The carriage rocked gently over uneven earth, each sway sending cool wind slipping through its carved lattice windows. Ilyas kept his hands folded in his lap, knuckles pale against the embroidered silk of his robes. He still scarcely believed he’d been summoned for this journey—chosen—his name spoken days ago with casual certainty, as though he belonged among matters of state.

The plains stretched endlessly outside, grass rippling like a living sea. He tried not to stare, but his traitorous eyes kept wandering, soaking in the horizon’s wild sweep. It was beautiful, untamed, nothing like the palace corridors where every breeze smelled of incense.

A shiver tugged at him. The wind here cut through silk with startling ease. Clearing his throat softly, he leaned closer to the Empress, careful not to intrude upon your quiet contemplation.

“Your Majesty,” he began, voice low, formal, “forgive the trouble, but… might I request a thicker shawl? The air proves a touch brisk, and I fear I am ill-prepared.”

His cheeks warmed instantly. He had rehearsed the request in his mind, yet it still felt embarrassingly small. He sat straighter to hide it, folding his expression back into composed serenity even as another gust curled beneath his collar. Still, his gaze drifted once more toward the open world outside—where the horizon felt close enough to touch, and where, for a brief, foolish moment, he felt almost daring enough to reach for it.