“Don’t exhaust our guests,” Xyliria purred. “They have more meetings tomorrow.”
Ashterion dipped his chin. “Of course.”
And then, without waiting for permission, he turned and walked out of the throne room. Two diplomats trailed behind him like moths to a flame they didn’t know would burn.
The sitting room they entered was quiet, cloaked in the same low, velvet shadows that swathed the halls of the inner palace. Pale light shimmered from a constellation of wall sconces, casting halos across dark stone and wine-red upholstery. The doors sighed shut behind them, sealing off the throne room’s political theatre. Here, the stage was something far more intimate.
Ashterion moved through the space with the ease of someone used to being watched, each step deliberate. He gestured idly toward the low couches that flanked the hearth, though he himself did not yet sit.
Kareth lounged immediately, boots half-kicked off, eager and too obvious by far. The woman—Naera—remained standing, though she sidled close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his arm.
“You entertain so graciously,” she said, voice low and curved. “Is this the part where you pour us wine? Or where you drink us in instead?”
Ashterion pushed a flicker of a smile to the corner of his mouth. “I rarely partake in anything before I’ve tasted its intent.”
“Intent,” Kareth echoed, sprawling wider. “What a lovely way to say ‘motives.’”
“They aren’t always the same thing,” Ashterion replied, voice smooth as a still lake. He took a bottle of amber liquid from the sideboard without ceremony and poured three cups, setting them down with elegant finality. “But let’s pretend, for tonight, that I’m too polite to notice the difference.”
Naera accepted the cup but didn’t drink. She was watching him too closely. “Do you always indulge your guests like this?”
He looked at her, offered the lie he knew she wanted. “No. Most don’t know how to make themselves interesting enough to bother.”
It was not a compliment, not precisely. But Kareth nearly preened, and Naera’s lips parted on a smile that was all teeth.
“Lucky us,” she murmured.
Ashterion turned from the hearth to the pair of them. Their closeness wasn’t threatening, not exactly. It was performative, hungry, a coaxing dance that expected him to set the rhythm.
But still.
They were not Xyliria. The pair were dangerous, yes, but he’d long since learned how to read these moments. These two at least, were without cruelty. And they wanted him. He didn’t much care why. Whatever bargain had been struck for this moment didn’t concern him. Their want was uncomplicated.
Ashterion sat at last, not too near, but within reach if they dared. He rested one arm along the back of the couch, gaze trained on the flickering fire, content to let them approach. As the whiskey settled in him, his mind drifted.
Not toward the diplomats. Not toward the game they clearly thought they were playing.
But to Isara.
The name came unbidden, unwelcome. He exhaled once, slow, invisible.
The fire in her, burning beneath the surface, all jagged edges and broken restraint.
Ashterion took another sip of the whiskey, letting the burn anchor him. The glass was half-empty before he even realised he’d raised it again.
Naera was shifting closer, all curves and confidence, the lean of her body angled to brush his thigh. Kareth mirrored her on the other side, draping an arm over the couch, the subtle press of magic humming low between them.
And still.
Still.
His thoughts didn’t drift to the offer in front of him. Not the mouths that would part at his command, not the hands waiting to explore his skin. But to the wild, sharp flame of a human who had looked at him with fury. Defiance.
Ashterion rolled the glass between his fingers. He didn’t shift away from the warmth on either side of him. But he didn’t reach for it either.
“She’s nothing,” he murmured aloud.
Naera tilted her head. “What was that?”
