Ace presses a hand to his chest as if wounded, then winks at me. “See? Everyone here conspires against my charm.”
Soria claps the shawl lightly over my shoulders, gentle but brisk. “Come, Mira. He’s waiting.”
A delicate cream-colored shawl drapes across my arms, a feeble defense against the chill that creeps in with night, while Soria’s fingers weave through my hair. Loose tendrils frame my face as she tucks the braid into place.
“Gilded perfection,” she says with a smile, shifting my golden locks just so.
We stand before the same chamber where I once shared supper with Vale, the banquet room now silent, shadows stretching long across the floor as we cross the breadth of the castle to reach him.
“From what I hear, the day has taken much from him,” Soria murmurs, her voice soft with understanding. “I can see why he wants nothing more than peace with you, dear. Go. You both deserve this.”
At her signal, the guards swing open the doors.
Vale is not by the table as he was two nights past. He stands waiting—just beyond the threshold—as though the distance itself has weighed on him. The moment he sees me, he closes the gap in swift, sure strides, as if gravity itself pulls us together.
“Mira.” My name is no longer bound to duty, no longer restrained by morning reluctance. His voice burns with hunger and relief. One arm encircles my waist, the other claims the back of my neck, and then his mouth is on mine.
I melt into him, lips parting, tongues meeting in a private language only we speak. His kiss is consuming, steady and wild all at once.
Heat surges through me, awakening everything I have tried to temper in his absence. Though I haven’t eaten since breakfast, my appetite is not for the meal that waits beyond us. It is for him. Relief and fire take over, no longer having to ignore the longing I’ve carried with me through the day since his parting at dawn.
When at last we sit, our lips are raw, our clothes slightly askew. I lay a napkin across my lap, smoothing my skirt in the process—a feeble attempt to regain composure.
“The day kept me from you far too long. The burden of duty…” He shakes his head, a laugh and sigh breaking his attempt at self-control. His gaze slides over me, intent and unblinking, and the air between us stills.
“So tell me, flame. What did you get up to today?”
I tell him of Ace, the library, and the small moments spent hidden among the ancient stacks. “Ace is a great companion,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “He seems to know the corners of the palace as well as he knows its books.”
Vale’s mouth curves at that, a glint of amusement flickering across his face. “He always did have a knack for slipping into places best left forgotten.”
I let the words hang for a beat, then stir my wine, eyes fixed on the deep red as though it holds only idle interest. “There are a few places like that,” I say lightly. “Corridors where the light dies long before the torches end. Rooms that seem to breathe secrets. I stumbled past one today—a chamber kept dark even at midday. Near the back of the library. Iron bars…”
“Ah, yes…” His tone is smooth, but something in the way his gaze shifts betrays that it is not mere disinterest. “What’s behind there would be of no use to you. Old prophecies in languages since lost.” Too casual for something that feels as though it had reached for me, lingering in my mind even hours later.
“How does one lose a language?” I ask, levity masking the depth of my desire to understand what waits in the dark.
“The Fade,” he says it plainly.
The question lingers on my face, and I realize—at times, he forgets how much of an outsider I am within these walls.
“That’s what we call it,” he adds, quieter now. “Magic didn’t vanish in a single cataclysm. It faded. Slowly. Unevenly. Cruelly.”
He leans back in his chair, a far-off look settling into his eyes like a tide rolling out. “It’s been centuries since the Fade took hold,” he says quietly. “We didn’t only lose magic. We lost the means to interpret what had been given to us. Entire lifetimes of wisdom, of translation, of understanding—gone. Those who could read the old tongues, those who could wield the spark that brought meaning to the words… most didn’t survive the famine and the wars that followed. And without them…” His eyes flicker closed, as if the memories themselves burn.
My hand moves across the table almost on its own, resting lightly atop his. No mystery is worth making him relive what must be a wound deeper than time.
The touch softens something in him. He exhales, a small surrender, and returns to me. “Now it’s just a collection of scribbles and script across parchment,” he murmurs. “Collecting dust. Best forgotten.”
I turn his hand in mine and lace our fingers. For a heartbeat, we simply breathe, the table between us feeling smaller than it did when the meal began.
A knock sounds. Not timid. Certain.
“Enter,” Vale says, voice returning to steel.
Odrin steps inside with a sealed parchment. He inclines his head to me before setting it by Vale’s plate. “From the lower watch, my lord. Marked urgent.”
Vale breaks the seal. I watch the change in him as his eyes move over the page. The weight of being ruler returns to his shoulders like armor reclaimed.
