He had not meant it.
Not like this.
Certainly not with his voice trembling like a boy mourning his first heartbreak.
But the moment he'd seen Adelheid sitted in the room, candlelight threading through her pale crimson hair, everything came clawing to the surface.
Yilda.
The name still tasted like honey and blood on his tongue.
He'd rehearsed this conversation in his head. Not just once, or twice, but countless times. He had imagined Adelheid's confusion, her questions—had even drafted his answers with a level of precision only a King with too much time and too little peace could muster.
He chuckled inwardly.
But nothing had prepared him for the way she looked at him. The way she didn't look like Yilda.. and yet somehow did.
Not entirely in the face.
It was the way she stood quietly– trying to seem composed while her soul clearly tripped over.
That was Yilda.
The girl who had once leaned against him in the place's gardens, lips curled in disdain as she insisted daisies were better than roses. Declaring that daisies didn't pretend to be anything more than what they were.
He'd loved her for that.
And now, here Adelheid stood—Yilda's younger sister. Barely out of girlhood the last time he'd seen her. Now, no longer the wide-eyed little girl in the yellow bonnets, hiding behind skirts.
She was a woman now.
Oh, this wasn't love. He reminded himself of that.
He could barely form lingering feelings for anyone since Yilda.
He hadn't watched Adelheid secretly from the sidelines for these past four years because he wanted to fall.
No.
This, surely, was mourning.
He only wanted to ease the ache of Yilda's memory, as the two shared frightening resemblance.
Of course, that was a truth that could never come to Adelheid's knowledge.
And when she asked how he knew her sister, his composure cracked. He should've lied, should've brushed it off with a vague "We were friends once."
He hated talking about the past.
But no.
His heart–traitorous and foolish–spoke instead.
"We were in love."
And there it was. The sound of her breath hitching.
For a second, he regretted it.
But then–
She looked at him–not with suspicion nor embarrassment–but with devastation.
And he realized: she didn't know who her sister really was.
She didn't know Yilda had loved him back. Or anything beyond her pristine image and good morals.
Then, again, she asked.
"If you loved my sister.. why then did you send me a marriage proposal?"
Zamiel briefly closed his eyes.
Oh, his excuse was the silliest known to mankind.
Adelheid stared at the man, a small knot between her brows. The king had been silent for a while, and she couldn't help but wonder what thoughts were whirling behind his solemn eyes.
But finally, he spoke.
"When I first saw you," Zamiel began, voice low. "I thought.. perhaps the gods were laughing at me."
His gaze drifted elsewhere.
"You looked so much like her." He continued. "Not entirely.. but enough. Yes, the hair was different, but hair—" He gave a brittle laugh. "—Hair can be dyed."
"And so," He added, quieter now. "In a moment of foolishness.. and hope—I sent the marriage proposal."
His fingers curled. "I thought, maybe.. maybe if the gods were cruel enough to make someone wear her face, they might be kind enough to let her soul return too."
He took a long breath, then continued.
"Later, I learned you were Yilda's younger sister. And that should have stopped me." He paused, jaw clenched. "But I sent the second letter anyway."
Adelheid frowned, her confusion deepening.
"Levia tem oren, kaiya sel briartha." He whispered.
And she stiffened.
..That was what he'd written in the letter.
"You know what that means." He said, finally looking at her.
"I.. miss your touch, my pink wildflower." She murmured.
Silence reigned for a while.
"Yilda and I.. we made that language together." Adelheid whispered. "To mock our parents when they tried marrying her off to that bastard merchant. No one else ever knew it, aside.."
Her voice trailed off as she looked up.
Zamiel nodded.
"She taught it to me. One word at a time. She wanted to write to me when we had been forbidden from seeing each other. She was afraid someone might read our letters before they reached me."
Adelheid blinked.
"So when I saw your confusion," He said, softer now. "I knew you weren't her. But I had to be sure."
Silence settled again between them.
"I've struggled to accept that she's truly gone." He admitted. "Even now, part of me–wonders if maybe the gods hadn't reincarnated her just to spite me."
He let out a tired laugh. "But now that I know you aren't her, Adelheid–for Yilda, rebirthed, would have clawed at me for a bear's embrace.."
He chuckled faintly.
"I'll dismiss my whimsy propos–"
"No!"
Zamiel frowned.
"..No?"
Adelheid's tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip, before she bit down gently, nervous habit always betraying her eyes' calm facade.
"Yes, Your Majesty. No."
He raised a brow.
She exhaled shakily. "I mean.. the proposal–it left me utterly disoriented."
No, that wasn't even the word. Disoriented didn't cover it. That didn't account for the way her heart had skidded, or how she'd re-read the letter over and over again dozens of times.
"Baffled," She corrected. "I was.. bewildered, even." She paused. "I couldn't make sense of the marriage proposal. There was no courtship, no indication of interest. And then.. then that letter came."
She shook her head slowly. "An intimate letter, written in a language I haven't spoken aloud in years. From you."
