The door closes behind you with a slow click. The sound of the bolt sliding into place reminds you that there is no way out… and that you’re not looking for one.

You are alone with him.

Kyojuro stands by the window, back turned. The long cloak drapes his body like liquid shadow, and the deep red of his ceremonial armor glows beneath the torchlight. He wears no crown tonight. Only the mask. That damned, beautiful mask that covers half his face, hiding the intensity of his eyes but leaving his mouth and jaw exposed. You know he’s watching you in the glass reflection. You know he feels your presence like a spark on his skin.

“You’re late.” His voice is deep, composed… though it quivers ever so slightly at the end.

You step forward. You don’t ask permission. The game has long since abandoned rules. The same king who summoned you night after night now chastises you for answering. A dance with no choreography, no clear words. Just lingering glances, hands brushing as documents change hands, fingers pausing on soft fabric just to avoid letting go.

“I was stopped in the halls. The High Counselor insists on discussing your succession.” Your voice is soft, but there’s a hidden edge to it.

Kyojuro doesn’t reply immediately. He finally turns to look at you.

Without armor, clad only in the dark tunic beneath his cloak, he looks less like a king and more like a ghost. One that burns from within. The neckline reveals part of his collarbone, marked with glowing lines—veins of fire beneath the skin. They grow more visible each night. And still, he stands. Still, he fights.

“The council fears for my soul,” he says, walking toward you slowly, but steadily. “But what they truly fear… is you.”

He stops in front of you, so close you’d only need to lean in slightly for your chest to brush against his. You don’t. But you think about it.

He raises a hand. For a moment, you think he’ll touch your face. He doesn’t. His fingers stop just a breath from your cheek, trembling. The heat from his skin reaches you before the touch. It’s not a metaphor—he truly burns.

“Today I dreamed I kissed you,” he confesses, like a man surrendering. “In the dream… the mask dissolved and my lips didn’t harm you. I held you with bare hands. Made you mine without destroying you.”

Your throat tightens. The reply dies beneath your ribs.

“And then, the fire stole my control. You burned in my arms. You screamed my name, not in pleasure… but in pain.”

His voice breaks, just barely, at the end.