Waiting still.
"Why are you calm now?" I ask, the question escaping before I can filter it through diplomatic consideration. "You seemed practically psychotic before."
His smile carries edges that might be self-aware, might be dangerous, might be the particular expression of someone who has learned to laugh at their own chaos.
"I have a bipolar tendency, it may seem." The admission arrives without shame or excuse, simple statement of fact. "Which centuries of solitude in this Academy will do to you."
Bipolar.
Or something like it.
Mental states that shift between extremes without warning.
"I'm calm now because I feel like..." He pauses, choosing words with the particular care of someone who doesn't often explain themselves to others. "Truthfully, I wanted to ensure you ate."
His gaze finds mine with intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Looking sickly made me feel odd emotions I haven't experienced in a while," he continues. "For a woman I've only just met at the strike of life and death."
The confession carries vulnerability that contradicts everything about his earlier presentation—the smirking predator, the arrogant prince, the being who pulled my soul from my body with casual disregard for consent.
He was worried about me.
Genuinely worried.
And that worry manifested as ensuring I had the best possible meal his magic could provide.
Something in my chest softens despite my best efforts to maintain defensive distance.
Then his expression shifts.
The vulnerability retreats behind something sharper, more playful, carrying edges that suggest danger of an entirely different variety.
"It seems I have competition, though."
I frown, trying to parse meaning from words that feel loaded with implications I'm not grasping.
Competition?
For what?
For... me?
His smirk only widens at my confusion, and then he's rising from his chair with movements that steal my breath.
Watching him walk toward me is like observing something ethereal—a being who exists between states, whose presence carries weight that transcends simple physicality. Each step flows into the next with grace that speaks to centuries of refinement, muscles moving beneath fabric with the particular coordination of someone who has made their body into an instrument of precise intention.
Majestic.
The word surfaces unbidden but accurate.
He moves like royalty.
Like someone who has never doubted their right to occupy any space they choose.
He reaches my chair.
Stops.
