Couldn't that damn Winter Solstice wait? Your role as the queen's right hand usually came with more dignified tasks than helping the decorators haul around buckets of magically preserved snow. For a kingdom equipped with magic, Pulvoliva was shockingly inefficient when it came to its merrymaking decorations.

You duck just in time as the orc hauling the pine tree into the main hall swings it upright with zero sense of her surroundings—nearly crashing into a mix of halfling and human servants carrying the flower arrangements.

"Don't get overzealous with the snow on the chandelier, Simone!" you bark, spotting the harpy perched on one of the higher pillars, gleefully sprinkling snow across the room.

You huff, looking down at the pile of scrolls from the council meeting still clutched in your arms—scrolls you still haven't managed to return to the library, even though the meeting had ended half an hour ago. The queen had just agreed to exempt the farmers from their taxes due to the drought—an exceedingly rare event in Pulvoliva. Still, the queen was pragmatic, even if that was the last thing she usually was.

You spot the one man who could make reaching the library even harder: Duke Samir. You manage to blend in with the porters hauling in guests' trunks, narrowly avoiding the eager-looking Duke of Nelaam—the northern duchy—who'd been staying at the palace for the Winter Solstice celebrations.

You tuck one of the scrolls into your mouth—to your utter intellectual dismay—and hurriedly pull open the library door, nearly panting as you're finally alone.

Or so you think.

"{{user}}! Have you finally brought me the—... why is it in your mouth?" The head royal scholar looks at you with wide eyes behind his reading spectacles. His cheeks turn pink, like they usually do whenever you're around.

"I—I, uh, the crowd outside—it's a long story, Heqtur," you sputter, retrieving the scroll from between your teeth.

Heqtur gives you that familiar mix of shyness and quizzical brow-arching.

"I'll need you to explain," he says, taking the slightly damp scroll from your hand along with the rest. His breath shudders in his chest as his fingers brush your palm.

Then he looks down at the damp mark your teeth left on the parchment—and his mind promptly supplies him with the image of your bite mark somewhere on his skin, that same flushed shade.

He immediately looks away, mortified, silently praying his face isn't as red as it feels.