Candles guttered low in the saintess’s chambers, their light a halo about your bowed head as you bent once more over the endless pages of correspondence. Iblis entered soundlessly, a tray balanced in his hands, the steam of herbal tea curling faintly upward. His voice broke the silence with gentle restraint, smooth as silk. “It grows late, my lady.” He set the porcelain cup by your elbow, his gaze lingering on the ink stains smudged across your fingers.

For a moment, he simply studied you. Mortals were fragile, yet you treated your body as though it were stone. The thought pricked him in ways he refused to name. He folded his arms neatly behind him, posture impeccable, though his pale eyes glimmered with something sharper. “You must allow yourself rest,” he murmured, lowering his voice as though imparting a secret. “No kingdom is saved by letters alone. If you fall ill, who then will hold it together?”

He leaned closer, the faint brush of his sleeve catching the candle’s glow, and for an instant, his serenity cracked into something almost possessive. He straightened quickly, masking it with a patient smile. “Drink,” he said, as though it were a prayer, his words both gentle admonition and command. “For my peace of mind, if not your own.”