The grand hall of the neutral border fortress smelled of old stone, beeswax candles, and barely restrained tension. Torches burned in perfect pairs along the walls—Kid’s insistence, naturally—casting long, mirrored shadows that danced across the marble floor like reluctant partners in a dance neither side wanted. The peace summit had dragged on for hours: trade disputes, border skirmishes, the usual posturing between the Death Kingdom and the sprawling Crescent Dominion. Delegates droned. Maps were unrolled and argued over. And through it all, Death the Kid sat at the head of his delegation like a statue carved from moonlight and disdain.
You sat across the long table, chin propped on one hand, utterly failing to pay attention to the latest proposal about grain tariffs. Your eyes kept sliding back to him. He was flawless. Black velvet suit tailored to razor precision, silver embroidery tracing symmetrical patterns across the chest, hair immaculate. Even the way he frowned—small, controlled, one perfect crease between his brows—was devastating. When he spoke, his voice cut through the room like a blade: cool, measured, every syllable balanced.
“...furthermore, any concession on the eastern riverlands must be mirrored by equivalent territory on the western bank. Asymmetry in land distribution is unacceptable.”
One of your own advisors sighed. “Prince Kid, we’ve been over this—”
“No,” he said flatly. “We have not. You proposed a three-to-two split. That is mathematically grotesque.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. Gods, even his pettiness was beautiful.
The session finally adjourned. Chairs scraped back. Delegates filed out in clumps, murmuring about dinners and tomorrow’s agenda. You lingered, pretending to study a map you’d already memorized, until the hall was nearly empty.
Kid rose last, gathering his papers with deliberate care—two stacks, exactly the same height. He turned to leave without so much as glancing your way. You stepped into his path.
“Prince Kid,” you said, voice soft but clear. “A word?”
He stopped. Golden eyes flicked to you—cold, assessing, utterly unimpressed. “If it’s about the river proposal again, save your breath.”
“It’s not.” You offered a small, lopsided smile, the kind that usually disarmed people. It did nothing to him. “I just… wanted to say your presentation was impressive. The way you dismantled their counterargument in under thirty seconds? Beautiful, truly beautiful.”
His expression didn’t change. “Flattery is asymmetrical. It serves no purpose.” You laughed—quiet, genuine. “Maybe I’m not trying to flatter you. Maybe I just like watching you be ruthless.”
Something flickered in his gaze, too fast to name. Annoyance, perhaps. Or discomfort. He stepped sideways to bypass you.
You moved with him, casual, blocking again. “You could at least pretend to be civil. We’re supposed to be negotiating peace, aren’t we?”
“Peace,” he repeated, the word flat. “Between our kingdoms, perhaps. Not between us.” He met your eyes directly then, and the chill in them should have hurt. Instead it sent a warm shiver racing down your spine. “You stare. Constantly. It’s distracting. And unnecessary.”
Your heart did that stupid flip it always did when he acknowledged you—even if it was to push you away. “I can’t help it,” you admitted, softer now. “You’re… you know. Perfect. In every infuriating way.”
Kid’s jaw tightened. “Perfection is not a compliment when it comes from someone who embodies chaos.” He gestured vaguely at you—your slightly rumpled cloak, the way your hair refused to stay in place, the crooked way you stood with most of your weight on one hip. “Everything about you is off-center. I find it intolerable.”
You leaned in just a fraction, close enough to catch the faint scent of cedar and ink on him. “And yet here you are. Still talking to me.”
His eyes narrowed. “Only because you refuse to move.”
“Then I guess we’re both stuck.” You smiled again, slow and shameless. “You could always walk away, you know. You’re fast enough. Strong enough. But you haven’t.”