SOREN
I had sought her out again. Foolish, perhaps, but my mind insisted on it.
Her attendants had turned me away with stiff, shaky bows, murmuring that "Her Majesty is unavailable." I almost laughed at the formality, unavailable to me? To me? But I let them have their victory, let them think they had stopped me.
Instead of returning to my chambers, I wandered again. Past the marble colonnades of the western wing, through corridors I barely remembered from my last visit. The air here always smelled faintly of smoke, of sun-baked stone and firevine. My empire had the bite of frost in its halls; Solmire had this heavy, suffocating warmth, and I could not decide if it unsettled or soothed me.
That was when I found her.
Tucked away in a little alcove shielded by climbing orange blossoms, flowers that glowed as though someone had trapped sunset inside their petals, sat Eris. A square table, nothing grand, its surface buried in parchment, scrolls, pots of ink tipped carelessly. And her.
Her snowish hair that always made me wonder if she really belonged in the fire kingdom, spilled like melted silver across the table, her head resting on her arm, long slender fingers stained with ink. A map was unfurled beneath her cheek, dotted with circles and lines as if she had been tracking something, planning something, until exhaustion claimed her.
I should have turned away. She could have incinerated me before I drew my next breath if she woke startled. But she would not be startled, would she? No — she was fire incarnate, and I was not some trembling courtier either.
So I stepped closer. Quietly. The hush of petals brushing my shoulder, the low hum of cicadas.
And then I saw her face.
Small rectangular glasses sat precariously on the bridge of her nose, I had never seen her wear them before. White lashes lay against her cheeks, her expression softer than it had any right to be. Nothing of the queen of fire. Nothing of the tyrant whispered through palace halls or the kingdom itself. Just a woman who had fallen asleep over her papers and ink.
Something inside me twisted. Curiosity, yes. But something quieter, something I refused to name.
I slipped into the seat across from her, the scrape of the chair deliberate but low. She didn't stir.
One of the scrolls caught my eye, so I reached for it. A map, one I recognized, of Solmire's countryside… names scrawled in careful, looping ink: Branthollow. Kesmere. Old Ashridge. Velorien Downs. Some circled, others struck through.
My brow furrowed. Was she planning new trade routes? Or listing villages for inspection? Relief aid? Military oversight? Any other queen, and I would assume duty. Obligation. Strategy for the sake of her people.
But Eris?
I stared at the map, then at her, asleep with her hand still loosely curled as though she had fallen mid-thought. And for the first time since I set foot in Solmire again, I wondered what in all the hells she was plotting and why it looked less like conquest and more like escape.
I let the first map fall shut, sliding it carefully back toward her arm so she wouldn't notice it had been disturbed. But my hand did not stop.
Another scroll waited beneath the clutter, sealed only with a smear of drying ink. I loosened it with a fingertip and unrolled it slowly, my eyes tracing the words as though they might leap out and bite.
Quiet. Remote. Out of the way.
Her notes weren't the language of statecraft. They weren't strategies for taxation, nor plans for military campaigns. These were lists. Crude, simple lists, yet strangely meticulous:
"Villages beyond Ashridge — quiet, few visitors."
"Market in Kesmere, small enough to be ignored."
"Outskirts of Velorien: good soil, old ruins nearby. Few neighbors."
And in the margins, a faint line of ink smudged where her hand had dragged: "Somewhere unseen. Somewhere no one asks."
I leaned back in my chair, brow arched, the corner of my mouth tugging despite myself. What queen catalogued seclusion like a desperate pilgrim? What ruler scribbled escape routes instead of decrees?
Another parchment lay beneath, littered with ideas that veered between the absurd and the oddly endearing:
"A library in Branthollow?"
"Fishing in Lake Kesmere."
"A garden that is mine, only mine."
Her handwriting shifted there… looser, freer. Almost girlish.
I stared at those words longer than I should have. A garden that is mine, only mine. The Eris I had heard of would have scorched such softness from the page before anyone could see it. But here it was, sprawled out for my eyes alone.
And gods help me, I wanted to know more.
My fingers hovered over another scroll, tempted. But something in me warned restraint. A flame toyed with too much was bound to lash back.
So instead, I sat in silence across from her, her breathing even, the flowers around us glowing in the day, and wondered not for the first time what in the frozen hells Eris Igniva thought she was doing… and why every moment I spent in her shadow only made me want to follow deeper.
Her head shifted against the crook of her arm, the faintest sound breaking the quiet.
I froze.
For an absurd moment, I — Emperor of Nevareth, wielder of ice that could drown kingdoms — panicked like a child caught stealing bread. My hands retreated from the scattered parchment, breath trapped in my throat as though the air itself might betray me.
But she did not wake.
Instead, Eris stirred deeper into sleep, her lips parting to form words I wasn't meant to hear.
"Caelen…"
My chest tightened. Her face twisted, the faintest crease at her brows, and beads of sweat began to form along her temples. The air thickened — heat pouring off her in waves, sharp enough to prickle against my skin.
"You abandoned me…"
"...left me to rot alone…"
"made our son… hate me…"
Her voice was cracked, fragile. The kind of voice I had never imagined belonging to her.
Before I knew what I was doing, before I could stop myself, I had risen to my feet and crouched before her, drawn closer by something I couldn't name. Tears clung to her lashes, sliding down her cheeks — not the firebrand queen, not the infamous tyrant, but a woman falling apart even in sleep.
My hand moved without thought. I brushed her cheek, wiping away the tears as though it were the most natural act in the world. Her skin was scorching, searing, and my ice reacted instantly, rising to meet it. The frost slipped into her heat, a cooling veil tempering her fever.
She sighed under the cooling touch, lashes trembling. I felt her pulse through my fingertips, rapid and uneven, her fire clashing against my cold, fighting and yet… balancing.
How could someone the world named cruel look so utterly heartbroken?
How many times had I dismissed her as a monster without ever seeing this? Without noticing the loneliness etched in her bones? A loneliness I too knew too well.
Her breathing steadied, if only slightly, as I held the chill steady against her fevered skin. And then —
Her eyes fluttered open.
Silver-white lashes lifted, slow, deliberate, like the first break of dawn, and she looked at me, truly looked at me, while I was still bent close, my hand against her cheek, caught between fire and frost.