On the fourth morning, you rose early.
Not for incense.
Not for fasting.
For war — the silent kind, waged with silk and composure.
You called for your colors — the house palette of your childhood, rich blues laced with gold
Mira dressed you carefully, her fingers gentle as she fastened your sash and clasped the jeweled pins into your freshly combed hair.
"Let it be known," you said calmly, "I will be attending court today."
The servants exchanged quiet glances.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Word traveled quickly.
By the time you stepped into the court hall, the scent of polished marble and rose incense clinging to the air, the room was already full — ministers, nobles, advisors… and him.
Casian.
He stood at the dais, half-turned toward the front, mid-discussion with a general.
And then he saw you.
The entire room shifted.
You didn't flinch.
The Queen Dowager sat tall at her side throne, draped in violet silks that shimmered like dusk. Her silver-streaked hair was coiled in an elaborate twist, pinned with pearls and mother-of-pearl combs that glimmered against her dark skin. She had the bearing of a woman carved from devotion and steel — soft-spoken, but never unseen.
And today, she watched you with eyes narrowed not in suspicion… but something dangerously close to pride.
You stood beneath the chandeliers, bathed in morning gold and courtly scrutiny.
The nobles couldn't help themselves.
They looked.
At the fall of your hair, ink-dark and parted with ceremonial care. At the delicate line of your jaw, the high collar that framed your throat like a question left unanswered. At the way your lashes caught the light, and your movements — slow, deliberate — commanded silence without force.
You were beautiful, yes.
But it wasn't beauty they whispered about later.
It was poise.
Presence.
The kind that made a man forget what he meant to say.
Even Casian — always unshaken at court — had faltered. Just once. Just long enough.
You walked the length of the chamber like a queen born for court, not married into it — your gown trailing like mist, your chin high, your silence thunderous.
The Queen Dowager stood.
"My dear," she said, tone laced with approval and veiled concern. "You look… radiant. I wasn't sure—"
You curtsied before her, graceful and fluid.
"Thank you for your prayers, Your Grace. I am feeling much better. And most of all, in spirit."
She smiled. Not faintly — fully.
And took your arm as though you were her own daughter.
Casian watched it all in silence.
You approached the throne and offered him the briefest nod — respectful, cool, public.
Then you took your place beside him.
For a beat, he said nothing.
His mouth parted slightly — as if to speak — but no words came.
You adjusted your sleeve, eyes fixed forward. Calm. Untouchable.
The chamber resumed its breath. A noble cleared his throat.
But Casian… was still looking at you.
Visibly distracted.
Visibly disarmed.
Visibly aware that something had shifted — and he had no name for it.
You stayed through the full length of court —
quiet, poised, and listening.
You asked no questions.
You offered no opinion.
But your presence said enough.
When the King spoke of border disputes with the southern barony, you nodded once, your gaze thoughtful but unreadable. When alliances were debated, you kept your posture sharp and your voice still.
A few ministers glanced your way now — not out of courtesy, but curiosity.
Respect.
The Queen listens.
At dinner, you sat beside the King, answering what was asked, offering faint smiles at the appropriate courtesies. He watched you more than he ate.
After the final course, you rose, hands folded gracefully.
"Your Majesty," you said softly. "With your permission… I will retire early. I've yet to complete my evening devotion."
He blinked. "Of course."
You curtsied. He stood as you left.
You did not look back.
You expected that he might come.
The Queen Dowager had seen your reappearance in court. Your radiant entrance, your tempered grace. No doubt she would assume this was the beginning of reconciliation.
Maybe she had even spoken to him — perhaps lightly, perhaps with force.
You didn't know.
You didn't care.
But you still bathed.
You still lit your incense.
You still brushed your hair and changed into your softest night robes.
And then you climbed into bed.
No perfume.
No candlelight.
No invitation.
Just sleep.
Or something close to it.
You heard the door open some time later.
You didn't move.
Footsteps — familiar, heavy, hesitant.
You kept your breathing steady, your hands folded loosely against your chest.
You felt him stand beside the bed for a long while.
Looming. Quiet.
He didn't speak.
Maybe he didn't know what to say.
Maybe he was hoping you would stir, that you'd turn and look at him and say something soft like "You came."
But you didn't.
And so, after several still moments, you heard the slight shift of fabric — the creak of the old settee by the window.
A jug was poured. Wine.
A sigh. Heavy.
The clink of glass to his lip.
He stayed there. Not in your bed. Not beside you.
Just near.
And for the first time… he was the one waiting.
And you — wrapped in warmth, spine to him, untouched.
…..
The room was quiet.
No wind. No footsteps. No whispers beyond the walls.
Just the sound of a slow, uneven breath from across the chamber.
You stirred from your half-sleep, the scent of burnt-out incense and spiced wine lingering faintly in the air.
The coals had dimmed. The quilt at your shoulders had slipped.
You sat up.
Casian was still there — sprawled inelegantly across the velvet couch, his long legs folded awkwardly, one arm dropped over the side. A half-empty jug sat beside him, the cup knocked over and forgotten.
He looked nothing like a king.
Just a man who stayed too long.
Drank too much.
Waited too late.
You rose silently from bed, wrapping your robe tighter, and crossed the room.
The window had been left slightly ajar. A cold breeze kissed the back of your neck. You shut it softly, careful not to disturb the room's fragile balance.
You turned back to him.
His hair had fallen messily across his brow.
The firelight cast soft shadows over his jaw, the hint of a frown etched into his sleep.
You reached for the edge of the spare quilt.
Just to cover him.
Nothing more.
But as your fingers brushed his shoulder, he stirred.
His arm moved.
Then, suddenly — he pulled you down.
Not forcefully. Not violently.
Just… needily.
As if his body moved before his mind could catch up.
Your breath caught.
Your palm braced against his chest — the heat of him, the slow, uneven rise of his breath beneath your hand — and for the first time, he did not feel like a sovereign.
He felt like a man who had waited too long to speak.
And when his arm drew you close — not possessive, not cold — something inside you twisted.
Because you had ached for this once.
And now that it was here, you no longer knew if you were being seen…
or mourned.
But still, you let yourself breathe against him.
Let the tension curl into something heavier — something magnetic and sharp-edged.
His breath changed first — deepened, steadied.
Then his hand moved, slow and searching, up the curve of your spine until it hovered just beneath your jaw.
"Casian—"
He mumbled something.
Soft. Slurred.
It could've been your name.
Or something else.
You couldn't tell.
His arm stayed wrapped around you, warm and heavy.
His breath was steady now — not quite asleep, not fully awake.
You froze for a moment.
Then, quietly… you let yourself stay.
Just for a moment.
The fire crackled gently in the hearth.
And in the dark, you closed your eyes, your head resting against his chest — listening to the rhythm of a heart that never once said what it needed to.