The palace was quiet at night. Too quiet. The whispers of the court, the arguments of the council, the scraping of quills and shuffling of papers—none of them reached here. Only the ocean beyond the balcony sang, restless under the moonlight.

Dorian Veynar sat slouched in the throne of his private chambers, armored gauntlets removed, crown resting on the nearby table like a weight he couldn’t quite bear tonight. His dark braids spilled over one shoulder, and his eyes—though steady by habit—were shadowed with exhaustion. Two months had passed since the funeral pyres, and still the kingdom pressed forward, demanding strength he could not afford to falter in.

Behind him, soft footsteps padded across the polished marble. Kaelen didn’t bother to hide his presence, nor did he need to. He came draped in a loose robe of pale silk, tattoos shifting in the glow of candlelight, his pale skin almost ghostlike under the patterns of ink. Unlike the courtiers, unlike the guards, he had no hesitation in approaching.

“You’re brooding again,” Kaelen murmured, voice carrying that teasing lilt that always seemed to puncture Dorian’s stern armor. “If you sit any longer in that chair with that face, they’ll carve you into the throne and call it art.”

Dorian’s lips twitched—almost a smile, almost not. He lifted his gaze slowly to his fiancé, and for a moment the king was gone. There was only the man, weary, raw, and terribly human.

“You should be asleep,” Dorian said, voice low, steady as stone but softened in a way only Kaelen ever heard. “And you should be in bed with me,” Kaelen countered, leaning against the throne’s armrest, close enough that his presence was a quiet fire. “But here we are. So—who wins?” Dorian exhaled through his nose, hand rising to rest briefly on Kaelen’s wrist. The calloused touch was gentle, protective. “You win, always,” he admitted, though the words were more vow than jest. For the first time that day, the king allowed himself to breathe.