine. "More," you gasp.

His hand slides over the smooth skin, and he pushes deeper, his tip stretching your entrance.

"Taking you slowly," he murmurs, the words thick and heavy. "Taking my time. Sweet Saints, how much have I imagined you in my bed, how much have I imagined taking you apart, piece by beautiful, precious piece?"

The heat pools inside, a deep, aching need, and the image of him, his hips pressed flush against yours, his length buried deep inside, fills your mind. You arch, and his length pushes in deeper, his thumb massaging the sensitive bundle of nerves, and his hands grip your thighs.

He pushes in deeper, and his mouth meets yours, carefully, tenderly. The taste of him, the heat of him, fills your senses, and he lets out a soft sigh.

"Slowly," he breathes, the word a soft prayer. "Because for as much as you drive me mad, my Queen, I never want this moment to end. For as seductive as you look, as tempting as your beautiful curves are, you are even more precious. Even more radiant. I have yearned for your beauty, your mind, much longer than I have craved your body."

The mist swirls around you, enveloping your senses. Your vision is filled with his body, his skin, the red mists wrapping around him like ribbons, like silk.

He pushes in deeper, and then further, his length finally, completely filling you.

"Oh," you whimper. "Sylus—"

"I know," he murmurs. He pulls back and thrusts in, gently, and then again, his hips finding a rhythm. The feeling of him inside you is too much, and your fingers dig into his shoulders, his pace slow and steady.

"Is it good?" he asks. "Is it good, my Queen?"

"Yes," you gasp.

The mist surrounds you, caresses you, and his length fills you, his pace unhurried, the motions deep and languid. He leans down, and his lips meet yours, his tongue sliding into your mouth. His kiss is hot and hungry, and he shifts his hips, his arousal pushing in deeper.

"How can it be possible," he murmurs, "to feel this way, to have you like this, and still want more?"

He reaches down and grabs your leg, lifting it up and pressing a kiss to your knee, his lips brushing the delicate skin. His movements become faster, and his hand slides along the underside of your thigh, gripping tightly. His teeth graze the skin, and his other hand grips your hip, pulling you down onto him.

"I want to know every inch of you," he whispers. His hand drifts lower, and his fingers tease the swollen, sensitive bud between your legs. Your hips jerk, and he leans down, capturing your lips in another heated kiss.

The Evol sparks, and a jolt goes through you, and you can feel yourself tighten, the pressure building.

"Oh, my Queen, are you close?" he murmurs, his breath coming hard. "Does it feel good?"

"Yes," you whimper, and he lets out a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling.

He kisses you, his hand moving over the apex of your thighs. He slides a finger over your clit, and you feel yourself tighten around his length, the sensation making your head spin.

"Beautiful," he says, his voice a soft caress. "Beautiful."

You're lost in his eyes, his touch, the feeling of him moving inside you. He kisses your forehead, the tip of your nose, the curve of your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. His pace quickens, his movements becoming more urgent, his thrusts harder. He leans back, his hand cupping your cheek, and the mist wraps around his waist, tugging him closer. Your hands go up to his chest, and your breathing grows faster, your hips rising to meet his, matching his rhythm.

"I want to have you, after this," he whispers. He thrusts harder, and you whimper. "I want to keep you." Another thrust. "To hold you." Harder, deeper. "To hear your laughter and feel your smile against my lips."

Your hands slip behind his neck, and he pulls you close, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His breath is hot against your skin, his hands tightening, his nails digging into your flesh.

He groans, his breath fanning across your chest, and the sound makes your head swim.

"To wake up to the sight of you," he murmurs. His length plunges into you, and you cry out.

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, please—"

He lets out a choked sob, and the red mists surge around you, wrapping around his waist and tugging him close, his thrusts deep and hard. His hands are rough on your thighs, and his mouth presses against your collarbone, his teeth sinking into the skin.

"Go on, then," he pants. His eyes are dark, the pupils thin slits, reds glowing brightly. "Let go, my Queen."

He thrusts harder, and you see stars, the coil of pleasure finally snapping.

"Sylus," you sob, and the world fades away, a blinding, white-hot sensation coursing through your veins.

He lets out a low growl, and he comes, his release hot and heavy, the mist wrapping around him, holding him close. The feeling sends another wave through you, the sensation overwhelming.

He groans, his arms wrapping around your body, and the two of you collapse onto the bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. You roll onto your side and nestle into his chest, the heat of him a comfort. His hand cups the back of your head, and his breathing steadies.

You sob into his skin, and he tenses, pushing you away and holding your shoulders as he searches your eyes desperately.

"Are you alright, my Queen?" he asks, voice strained. "Have I hurt you?"

"No," you say, and the tears spill over. "No, I'm happy."

He blinks, and his expression softens. He reaches up, and wipes a tear away, his thumb running over your cheek. He lets out a soft sigh, and he pulls you close, his arm wrapping around your waist.

"My Queen," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand trailing down your side. "My dearest wife."

You let out a shuddering sigh, and you turn, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He's warm and soft, and he holds you close, his touch tender, gentle. You press a kiss to his shoulder, and he sighs, the sound content, satisfied.

You lie there for a long while, listening to the beating of his heart, and you reach up, tracing the edge of his ear. His eyes flutter open, and he turns, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

"I am a fool," he says.

You blink. "What?"

He lets out a quiet chuckle. "You must forgive me. I did not realize how badly I desired this until I had it. To hold you in my arms, to know you as my wife, to see you like this."

You lean forward and capture his lips in a slow, lingering kiss. His mouth moves against yours, and his fingers trail through your hair.

"I want this," you whisper. "I want to be with you, Sylus. I want to wake up beside you. To share our meals, our nights, our thoughts and feelings."

He lets out a slow exhale, his fingers moving over the curve of your shoulder. "My Queen, the things you say, the way you look at me." He takes a deep breath. "I do not think I could ever be the man you deserve. Not in a thousand lifetimes. And yet, here we are. It seems I can no longer deny what I want."

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You don't have to."

He leans in, and the two of you lie there, basking in the glow, the feeling of each other's bodies, the warmth of his skin.

"I am not what you think, my Queen," he whispers. "There are things about me you do not know. Things that will make you hate me, despise me."

"No," you say firmly. "I only wish to understand you."

He looks up, his gaze locking with yours. He's silent for a long moment, his brow furrowed, the look in his eyes unreadable. Finally, he reaches up, his palm cupping the back of your head, his fingers curling in the strands of hair.

"Then soon you shall," he says quietly.

"Soon," you murmur, your eyes drooping shut.

You settle against him, your head resting on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around you. The room is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the dying fire.