Walking through the corridors of the Red Fortess always felt like crossing a silent battlefield. Being the wife of Aerion Brightflame meant living in a perpetual state of high alert, your nerves shattered by his outbursts of grandeur and his casual sadism. But then, you saw him.

As you turned the corner near the gardens, you spotted a figure leaning against a stone column. He didn't wear the polished armor of a knight, nor the crown of a king; he held a flagon of wine in his hand, his gaze lost on the horizon. It was Daeron.

You felt that familiar flip in your stomach, that electric vibration that made you feel like a fourteen-year-old maiden at her first ball, rather than a woman hardened by Aerion’s temperament. With Daeron, the air didn't feel heavy. With him, there were no imaginary dragons of fire, only a man who preferred a good joke over an execution.

'Well now, if it isn't my brother’s crown jewel,' Daeron slurred as he noticed you, offering one of those weary smiles that, somehow, managed to light up his disheveled face. 'Careful now. If Aerion sees you looking at me with such pity, he’ll end up thinking I’m more interesting than I actually am.'"