Her gaze lifted to meet his. "A man I barely know."
Zamiel said nothing. He just watched her.
"And now.." She continued, her voice lower. "I think I understand. It wasn't a proposal. It was a moment of.. weakness?"
Her tone lifted at the end like a question. She frowned, struggling to find the right shape of what she meant.
"You thought fate was giving you a second chance." She said. "Someone who'd once been in love, cursed with lingering memories of their loved."
She pressed her lips together. "As absurd as it sounds."
Zamiel inhaled slowly.
"Why do you want the engagement to hold, my lady?"
Adelheid's composure cracked and slowly, her shoulders dropped.
"..My father," She confessed, ashamed that she had to admit the matter aloud. "He's wallowing in debt, heavy debt. To the Langstons."
Zamiel frowned.
"Like vultures, they'll start circling any moment now," She went on. "An alliance with you–would silence them. At least long enough for us to breathe."
Her fists clenched at her sides. "I don't want money, or land, or even a real engagement. I just need the appearance of one. Something to keep the Langstons away. If you say yes.. I won't ask anything else. Just.. protection."
The king looked away, for a long moment, silence stretched. Then, at last, he turned back to face her again, and finally, he spoke.
"My apologies, Lady Montclair, but I must decline."
Her stomach sank.
"I.." Her voice cracked. "Your Majesty, I—"
He raised a hand.
"But.. I may reconsider." He said, eyes flicking back to hers. "If you accompanied me to the the imperial roulette tournament this coming week."
Adelheid blinked.
The Imperial Roulette Tournament?
That was one of the grandest events the Kingdom held.
Her fingers fidgeted slightly.
This was practically an invitation to the guillotine, really. Standing beside the King at such an occasion meant standing beneath the Kingdom's most sharpest and cruelest gazes.
She inhaled the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I'd be honored to attend."
A warm smile tugged at his lips. "Then take it as my apology as well, for keeping you so long." He chuckled.
"..And for not being able to properly meet your parents. Please, extend my invitation to them."
Adelheid blinked.
She thought he'd at least greet them. Her parents had been elated the entire journey here—especially her mother, who'd been glowing like a chandelier, giddy at the thought of parading her daughter before the highest crown.
As if sensing her thoughts, Zamiel added. "I have pressing matters, but I assure you—I'll make their acquaintance the next time we meet."
Of course. He was the king, after all.
Political affairs, foreign delegations, diplomatic relations.. naturally, His Majesty must be terribly busy.
She nodded. Her legs were screaming from standing too long. "Then I shall depart, Your Majesty."
Zamiel stepped closer and, with the graceful ease of a born sovereign, took her palm and brushed a soft kiss against her knuckles.
"Of course, my lady."
Then, turning slightly, his voice lifted. "Thornwick."
The butler appeared from behind the tall doors, bowing low. "Yes, Your Majesty?"
"Escort Lady Montclair to the East Chambers. I believe her family is settled there."
Thornwick nodded, and turned to Adelheid with another bow. "My lady."
Adelheid inclined her head, pulse still fluttering where His Majesty's lips had touched her. Gathering her skirts, she finally swept out of the chamber, Thornwick trailing behind her.
Once alone, Zamiel let out a sigh and eased down onto the settee, fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt with grace.
Without looking up, he spoke flatly. "You can come out now, bastard."
A mist, deep blue with black veins weaving through it, slithered into the room. From it stepped Lord Cassian—clothes immaculate and sharp, his smile even sharper.
"Later, I learned you were Yilda's younger sister." Cassian mocked, mimicking Zamiel's tone with exaggerated reverence before bursting out laughing. "You're such a convincing liar, I almost believed you hadn't been stalking that girl for years."
Zamiel's eyes closed briefly; one hand pressed hard to his temple.
Cassian's grin stretched wider. "Later you learned? Bullshit. You knew she was Yilda's sister the second you stepped into the room."
Zamiel's voice dropped, tired. "Had to lie to her, didn't I? What, confess that I'd been watching her every move like a madman? I'd sound insane."
Cassian's gaze pinned him. "But if you knew all along–she was your lover's sister, no less—why send her a marriage proposal?"
Zamiel let out a chuckle, rubbing his temple again. "Have you been eavesdropping this whole time?"
Cassian shrugged lazily.
Zamiel sighed. "I didn't lie. I hoped Yilda had somehow recanted. They look too much alike. Plus.. my immense.. forgetfulness."
Cassian laughed, shaking his head like a man amused by his colleague's misfortune. "Yeah, you did that to yourself."
Silence fell between them, the only sound radiating from the crackling hearth. Zamiel's gaze drifted to the crimson droplets of blood staining Cassian's pristine white tunic.
"Has it gotten that bad?"
Cassian folded his arms behind his back, more serious now. "We can't keep it in the palace anymore, Zamiel."
Zamiel sighed. "Stop calling him it."
Cassian collapsed into the space beside him with a crooked smile. "'it'–is used for things you can't fathom. And that.. man.. I simply cannot fathom."