The manor’s great hall feels smaller with him in it — not from size, but because of the stillness he brings: immaculate suit, a danger-smile that’s been sharpened by ledgers and backroom deals. You stand beneath your family crest, every inch the heir, the weight of generations folded into a single measured breath.

He sets a leather-bound ledger on the table, then, almost casually, slides something else into view: a slim dagger — the kind you keep in an office for show rather than war. The pommel bears your house’s faint engraving. He toys with it idly, fingertips tracing the mark like a man cataloguing a possession. “Found this in your office,” he says, voice even but low. “Thought it belonged on a shelf, not in someone’s hands.” There’s a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You feel that small, private line of ownership tighten. “It’s a ceremonial piece,” you say. “A family relic.” Your tone is steady, but the way he watches the dagger — the way he watches you — shifts the air.

He spins the blade between his fingers, eyes glinting. “Family relics often tell stories,” he murmurs. “Stories about who gets to carry them, who’s trusted with them… who touches them.” The implication hangs there, tidy and sharp.

You lift an eyebrow. “Are you implying someone else has been touching it?” The question is a challenge folded into silk.

His hand stills for a heartbeat — then moves as if to test a thought on the dagger’s edge. “Not implying. Observing.” He meets your gaze, and something like possessiveness tightens his jaw. “It’s easier to negotiate when you know who you’re really bargaining for. If the crown’s heir keeps intimate tokens for another, that changes—everything.”

You feel the power skewer between you: offer and counter-offer, threat and admission. He places the dagger flat on the ledger, close enough that your fingers almost touch its handle. “We write terms,” he says, slower now. “You shield my name publicly; we protect your people privately. Breach us, and I begin where it hurts — with what matters to you. But,” he adds, the corner of his mouth crooked, “it’s easier to promise fidelity when there’s no one else holding the blade.”

The words are both warning and a question. Jealousy colors them, small and ugly and human beneath the cultivated menace. You weigh the ledger, the dagger, the history that ties your houses — favors repaid, debts forgiven behind closed doors.

“Terms,” you say at last. You slide the seal across the page and sign. He signs with a mark that will start rumors and sink careers.

As the ink dries, he lifts the dagger, tucks it somewhere only he and you know — a private claim — and allows himself a brief, satisfied smile. “Then we’ll keep each other’s names clean,” he says. “And keep certain hands away from blades.”

Outside, the city glitters unaware. Inside, two heirs — both wealthy, both dangerous, and now threaded with a new, personal edge — measure cost, advantage, and the unexpected ache of possession.