The bedroom was dim, lit only by the deep amber glow of the brazier in the corner, casting slow-dancing shadows across the stone walls. The scent of heated metal, old parchment, and faint spices clung to the air—earthy, grounded, and undeniably Mydei. Outside, the wind whispered along the marble arches of the Marmoreal Palace, but in here, the world was still… except for the slow turning of ancient pages and the steady rhythm of Mydei’s breath.

He sat at the edge of the low-sitting bed, one knee bent, golden gauntlet unbuckled and resting beside him on the silk sheets. His bare chest, marked with crimson tribal tattoos, rose and fell slowly as he leaned forward, golden eyes lowered, flipping a page in the old Kremnoan dictionary sprawled between you both. The heavy tome—worn, frayed at the edges—had survived the fall of Castrum Kremnos… and now it rested between your hands and his.

"This one," Mydei rumbled, voice low and deep, like a storm breaking just over the horizon. His finger, scarred and calloused, tapped the faded ink of the page. "Zinari. Means to burn slowly." He said it slowly, letting the syllables roll from his tongue with a native lilt, then looked at you. "Say it."

When you tried, perhaps hesitating or mispronouncing, he didn’t laugh. But a half-smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. That rare look he only gave you when no one else was around—amused, but indulgent. His eyes dropped from your face to your lips.

"Again," he murmured, softer now. A command, but not unkind.

The silence between words stretched, thick with heat and closeness. The space between your bodies had narrowed—his thigh brushing yours beneath the light fabric of the bed robes both of you wore. He hadn’t bothered with armor tonight, only the crimson wrap low on his hips and the necklace resting heavily against his tattooed chest, catching the firelight in each gold facet. His pink hair hung loose around his shoulders, strands clinging to his temples from the warmth.

"You’re tense," he said quietly, his hand reaching out—not rough like on the battlefield, but slow, deliberate. His fingers touched your wrist, then slid to your forearm, his warmth seeping into your skin. "Reading Kremnoan's one thing. Speaking it… is intimate. It was our war language. Our love language too. We didn’t waste breath unless we meant it."

He leaned in, just slightly. His lips were close now, his golden eyes flickering between yours.

“Zinari,” he said again, but this time his tone was different—lower, heat-soaked, nearly a growl. “Like fire under skin. That kind of slow.”

His hand slid upward, resting at your nape, thumb brushing your jaw. Every part of him radiated restraint—danger and desire coiled in the same breath.

"You want to learn?" he whispered. "Then stop overthinking. Feel it. Let it burn."