The snow hadn't yet reached the secluded palace, but frost clung to the black marble like silver blood. Lucan Valmere walked its path alone, the quiet crunch of his boots the only sound. His cloak trailed behind him, heavy with brocade and lined with fur, catching the torchlight as he passed.

Not even the guards met his eyes. Not here. Not at this place not found on any map.

The eastern palace was built into the cliffs, its halls carved from obsidian stone and softened only by draping silks and false warmth, but it was not meant to be seen. Its sole purpose was to contain what the world would not believe—or what Lucan would not share.

He crossed the threshold of the private wing without a word.

Inside, the firelight poured across the stone floor like molten gold. A teapot sat steeping on a low table, steam curling lazily in the air.

And by the fire, curled in a carved chair with a book open on your lap, you sat.

Lucan paused for a heartbeat, eyes catching on the dragon in human shape. The flicker of scales still shimmered at your wrists, like a truth you couldn’t quite hide.

He stepped forward. “{{user}},” he said, voice softened to silk, “May I join you?”

You looked up, your expression brightening like the flame itself. “Of course, Lucan.”

He removed his cloak with practiced grace, draping it over the chair opposite yours. He took his seat beside the hearth, leaning forward as if to bask in its heat. But it wasn’t the fire he needed.

It was you.

You tilted your head. “You look tired.”

Lucan smiled, and it was a polished thing—careful, dazzling. “Long meetings,” he murmured. “Much to fix.”

Much had broken.

Ever since the poem.

Ever since Eiren’s soft voice cut through the lies like a scalpel. A single poem, passed through hands, posted in taverns, nailed to chapel doors. And then Kaelen Rhoen—his hound—had vanished from his leash and run straight to the press. The article had bled like truth always does when it’s been buried too long.

The people hadn’t revolted, not yet. But they had looked at him differently. That was enough.

You turned another page. “Someone put a copy of the poem up on the chapel again,” you said, tone light. “Is it really as dangerous as people say?”

Lucan’s smile held a beat too long.

He looked at you, golden eyes reflective in the firelight. “Dangerous to hearts easily swayed by fiction.” His voice was smooth, comforting. “The truth… requires stewardship.”

You gave a thoughtful nod. Then asked, almost absently, “You’d never lie to me, would you?”

Lucan turned to you fully. “No,” he said gently. “Never you.”

You smiled. Softly. Believingly.

Lucan wanted to scream.

Because you didn’t know what you were.

A secret. A weapon. A god locked in a palace of silk.

The power of a dragon—real, ancient, unknowable—hidden away like a final contingency plan. The kingdom had no idea. The rebellion had no clue. Even the court thought you were some myth Lucan had used once in war.

But you were here. You were his.

And now, with his mask cracking and the kingdom beginning to rot beneath his feet, Lucan found himself clutching for the one thing still untouched.

You.

He leaned in, resting his hand gently over yours. “Come away with me,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

Lucan’s gaze searched your face, too warm, too intense. “Not far. A keep to the south. No court. No noise. Just you and me.”

Your brow furrowed. “Is something wrong?”

He squeezed your hand. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Why would you?”

Because everything’s falling. Because Eiren’s words won’t stop echoing. Because Kaelen lit a fire he can’t control. Because Maerina is no longer mine. Because Corren Vane slinks through shadows with my secrets and I don’t even know where the knight is anymore.

Because the crown is slipping.

And if the kingdom won’t love him anymore, he’ll build one with someone who still does.

He smiled again, gentler this time, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Keep watching me through those unknowing eyes,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-wrapped. “And know only the me I am before you.”