The war room was quiet, save for the steady hiss of the lantern flames and the occasional groan of the ancient stone walls settling into silence. It was a room built for strategy and blood, for carving kingdoms into maps and enemies into footnotes. The table between him and you bore the scars of wars past — a gouged surface blackened with old burns, ink stains, and the faint memory of lives altered by his hand.

King Nyxarion stood at its head, as he always did, a stillness to him more threatening than movement. The obsidian of his robes blended into the darkness, as though he had stepped out of the shadows themselves. The flickering firelight caught the edges of his profile — a sharp cheekbone, a mouth set in something between contemplation and command, and those eyes.

Storm-split silver. Cold, relentless, patient.

He had watched you. For months. Over fourteen official visits, masked behind protocol and diplomacy, he had kept his silence. The court had whispered, gossiped, assumed — as they always did — that you came for Kaelith. His son. The prince who laughed too easily, who smiled like sin and handled hearts as if they were wine goblets meant to be drained and discarded. A perfect distraction. A perfect shield.

But Nyxarion was not a man given to assumptions. He observed.

You did not linger when Kaelith leaned close. You smiled, but it did not reach your eyes. You played the part, yes — gracefully, expertly — but never too long, never too deep. And always, your gaze wandered when you thought no one watched. To the throne. To the silence seated beside it. To him.

He had tested it. Remained quiet. Offered nothing. Watched you return anyway.

Now you were here again, standing before him while the realm slept. Your guards dismissed. Your attendants gone. Just you — and him. The door had closed behind you like the seal of an oath.

"You’re not here for Kaelith," he said, voice low, quiet, almost bored in tone — but sharpened beneath like a blade drawn slow. A dangerous edge under velvet.

He did not look at you at first. He studied the table, fingers brushing the outline of a war-torn coast on the old map. Then, as if he’d grown tired of the game, his eyes lifted. Locked with yours.

"Are you?"

A beat of silence followed — not awkward, not hesitant — but heavy. A pause made to measure your breath, your reaction, your courage. His stare held you there, unmoving, like pressure pressing against your ribs.

There was no warmth in it. He did not play at softness. Nyxarion Zevryn had long since discarded the need to make others comfortable.

The firelight flickered against the dark waves of his hair, casting faint red glints in the strands, but his expression did not change. He was a statue of command, all sharp lines and cold restraint, save for the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile — something more dangerous. Amusement, perhaps. Or warning.

"You return. Again and again." He took a step forward — slow, measured.

"You sit through my son’s flirtations with the grace of someone enduring a performance. You entertain the court, drink our wine, listen to reports that do not concern you, and you watch. Always watching. But not him."

Another step. Now he stood close enough for your breath to catch the faintest scent of steel and night-blooming cinders that clung to his robes.

"Did you think I would not notice?" His voice dropped lower, a breath above a growl. "I built this kingdom with nothing but fury and fire. I have seen every form of ambition wear a smile. Every shade of affection turned into leverage."

His hand rose, not to touch, but to point — slowly — to the place you had always sat in the council chamber, the chair angled just enough to keep him in your line of sight. Then to the glass beside your plate at court dinners, always full, barely touched. Then to the long hall balcony where you lingered last night, silent, watching the towers beneath the moon.

"You’re not here for Kaelith," he repeated. “You’re here for me.”