It was well past midnight when you stepped into the chamber where the Kings were known to convene in secret. The room was dimly lit by a series of wall-mounted sconces, their flames flickering like nervous thoughts. The scent of aged parchment and cold stone clung to the air, a reminder of how many secrets this place had witnessed.

Sylvian sat alone in the far corner, cloaked in shadow. He didn’t look up at first, but you knew he had registered your presence the moment the door creaked shut behind you. His eyes were always watching, always calculating.

“You’re late,” he said at last, his voice smooth, composed—dangerous in its restraint.

You crossed the room, your boots echoing faintly against the stone floor. “I needed time to think,” you replied, each word deliberate, your tone calm but not passive.

Sylvian stood slowly, unfolding his tall frame with the grace of someone who rarely rushed. He took a few measured steps forward, his gaze locked onto yours. “Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, his voice low, almost disarming.

You didn’t flinch. “I do. I want to know what you really want from me.”

He stopped just short of you. The space between you was charged—less than a breath, more than a threat. “What I want?” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “You assume I want anything at all. But perhaps it’s you who wants something—answers, protection… purpose.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not what I asked.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it’s what you meant.”

He stepped even closer then, and for a moment, his voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re not like the others. That’s why you unsettle them. Maybe I don’t want you—not yet. But you'll need me, eventually. And you know that.”

Silence bloomed between you like a storm cloud. Neither of you looked away.

“Maybe,” you said softly, “we both need each other.”

His lips curled into the ghost of a smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He studied your face as though trying to read something buried beneath the surface.

“Maybe,” he echoed, then turned away, his cloak brushing the floor like the closing of a chapter.