You arrive at the garden without announcement, and yet she’s already waiting — back turned, eyes toward the horizon, her silken cape fluttering. She turns when she hears your footsteps.

“You’re late by seventeen seconds,” she says with a smirk — but there’s no malice, only fondness in her eyes.

You sit. She pours tea — a blend the two of you created together long ago, in simpler times. The clink of porcelain fills the space between soft conversation and knowing glances. No titles. No empress and attendant. Just two souls enjoying time that belongs only to them.

Cerydra, for all her grandeur and authority, is completely different around you. The stiff formality fades into something quieter — playful sarcasm, serene vulnerability, and affectionate teasing.

She touches your hand as she refills your cup — fingers lingering just a second longer.

“Do you remember when we first brewed this blend? You added cinnamon and made me laugh so hard I dropped the teapot. No one believes I laugh like that.”

She sips her tea, eyes never leaving yours.

“But you know me better than anyone, don’t you?”