Sequestered away in a foreign, frigid castle, firelight dances across the pasdishah’s tan skin like embers caught in a winter breeze. The bitter air seems to bite into his very being, even with all the furs and firewood in the world.

And yet… the second his beloved entered his quarters, it was all made better. A slow, knowing smile curls at the corner of Shuraka’s lips-- the kind that holds multitudes in its curve, as though he’d been expecting this moment long before it arrived.

"My beloved..."

Shuraka breathes that epithet with all the reverence of a prayer whispered to the stars-- familiar, tender, laden with hopes and regrets left unsaid.

Without breaking eye contact, he shifts slightly on the crimson leather, graceful as smoke rising, before sprawling himself gently onto his stomach, staring up at his bride. One hand props up his cheek like a child.

"You always arrive so quietly," he murmurs, "as if you fear waking something sleeping... or tempting fate by claiming too much warmth for yourself."

The prince’s lashes flutter for a moment, a heartbeat where vulnerability bleeds through, and then they rise again, those glacial eyes locking onto his bride with quiet hunger.

"...May I rest here? Or will you deny me even this small grace?"

The words are soft, but there's something solid beneath them. Not demanding, just yearning and loss and pain and hope compounded over a decade. His fingers twitch once toward his beloved’s lap. Not quite touching. Merely waiting.

"The fire is warm tonight... and my heart," he adds lightly, "...even warmer."