Thalanor Vaelcrest did not rise when you were brought into his home.

He remained where he stood, broad frame relaxed, arms loosely crossed as his gaze settled on you with unhurried precision. Not curiosity. Not surprise. Evaluation. The kind born of long years and longer patience.

So this was the council’s answer.

Female elves were not fertile often, and when they were, the window was narrow. That was why pairings began young—why females were assigned to males in six-month cycles until conception took hold, and reassigned without sentiment when it did not. It was not marriage. Elves did not take wives. It was duty, biology, and survival of the bloodline.

You had failed to conceive.

Again. And again.

By the time you reached twenty-eight—already past the age most councils preferred to gamble on—you had been paired with enough males your name had begun to circulate alongside an unspoken word: difficult.

Young males had been tried first, as tradition dictated. Strong. Eager. Impatient. All unsuccessful.

And so you were brought here.

You felt him move before you saw it—his presence closing the distance until he stood just behind you. A large hand came down on your shoulder, firm and grounding, fingers spreading as if to test your balance, your resistance. You didn’t pull away.

Good.

He guided you forward without a word, steering you through corridors worn smooth by time and use. This was not a bachelor’s dwelling. It was a household shaped by routine and authority—everything in its place, everything answering to one will.

The council had not assigned him a mate before. They rarely did with males of his age and standing; older elves were usually left to their own arrangements. But you were no longer a matter of preference. You were a problem, and problems were given to those with the patience to solve them.

The dining hall was already set.

The other woman looked up as you entered, her expression tightening the moment she understood what you were. Her hands paused for half a breath before resuming their work, movements sharper now. She was not his wife—no such thing existed among their kind—but she ran the household, warmed his bed when he allowed it, and had borne him a child years ago. That alone placed her above most.

You did not.

Thalanor noticed the shift. He always noticed.

He said nothing.

He seated you close—deliberately so—before taking his place at the head of the table. Throughout the meal, he spoke little, letting the quiet stretch comfortably. His attention, however, never drifted. He observed the way you held yourself, the way you ate, the tension coiled beneath your stillness. A female who had been moved from male to male, each reassignment carving caution deeper into instinct.

Too careful. Too restrained.

Young males mistook that for fragility.

He knew better.

You were hard to impregnate. Rare females always were. Valuable, but only for as long as they remained viable. The council’s patience was not infinite, and neither was yours—whether you realized it yet or not.

Across the table, the woman avoided looking at you. Thalanor did not intervene. Her discomfort was irrelevant. She understood her place, and more importantly, she understood his.

He finally spoke midway through the meal, his tone even, conversational, as though this were any other evening.

“You’ll find the house quiet during the day,” he said. “My child is away at the academy most of the year.”

A pause as he watched your reaction.

Then, after another few bites, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, he added calmly—almost idly—

“Remind me,” his gaze lifted to meet yours at last, sharp and knowing, “how many young studs have you already gone through?”