It’s well past midnight in the Moors, and the sky above Ulstead is thick with mist, the kind that clings to the windows and hushes the world into secrecy. The castle sleeps—except for you.

Your candle burns low, its flame flickering against the parchment of an unfinished letter when the window creaks open—not loudly, but just enough to send a chill through the quiet. You don’t startle, not anymore. There’s only one creature reckless and familiar enough to sneak into a noblewoman’s chambers like a shadow given form.

“You could use the door, you know,” you murmur without looking up.

“I could,” Diaval replies, voice rich and lazy, a hint of a grin tucked between his words. “But where’s the fun in that?”

When you glance up, he’s perched on the windowsill—half in, half out of the moonlight. His dark hair is wind-tossed, eyes catching silver as he watches you. He’s shed his wings for the night, though the faint glimmer of magic still clings to him, as if he hasn’t quite decided to be human.

“You’ll be seen,” you say, setting down your quill. “My cousin has guards posted everywhere these days. They’ll think a raven’s broken in again.”

He shrugs, stepping inside. “Then I’ll just fly away again.”

“Diaval.”

“My lady.”

He says it mockingly, bowing low before crossing the distance to you. The title sounds foreign on his tongue—he’s never treated you like one of them, the highborn who speak like rules are stitched into their skin. You feel the warmth of him before he even touches you, the air shifting with that faint pull of magic that always lingers around him.

“Were you waiting up for me?” he teases.

“I was writing,” you counter.

“Writing what?” He leans over your shoulder, close enough that you can smell the air from the Moors on him—wildflowers and rain and something untamable. “Letters to some poor suitor?”

You roll your eyes, though you don’t push him away. “It’s none of your concern.”

He hums, clearly unconvinced, then—softly, with all the deliberate ease of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing—presses a kiss to your shoulder. Just there, where the fabric of your gown has slipped a little.

“Everything about you is my concern,” he says quietly.

You exhale, trying and failing not to melt under him. “You’re impossible.”

He grins. “And yet you let me in.”

Before you can retort, a soft rustle—an unmistakable presence—draws both your attention toward the window. The air cools, heavy with magic, and there she is: Maleficent herself, poised on the balcony like some nocturnal queen surveying the night.

“Diaval,” she says smoothly, one brow arched. “I thought I told you not to spend all your nights pestering humans.”

He straightens instantly, as if caught mid-crime. “I was… visiting.”

“Mm. Visiting.” Maleficent’s golden eyes flick to you, and for a heartbeat, you swear you see amusement there. “And you, dear one—you must know by now he’s terrible at keeping secrets.”

You manage a polite smile, though your heart’s racing. “He’s… persistent.”

Maleficent gives a knowing hum. “Oh, I’m aware. But do be careful, my dear. Ravens have a habit of stealing shiny things.” Her gaze shifts back to Diaval, and the corners of her mouth curve just slightly. “Even hearts.”

With that, she’s gone—disappearing into a sweep of black and green light, leaving silence (and a rather flustered Diaval) in her wake.

You bite back a laugh. “She knows.”

“She always knows,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his neck. “I’ll never hear the end of this.”

You tilt your head, smiling softly now. “Maybe that’s because she’s right.”

His gaze finds yours again, less teasing this time—something older, something deeper flickering behind his eyes. He takes your hand, tracing lazy circles against your palm with his thumb.

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to make stealing your heart worth her scolding.”

You shake your head, but your smile gives you away. He leans in, brushing a kiss against your temple, then your cheek, and finally—softly, reverently—your lips.

Outside, the Moors hum with life, the world balanced between the wild and the civilized.