"Feed me."
That was her opening gambit. No hesitation. No courtesy. She sat there barefoot in violet silk, chin tipped high, as if daring me to deny her.
I should have been irritated. Instead, I nearly smiled.
The servants uncovered the dishes—steak, roasted roots, potatoes, a simple soup. To her, though, it must have looked like a king's ransom. She froze, eyes locked on the plate as though it might vanish if she reached for it.
She didn't move. Her hands stayed clenched in her lap.
I cut into my steak, watching. Still she sat stiff, staring.
"Something wrong?" I asked.
Her lips pressed together. "I don't… know how to use them."
The words were clipped, defensive. It cost her to admit it.
For a moment, I only studied her. Then I rose, circled the table, and pulled a chair beside hers. She stiffened, chin tilting higher, but didn't pull away when I reached for her hands.
Her fingers were small, calloused. Rough palms that had known ropes and stone, not silk. I guided them carefully, curling her grip around the fork, adjusting the knife between her thumb and forefinger.
"Like this," I murmured. "The knife is for cutting, not stabbing."
She gave a sharp huff. "Well that just takes all the fun out of it."
My lips twitched. I didn't let go immediately. My hands lingered, steadying hers as she tried the motion again. Tense at first, rigid with pride—but gradually easing, her movements smoothing under mine.
"Not bad," I said.
Her breath caught, quick and subtle. Then she smirked. "Careful, Prince. Keep complimenting me and I might start thinking you're human."
I released her before I thought better of it, retreating back to my chair. My palms still remembered her—rough, alive.
She tried again, sawing awkwardly at the steak until she freed a piece. She chewed with exaggerated satisfaction, as though proving something. I pretended not to be amused.
Peace lasted three minutes.
She reached for the wine, took a generous swallow—then nearly spat it across the table. Coughing, eyes watering, she shoved the glass away. "Gods, that is vile. Worse than moldy bread."
The laugh tore out of me before I could stop it. Harsh, real. Startling even to my own ears. She blinked—then laughed too. A bright, reckless sound that made the servants glance around in alarm, as if laughter itself might be treason.
For one brief breath, it wasn't prince and thief. Just two people with the same joke.
When it faded, she jabbed her fork toward the glass. "Do people actually pay for that poison?"
"It's an acquired taste," I said, still half smiling despite myself.
"Well, I'm not acquiring it."
I leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Then what would you have instead? Name it."
She blinked, caught off guard. Then softer, almost shy: "Lemonade."
I arched a brow. "Out of everything in the Fire Nation… lemonade?"
Her grin sharpened. "What's the matter, Prince Sparky? Too simple for you?"
I gestured to a servant. "Bring her lemonade. Fresh."
When the glass was set down, she hesitated, then sipped. Her expression softened for a flicker, as though a memory had slipped loose.
"Not bad…you're being to nice to me…" she muttered. Then, lower—like she hadn't meant to let it out—"for a prisoner."
The word landed like a blade. She froze, realizing too late she'd spoken it aloud.
I tilted my head. "Is that what you think you are?"
Her lips pressed into a line.
"Prisoners get chains," I said evenly. "Cells. Darkness." My gaze drifted deliberately to the jeweled gown, the feast between us. "You get silk. Stars. Midnight dinner."
Her shoulders eased just slightly, though she tried to mask it with a scowl.
"You're not a prisoner, Lyra," I finished quietly. "You're something else entirely."
Her eyes narrowed, searching mine. For what, I didn't know.
But I felt it then—the air between us shifting, charged and dangerous. Not yet trust. Not yet surrender. Something hungrier.
And if I wasn't careful, it might burn us both.
---
When the plates were cleared and the servants bowed themselves out, silence settled heavy over the hall. She fidgeted once, then pushed to her feet, padding barefoot toward the balcony.
I let her go—for a moment. Then followed.
She stood at the railing, violet silk stirring in the wind, silver-white hair haloed by moonlight. Below, cherry blossoms rippled like a pink sea, petals drifting upward in the night breeze.
"Why are you being so nice," she whispered. "There has to be a catch, there is always a catch."
Her voice was sharp now.
"You don't trust me," I said.
She glanced at me, eyes narrowing, armor snapping back into place. "Do you honestly think I should?"
The wind stirred between us, carrying the faint sweetness of blossoms. For a long moment, I only watched her—the curve of her jaw, the defiance in her stance, the faint tremor she tried to hide.
"No," I admitted. "You shouldn't."
Her brows lifted, startled by my honesty.
I stepped closer. Not quite touching, but close enough for the air to spark. Her breath caught, almost imperceptibly.
"You're not my prisoner," I said again, voice low. "But you're not free either. Not yet."
Her chin tipped up, violet eyes locking onto mine. "Then what am I?"
Danger hummed under the question.
I held her gaze, every word a promise and a warning. "Something I can't afford to lose."
For a heartbeat, the world stilled. Just her, me, and the storm building between us.
Then she tore her eyes away, retreating a step, breaking the tension with forced bravado. She let out a sharp breath and she turned and left.
I let her go this time, though the air still crackled between us.
Beyond the balcony, the cherry blossoms swayed under the night wind. Beautiful. Fleeting. And far below, at the city's edge, I caught the faint flicker of torches—an army's light, drawing nearer.
She thought her life is bad now.
She hadn't yet seen how many wolves waited to rip their claws into her.