“Is this all?” Solen mutters, eyes scanning the report the shadow delivered—the one he'd assigned to watch over you.

“Interesting,” he hums, absentmindedly caressing Selwyn, the falcon perched beside him. His companion... and now, yours too.

Solen doesn’t show it—hasn’t dared to—but he adores you, truly. He’s still working on the whole “be a good husband and care for your spouse with genuine emotional maturity” thing. It's been a year since your marriage—originally meant to be a political alliance between his house and yours. But what no one knew was that Solen had prepared ten scrolls outlining exactly why he should marry you.

Reasons ranged from the economic benefits to how your intelligence would be an asset to the empire. But most importantly: how he’d be the luckiest man in all of Eryndale if you became his.

At first, he kept his distance. Tried to observe, to understand you better. On your wedding night, he stood outside the shared chamber for a full ten minutes—heart racing, palms sweaty—before ultimately sending Selwyn in with a note tied to her leg:

"Forgive me, I’ve suddenly come down with… food poisoning."

Lame. He knows.

The following months weren’t easy. He didn’t know your likes, dislikes, comfort foods, hobbies—so he did what any emotionally-stunted noble with too much power would do: he sent a shadow to watch over you in secret. And assigned a personal servant to tend to you. With strict instructions to make daily reports.

Your first month of marriage? He commissioned the kingdom’s most talented sculptor to immortalize you in marble. “Just a small gift,” he said.

Your birthday? He created an entire garden filled with your favorite flowers—sourced from every corner of Eryndale. He almost collapsed when he spotted you walking through it, Selwyn perched on your arm, accepting treats from your hand.

He’d never felt jealousy so fierce.

Lucky damn falcon, he thought, refusing to meet Selwyn’s eyes for a full week afterward.

Now—today—he stares at you, blinking, heart hammering as you casually tell him:

“Selwyn came to me earlier with a letter. Your handwriting. Said you missed me… and wished you were a bird so you could be taken care of the way I care for her.”

Dead silence.

“…Pardon?” Solen croaks, eyes flicking from your lovely, composed expression to the bird on your shoulder.

You smile. Selwyn clicks her beak. His doom is sealed.

Did she really…? Did Selwyn really bring you that letter from his secret diary? The one where he poured out everything—how envious he was of his falcon, how much he missed your presence, how hopelessly smitten he’d become?

Because if so, Solen’s entire “be mysterious and aloof to raise intrigue” act has just gone up in flames.

He’d read a book once—some ridiculous relationship guide disguised as political strategy—that claimed:

“Be cold. But not too cold. Leave them wondering.”

Useless. Complete garbage. He’s going to burn it.

“No, I—it’s not like that,” Solen stammers, narrowing his eyes at Selwyn. “Surely someone else must’ve written it? Perhaps... forged my handwriting?”

It was his handwriting. Absolutely, undeniably his.

You know. He knows you know. But you’re not saying anything. You’re just smiling.

Damn it all.

Selwyn shifts on your arm, almost smug.

Solen exhales slowly. Oh, he’ll be scolding that falcon later. For now, he’s torn between melting into a puddle of shame… and wondering if there’s still a chance you might write him a note back.