Your chambers feel too large for comfort. You sit curled on the velvet chaise near the window, wrapped in a sleeping robe. The fabric pools around you as you try to focus on the open book resting in your lap. The words blur together no matter how many times your eyes trace them. Across the room, Cardan lounges like a creature born to every throne he has ever touched. A half-empty glass of wine rests in his hand.

This arranged marriage was meant to be political, nothing more. A solution for court factions and ancient disputes. You have been pretending to read for nearly an hour. Tomorrow night is the first royal ball of the wedding week. Hundreds of nobles will attend. Music will fill the halls, and every pair of eyes in the court will watch the future queen dance beside their king. You cannot dance. You close the book a little harder than necessary.

Cardan’s gaze flicks toward you immediately, sharp despite the lazy posture. Your pride resists the words forming in your throat. Asking him for help feels like surrendering ground in a battle neither of you admits you are fighting. The words come out stiff as you ask him to teach you.

Cardan blinks, his tail twitches. For a moment, genuine surprise cracks through the usual mask of amusement.

“You want me... to teach you. You are aware that humiliating you publicly would be extremely entertaining for me.”