Zara had braced herself for disappointment. For harsh words, for cold eyes, for that stiff, distant tone Mark always used when speaking to her. She'd failed, after all. She hadn't seduced Calvinel. She hadn't secured his allegiance. Worse, she'd been caught off guard by an assassin and had to be saved.
In her mind, every possible outcome of this conversation spiraled into reprimands, into fury, into shame.
Not this.
Never this.
Mark's arms were wrapped around her.
Her body locked up. Her breath caught.
*No...* her mind whispered in disbelief. *No, this can't be right. This doesn't happen. Not in real life. Only in dreams.*
It had been so long—so goddess-damned long—since anyone in her family had touched her with something that wasn't contempt. The memory of warmth had long since withered, buried under years of silence and formality and hollow expectations. And now? Now she stood frozen in the embrace of the one person she thought least capable of showing her affection.
"M-Mark?" she stammered, her voice small, trembling with confusion. "What's wrong? Are you hurt? Are you okay?"
*That has to be it,* she thought. *That's the only explanation. He's injured. He needs comfort. That's why he's... this isn't about me. I don't deserve this.*
But even as the voice in her head tried to rationalize it away, she didn't move. Didn't push him off. Her hands hovered, uncertain, not knowing if they were allowed to return the gesture.
"Ugh," Mark grunted, his voice thick with irritation. "You're such an annoying little... Just let me hold you, alright?"
Zara swallowed hard. She obeyed. Slowly, tentatively, her arms began to lift, unsure of whether to wrap around him or not.
*Maybe he's just frustrated,* she told herself. *Maybe he's comforting himself. Maybe this isn't really about me at all.*
But just as her fingertips brushed his back, Mark stepped away.
She blinked at the sudden absence of his warmth.
He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It's fine that you didn't manage to seduce Calvinel. If he's too dense to accept a marriage proposal from a be—" he caught himself mid-word "—from the Veridianian Princess, then he's an idiot. And we don't need idiots in our army, no matter how powerful or famous they may be."
Zara's heart sank. "But… your plan," she said, her voice shaking as much as her hands. "You wanted to use his popularity for propaganda. If I failed, then… you don't get that, right?"
"I told you it's fine," Mark said sharply, cutting her off. "Stop bringing it up."
She went still. Eyes lowered. Slowly, she nodded.
Mark's gaze dropped to her posture, his tone softening only slightly. "Now… are you sure you're not injured?"
Zara shook her head, placing a hand lightly over her stomach. "He almost grazed me here. But I dodged it."
Mark's eyes followed the motion, expression unreadable. "He was from Aeruna, correct?"
"At first, I thought so," Zara said, her brows drawing together, "but the more I reflect on it… no. It felt too obvious. The Aerunan weapons, the style, the way he revealed himself—it was all staged. I think that filthy undead was trying to make it look like Aeruna."
Mark nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "That's better. If it had truly been Aeruna, this would've spiraled into something far worse."
Zara nodded along, her voice quieter. "Besides… if it really were Aeruna, they wouldn't have gone after me. I'm not important enough. My death wouldn't weaken Veridiania. If they wanted to send a message, they'd go after you."
There—just for a second—his eye twitched. A subtle tightening of the jaw. Almost too faint to catch.
"I suppose so…" he muttered. "Alright. Go get some rest. You've had a long and hard evening."
Zara stood there, stunned. Waiting for more. Waiting for the usual sting—criticism, dismissal, something cruel to balance the moment.
But nothing else came.
So she gave a hesitant bow and turned away to leave. "Goodnight… Mark."
He nodded without hesitation. "Goodnight, Zara."
She paused at the doorway.
The words hit her like a bolt of lightning. Her breath caught in her throat.
"Y-ye—yes. Good… goodbye—I mean night," she stammered, her voice cracking.
Still reeling, she stepped into the hall and made her way to her room—right next to his. Her hand hovered over the doorknob, her chest fluttering, her face flushed.
*He said goodnight.*
Back in his room, Mark let out a long, weary sigh, the weight of the evening finally settling on his shoulders. He dragged a hand through his hair and sat down on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees. The soft, amber glow of the steam fixtures lit the room with a gentle hiss, casting faint shadows against the walls, but he barely noticed.
He could feel it. That surge of affection—that aching, overwhelming pulse of it—when he told her goodnight. Just two words, and yet to Zara, it had meant everything. He could practically feel the way her heart swelled in the hallway, even after she'd walked away.
"Why do you have to be this way…?" he muttered under his breath.
It wasn't just about expectations. Yes, Father had made it clear enough over the years—Zara had always fallen short. Not graceful enough, not cunning enough, not valuable enough. But that alone wasn't why Mark kept his distance.
It was Zara herself.
Or more precisely—her feelings.
Feelings that went too far. Far beyond what a younger sister should ever feel for her older brother.
He clenched his jaw, gaze darkening. He hated even thinking it, hated the knowledge of it festering at the edge of every conversation, every glance, every too-long pause. The way she looked at him… it wasn't reverence. It wasn't admiration.
It was longing.
Mark stood and walked over to the window, pushing it open. The night air spilled in, cool and sharp. He stared up at the moon—bright, round, distant. His breath fogged slightly as he exhaled.
"I hope she doesn't try and take this too far," he said quietly.
And this time, he didn't sound angry.
He sounded tired.