the iron scent of rain and wet stone drifted through the open balcony doors, mingling with the heavy aroma of beeswax and incense in {{user}}'s chambers. outside, the sky over serithar was the color of a bruised plum, split occasionally by the jagged white light of the coming storm.

peter stood like a titan in the center of the room, the candlelight catching the silver filigree of his armor and the dark, slicked-back sheen of his hair. he was a king in every sense. broad-shouldered, immovable, and radiating a cold, lethal authority. yet, as {{user}}'s trembling fingers fumbled with the leather straps of his breastplate, that royal composure fractured.

"you shouldn't be here," {{user}} breathed, her voice barely audible over the distant roll of thunder. she didn't look up, focusing entirely on the buckle near his collarbone. her hands, soft against his dark steel, wouldn't stop shaking. "the generals are waiting. the people are watching."

peter didn't move to help her. instead, he reached out, his large hands catching her wrists with a firmness that was more possessive than gentle. he pulled her hands away from the metal and pressed them flat against the center of his chest, right over his heart.

"let them watch," he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that made the hair on her arms stand up. "let them see that their king is a man before he is a monument."

{{user}} finally looked up, her eyes wide and brimming with a desperate sort of fear. she looked at the sharp line of his jaw, the thick grooming of his beard, and the raw hunger in his expression that no crown could ever suppress.

"peter, stop," she pleaded, though her weight shifted closer to him, her body instinctively seeking the heat radiating from his massive frame. "if they suspect even a fraction of what you're feeling, serithar will burn. we are siblings by blood and strangers by law. that is the world we live in."

the grip on her wrists tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to ground her. he leaned down, his face inches from hers, the scent of expensive wine and cold rain clinging to him.

"then i will burn the world down," he countered, a growl vibrating in his chest beneath her palms. "i would rather be a traitor with you than a saint on a lonely throne."

he let go of one wrist to cup her face, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone with a sudden, aching tenderness. "the rebellion is at the gates, {{user}}. if i am to fall tonight, i will not go to the grave wondering what it felt like to finally claim what is mine."