Crown Prince Cassian's chambers—I had imagined them as the pinnacle of grandeur and splendor.
Even his hunting tent was enormous, crafted from the finest fabrics and stitched with masterful care. His personal quarters should have been… beyond anything I could picture, a place befitting the royal family.
I was wrong.
The furniture might have been priceless, but the state of the room… was appalling. It looked as if no servant had set foot here in months. Silk shirts lay strewn across the floor, walnut tables sat buried under a thick layer of dust, heavy velvet drapes hung listlessly. The high four-poster bed's silk sheets were tangled beyond recognition.
My foot caught on something. A shattered vase—wax drippings clinging to the shards. Paintings on the walls hung crooked, frames cracked. A silver-inlaid writing desk was littered with half-finished letters and broken seals. In one corner, a toppled statue; in another, an ornate hunting sword gleaming faintly in the dim light.
This wasn't a prince's chamber.
It was the room of a man living in the midst of war.
Cassian walked through the chaos without so much as a glance. Loose strands of black hair brushed his shoulders, every step confident yet indifferent. He reached the bed, the open collar of his shirt revealing the hard lines of his chest, and let himself drop onto the mattress. His eyes half-lidded, his breathing deepened.
Back at the hunting grounds, I had—somehow—been able to suppress the pull of the dark magic around him, letting him sleep in peace.
But here… the air was different.
The black magic clung to the walls, seeped into the floorboards. It curled around Cassian like a heavy mist, pulling at his breath, making it uneven. His brows furrowed; his eyelids trembled. He lifted his head from the pillow with a muttered curse. The tendons in his hands strained as he pressed his fingers to his temples, black eyes darkening further.
I stood silently in a shadowed corner. The dim light caught on a few loose strands of silver hair, making me look, perhaps, like part of the mist itself. I took a deep breath and pushed at the weight in the air with my hands. Sharp prickles tingled at my fingertips—as if the air was lined with invisible thorns. Yet the space I could clear was no more than a single breath's width.
Unlike at the hunting grounds, I could do almost nothing here. The reason was obvious: this magic was radiating from the very heart of the palace. If I could destroy it, Cassian—and others—might be freed. Maybe then the hatred toward mages would fade, and people like Lucian and me could be safe.
But how?
I'd find a way. And when the time came, I'd ask Lucian for help.
Cassian exhaled sharply through clenched teeth.
"I brought you here to ease my headaches," he said, voice low but sharp as a blade. "Like this… you're useless."
The words caught in my throat. His hands were still pressed to his temples, veins standing out beneath pale skin, his black eyes making the heavy air feel even darker.
"Let me come closer," I whispered.
His gaze flicked to me. In those black depths, I saw restless mist, dangerous shadow… and an unguarded curiosity. He gave the barest nod.
I moved forward slowly. Each creak of the floorboards sharpened the tension in the air. When I reached the edge of the bed, his breath brushed my skin—cool metal and the heat of flesh mingling in the scent.
I hesitated. Touching him didn't feel natural. I had never given anyone a massage before. Was this… wrong?
Then, absurdly, I remembered watching a video on temple massages before bed one night. Perhaps the first time the internet had ever truly served me.
My fingers sank into his black hair, thumbs pressing lightly to his temples. Cassian's eyes shut—not in relief, but in a guarded act of control.
"Like this?" I murmured. He didn't answer.
It took me a few seconds to find the rhythm. My fingertips moved slowly from his hairline to his temples, feeling the coarse texture of the dark magic, working to loosen it. From every point I pressed, warmth spread, pushing the mist back. The tension in his shoulders lessened, though not entirely.
He tilted his head slightly—a silent command. I obeyed. The massage deepened. The black magic writhed in resistance as a low sound rumbled from his throat. The muscles under my hands began to loosen.
Being this close… feeling his breath…
My gaze caught on the sharp line of his jaw, the tight curve of his lips. His eyes drifted open, fixing on me, holding me there. The magic hadn't fully retreated, but the trembling in his frame was easing.
In that moment, I understood: Cassian needed me… but he would never admit it.
I continued for a while longer. As my movements slowed, his breathing evened out, his eyelids growing heavy. I was exhausted too. Sitting at the edge of his bed, my own eyes drifted shut without my realizing.
⸻
When I woke, the air was still heavy.
But what truly roused me was the firm weight at my waist.
For a moment, I forgot where I was. My vision cleared, and I found Cassian's arm wrapped tightly around me.
His black hair spilled over the pillow. His breath brushed the side of my neck, leaving a warm, dangerous trace on my skin. Why… like this?
A spark of panic flared in my chest. This was not something that should happen.
My muscles tightened. I wanted to move, but my body froze—as if one wrong motion would wake a sleeping predator.
When I tried to shift, his arm only tightened.
"You're awake," he said, voice still thick with sleep but laced with that familiar threat. "Guess you're good for something after all."
My breath quickened. I forced my face to remain neutral. But when his eyes cracked open, I knew he caught the faintest twitch in my expression.
⸻
Three knocks sounded at the door. A soft yet deliberate female voice followed:
"Your Majesty, if I may."
Cassian's arm loosened from my waist, though his gaze didn't leave mine.
"Enter," he said.
The door opened, and a woman in a deep red satin dress stepped inside. Her green eyes glinted as they swept the room—lingering briefly on me. But Cassian was still watching me, not her.
His gaze drifted from my face to my posture, lingering—just for a heartbeat—on my lips. The corner of his mouth curved slightly.
"You may go," he said.
There was more than command in his tone. Something else I couldn't quite name settled heavy in my chest.
I rose without looking away from him. I stepped aside, but Cassian's eyes stayed on me. The woman walked to him without hesitation, but turned her head just slightly in my direction. Her expression flickered—perhaps jealousy, perhaps disdain for seeing a mage here. I couldn't tell. But I knew she was sizing me up. The faint curve of her lips—was it a polite greeting, or a quiet warning? Impossible to say.
As I crossed to the door, Cassian's stare pressed between my shoulder blades, sharp as a blade point. My fingers tightened slightly around the doorknob, but I didn't turn back. Silence was the safest choice here.
Even so, the nearness from before lingered—his breath, the warmth of his skin, the weight of his muscles under my fingers. I couldn't shake it off.
But indulging those thoughts would be foolish. It would mean handing both my own neck—and every other mage's—straight to the headsman.
The door shut behind me. From inside came the sound of rustling fabric, followed by a low, measured laugh. I closed my eyes. That sound was perfect for drowning out something else that had burned its way into my mind—Cassian's warm breath against my neck.