The study feels colder this evening, the fire low and the air sharp with silence. A large table has been cleared at the center, two chairs positioned across from each other like opponents at a duel. A decanter of wine rests unopened between them, untouched.
Kaelen stands by the window, arms folded, posture relaxed—but I've learned not to mistake that for ease.
He turns as I enter. "You're early."
"I assumed you'd want to get this over with."
"On the contrary." He gestures to the chair opposite him. "I've been looking forward to it."
I sit without thanking him. A thick scroll lies on the table between us, tied with a black silk ribbon. Formal. Ceremonial. Binding.
He unties it and unrolls the parchment.
"I included your conditions," he says. "And mine."
I take it from him, eyes narrowing as I begin to read. My terms are listed first, written in elegant, precise script. Everything as agreed—Emelia, my belongings, my titles, my letters. Even the clause about being used in propaganda remains untouched, to my surprise.
But beneath that, the ink darkens.
Clause I: The Lady Nyriane Starwyn will appear publicly as wife to Lord Kaelen Thorne at all state functions, ceremonies, and events related to the coronation and transition of power.
Clause II: She will not interfere in state governance or military affairs without formal invitation.
Clause III: All correspondence beyond House Starwyn must be reviewed for national security. Letters to Prince Saelow will be delayed for screening, not edited or withheld, unless threat is detected.
Clause IV: The couple shall share chambers. No intimacy shall be expected or demanded by either party. Physical boundaries are to be mutually respected unless otherwise agreed.
Clause V: In all interactions with staff and dignitaries, the Lady Nyriane shall act with decorum befitting her position. Hostility, undermining, or visible contempt shall be considered breach of contract.
I lower the scroll slowly. "You've been busy."
He raises a brow. "Did you expect me to show up empty-handed?"
"You expect me to accept this?" I tap a finger against the parchment. "Clause II implies I have no voice in this so-called 'new Velmoria.'"
"You wanted to be free," he replies coolly. "Not in command. And I need stability—not a queen who questions every order in front of my men."
I lean back in my chair. "And Clause III? You said I could write to Saelow."
"You can," he says. "Once a week. I won't read them. But don't expect me to let messages pass unexamined in wartime. I'm not that naïve."
I clench my jaw. "You said you'd be fair."
"And I am. You don't see me forcing you to bed, or parading you through the streets. I gave you your titles, your maid, your identity." His voice drops. "But don't expect the crown without the cost."
I go quiet, the weight of the parchment heavy in my hands. He's wrong, of course—I never asked for the crown. I never asked for any of this. But I know how power works. And if I don't sign, I lose the only leverage I have.
Still… one part catches me off guard.
"You put it in writing," I murmur, eyes flicking to Clause IV. "That you won't touch me without consent."
He doesn't blink. "I told you once. I won't take what isn't freely given."
Silence stretches between us. It's not peace, exactly. But it's not war either.
"I want Clause II amended," I say at last. "If I am to play the role of consort, I want access. Observation rights. I attend the coronation council as witness."
His brow lifts, intrigued. "To learn the game you want to disrupt?"
"To understand it," I counter. "And, perhaps, someday... shape it."
He considers. "Agreed. Witness, not participant."
"Then I'll sign."
We both reach for the inkwell at the same time. Our fingers nearly brush, but he withdraws first. I sign quickly, pressing my seal into the wax: the silver star.
Kaelen signs next. No flourish. Just his name—sharp, dark, final. Then he adds his seal: a phoenix emblem, reborn from flame.
He pours two glasses of wine, sliding one toward me.
"To mutual understanding," he says.
I raise mine. "To survival."
We drink.
As I lift my glass, I catch a strange detail: the way his throat bobs when he swallows. It's a small, human thing—unremarkable, really—but for some reason, I can't look away.
And worse, I feel something stir. Not attraction, exactly. But a pull. A flicker of awareness I didn't expect—and don't want.
I set the glass down too quickly.
Focus, Nyriane.
I rise first, ready to leave, but he speaks again as I reach the door.
"Thank you," he says. It's quiet. Unexpected.
I glance over my shoulder. "For what?"
"For being clever enough to bargain. Most would have begged."
"I'm not most."
"No," he agrees. "You're not."
As I leave, I tuck the signed scroll into my cloak. Let him think this was a victory. Let him think I've yielded.
The truth is—I've just carved out my ground.
And I don't intend to give it up.