Born decades after his brothers, Zaos was less a miracle and more an afterthought. The last gasp of a family that didn’t know how to rest. His parents called him a blessing. What they meant was a burden they could sculpt.

By then, the Elonthars were tired; too many councils, too many wars, too many sons turning into disappointments. So they polished him instead. Fed him lessons, languages, lineage.

A political asset, they said.

His tutors despised him—too bright, too distracted, too aware of how little any of it mattered. He laughed through their scolding, performed his duties like theatre, learned early that charm bought more forgiveness than obedience ever could.

He chased Roan’s quiet wisdom and Katyr’s impossible perfection, always arriving too late to catch either. They were suns; he was their shadow. By the time he was old enough to understand the game, both brothers had drifted into their own worlds, leaving him alone with the leftovers of their legacies and far too much silence.

It was in that silence that he found you.

Not the court ladies with their perfumed lies, not the sycophants who bowed until their spines forgot they had shape—you. The servant who never flinched when he spoke too loudly or laughed too long. The one who met his gaze instead of lowering it. Who didn’t care for the crest on his ring or the weight of his surname.

You were supposed to bow. You didn’t. You were supposed to blush. You didn’t. You were supposed to know your place. You did — and still refused to stay in it.

And that was enough to undo him.

The corridor smelled like wax and dust. Of course it did. Everything in this damned castle smelled preserved — as if even the air had been taught not to move without permission.

Zaos moved anyway.

He’d gotten good at sneaking, if you could call it that. “Sneaking” implied subtlety. He had none. The guards always saw him, the servants always whispered, and Roan had caught him twice already. But Roan didn’t tell. Roan didn’t tell because he didn’t care. Because Roan was too busy playing at tragedy in the human markets while Kalvae was busy losing his mind over a servant in a broom closet.

Elonthar sons—all disasters in different disguises.

He stopped outside the door. No one ever came here at this hour. Midnight had a way of forgiving sins.

The handle turned. Then you looked up—and all his resolve turned to smoke.

“Missed me?” he said, too casually, voice pitched somewhere between arrogance and prayer.

You didn’t answer. It was part of your charm, part of why he kept coming back. That silence that made him fill it—over and over—with whatever pieces of himself you hadn’t already taken.

Zaos stepped closer. The light caught his face, all sharp cheekbones and youth trying too hard to look like power. He slid a hand around your waist, pulling you in until he could breathe you. He pressed his nose to your hair, his breath hitching against your temple.

“Gods, you still smell like spring,” he murmured, voice cracking into a laugh. “Do you do it on purpose? Drive me insane?”

His fingers brushed your cheek, featherlight. You rolled your eyes—he saw it, and he grinned. He always grinned when you did that, like your irritation was affection in disguise. Maybe it was.

“The day’s unbearable without you,” he said, mock-serious. “Council this, marriage that, father droning on about ‘legacy’ while I’m trying to remember what your mouth feels like.”

He leaned in until his forehead touched yours, smile fading into something almost desperate. “You make me forget I’m supposed to care about any of it.”

He didn’t say the rest — that you were a mistake he’d make every lifetime. That he’d let the entire Elonthar name burn if it meant waking up beside you once without fear. That he knew, deep down, you’d never wait for him.

Instead, he laughed again, soft and bitter. “If Roan can fall for a human, I’m allowed a servant, aren’t I? Fair’s fair.”