The council chamber smelled of parchment and ink, the morning sun falling in sharp bars across the table. Voices murmured at the far end—arguments over tariffs, alliances, the endless affairs of state. Lucarion listened, intervened when precision was required, but his attention strayed.
Eva sat to his right, protocol holding her in place, though the stillness didn't suit her. Where most consorts-in-training might have bowed their heads and folded their hands, she leaned forward whenever voices sharpened, her chin lifting as though ready to cut in herself.
She didn't speak—she wasn't allowed to—but the spark in her eyes did. When a councilor repeated himself for the third time, her brow arched high. When another circled endlessly around some trivial dispute, her lips pressed tight, and she tapped her finger once against her knee as if she might throttle him given the chance.
And when one nobleman droned on about his family's 'indispensable loyalty,' Eva turned her gaze to Lucarion. Not deferential. Not pleading. But with a sharp glint of shared mockery, as though daring him to admit he'd heard the same pompous nonsense.
He nearly smiled. Almost. Because in that flicker of fire, she wasn't merely enduring his world—she was meeting it head-on.
Later, in the practice yard, Lucarion chose no post, no lifeless target. Instead, he stepped into the ring and called for three soldiers to face him at once.
The men hesitated only a breath before charging. Steel clashed, boots tore dust from the ground. Lucarion moved with the inevitability of a tide—meeting each strike not only with defense, but with a force that bent his opponents' rhythm to his own. A sword knocked clean from one hand, a sweep of his arm sending another sprawling, the third driven back until the edge of his blade hovered at his throat.
They regrouped, came again, but the outcome never wavered. He yielded nothing. His strength was not wild but controlled, every blow calculated, every movement purposeful. When one soldier tried to flank, Lucarion pivoted smoothly, catching him by the collar and forcing him to his knees before turning on the next. By the time the third man stumbled back, panting, the yard had fallen silent but for the scrape of steel and ragged breath.
He let them rise, dismissed them with a nod. The soldiers saluted, shaken but respectful. They had been bested thoroughly, yet their pride remained intact—because the contest had been meant as a lesson.
But Lucarion's gaze wasn't on them.
From the colonnade, Eva stood watching. She hadn't moved since the first strike, her hands clenched lightly at the stone rail. Her eyes followed every motion, intent, as though the clash of steel had struck something in her own blood.
Lucarion allowed himself the smallest indulgence. When he wiped his blade clean and sheathed it, he looked directly at her. Their eyes locked, and though she gave no outward sign, he saw it—the flush of heat she hadn't meant to reveal.
Something twisted low in his chest, sharp as the bite of his own blade. He dismissed the soldiers with a word before the feeling grew dangerous.
That evening, in the stillness of his study, he allowed himself to think.
He had shown her his private collection—an indulgence few outside his bloodline had ever seen. It had been a risk, exposing not his power but his taste, his quiet obsessions. And she had lingered before the canvases with a gaze that was neither perfunctory nor polite. She had understood. That small, intent spark in her eyes had thrilled him more than he allowed himself to admit.
Then had come the letter from her mother, given with the certainty that she would forever remember it in his hands. And later, the hot springs—another piece of himself, another veil lifted. She had thanked him there too, softly but without artifice.
Yet he wondered if gratitude was all she felt. If her composure, her courtesy, her attentiveness were only duty carried well. He was trained to measure intent in the smallest flicker of the eye, the smallest tremor in a hand. But with her, the signs blurred.
What if she smiled only because she knew it pleased him? What if her questions—few though they were—were merely what any consort in training might ask?
He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling slow. Patience. He had no right to hurry what must come freely, or not at all.
At supper, Lucarion's gaze lingered a fraction longer than usual on Eva's hands as she reached for her goblet. The faint black smudge along her thumb did not escape him, nor the fine dust caught at the edge of her sleeve. He said nothing, only turned back to his plate, though his eyes flickered once more toward her, thoughtful.
Later, he arranged that the best painting materials be delivered to her chambers—fine brushes, stretched canvas, pigments ground to their richest hues.
—
The next day, he arranged a lesson in the stables. She needed to understand the bloodlines of the royal mounts, the symbolism of each crest and color. It was protocol, nothing more.
Yet when Eva ran her hand along the flank of his stallion, the animal stilled under her touch. She moved with confidence, murmuring to the horse in a voice barely above a whisper. He watched her closely, noting how the stallion's ears tipped forward, how tension melted from its shoulders.
She looked at home there, among the creatures of strength and temper. He had expected diligence; what he had not expected was ease.
When she glanced at him across the stall, he held her gaze, steady. For a moment, it felt less like instruction and more like revelation—each seeing the other not as role demanded, but as they were.
Lucarion did not allow himself to linger on it.
That night, when the fortress quieted, he stood at the window of his chambers. The torches along the outer wall burned low, the world beyond falling into shadow. His thoughts strayed again and again to her—her eyes flashing with irony in the council chamber, her steady hands calming his stallion, the half-smile she did not know she'd shown.
She was changing. Or perhaps he was.
Patience, he reminded himself. An arrow loosed too soon will never strike true.
But he could not deny it: the bowstring was drawn, the tension real, and every day she gave him one more reason not to let go.
A soft knock broke the silence.
He turned, noting the slight pause in the doorway before her head appeared. Eva, framed in the lamplight of the corridor, deliberate and composed. He inclined his head slightly, silent permission.
"May I come in?" Her voice was steady.
"Of course," he replied, gesturing toward the study table. "It is late. What brings you here?"
Her eyes met his, unwavering. "I observed certain nobles yesterday in council," she began, her tone precise. "It's become clearer which houses are particularly uncomfortable with my presence as a human. I took the time to watch their movements discreetly afterward and gather information on how they operate."
Her gaze sharpened. "In doing so, I discovered that the purist sect—the one responsible for the attack when we returned from the human village—still exists. More concerning, one of the houses hostile to my presence has recently been confirmed as a meeting spot for them. I don't yet know the full extent of their plans, but the signs are worrying."
He listened, noting the precision in her words, the clarity of her observations. Faster than any report he could have summoned, she had brought him what he did not yet know he needed to see.
"Which house?" His voice was quiet, but edged with steel.
She did not hesitate. "Varentes. Their heir was present among the gatherings. I traced the trail back to one of their lesser estates."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I had suspected their loyalties strayed, but not this far." He leaned back slightly, studying her as though reassessing what he thought he knew. "You saw this yourself?"
"I did," she answered. "And I made certain the servants who spoke of it were unaware of my interest. The information should not circle back to me."
The corner of his mouth shifted—not a smile, but the ghost of approval. "Clever." A pause. "You understand what this means, don't you?"
"That the danger isn't gone," she replied evenly. "And that some would prefer me gone with it."
Lucarion's gaze lingered on her, sharp and intent. "Yes. And now I know it sooner because of you."
Eva drew a slow breath. "There's more."
Lucarion stilled. "More?"
Her voice lowered, taut as a bowstring. "Follow me."
Without waiting for his answer, she turned, her steps swift but measured as she led him into the corridor. He followed, silent yet brimming with unspoken tension, every sense alert.