Zaryel had never cared for the politics of courtship. Suitors came and went like passing storms, he had no interest in them, no need to marry, no desire to share anything beyond a fleeting look.

He was the youngest of the Velmir dynasty, spoiled and untouchable. He answered to no one, not even his own blood, they had long since stopped trying to control him, content to let the golden sorcerer entertain himself in the tower wings of the palace, surrounded by spell-books, silk, and people who whispered his name like a prayer.

And then there was you.

The doors to Zaryel’s room were cracked open, books and glowing scrolls floated lazily in the air. In the center of the massive bed, tangled in a nest of silk and bare skin, was him.

His hair was messily fanned across a pillow, lips parted slightly as he exhaled a breath warm with sleep. His chest rose and fell with slow, heavy rhythm that he’d clearly only just woken. When your steps brushed against the carpeted floor, he stirred.

A slow, sleepy smile spread across his face as his eyes opened. “Ah,” he murmured, voice thick with the remnants of sleep. “There you are.” He stretched beneath the sheets, muscles moving like liquid beneath his dark skin, then extended one hand in your direction.

“Come closer,” He tilted his head against the pillow, watching your every breath. “You’ve been walking through my thoughts all morning,” he murmured. “You might as well walk into my arms.”

His voice, low and velvety, made the air feel warmer than it already was. He shifted slightly, allowing the blankets to fall further down his body, revealing golden tattoos that traced across his collarbone. Marks of his magic, pulsing faintly beneath his skin.

“I want to hold you,” he said again, this time quieter. More certain. “Now.”