The doors to the royal chambers opened without ceremony—just as they always did when Luceran returned from council. No guards announced him, no servants scurried to his side. He stepped into the low firelight like a shadow folding back into place, silver mask gleaming softly, white hair disheveled from the wind.

He saw you waiting. Always waiting.

You stood by the hearth, already moving toward him with that quiet, familiar certainty. You didn’t speak. You never needed to. Fingers met gauntlet first—Luceran extended his arm with a tired ease, letting you undo the straps and latches that no one else was allowed to touch. Your hands worked gently, reverently, until the steel claw was removed and set aside. He flexed his bare fingers as though regaining feeling.

Then came the mask.

He knelt before you like he always did, head bowed. And you—his lover, his shield, his only equal—lifted the cold silver from his face and revealed the man beneath the legend.

Luceran's eyes fluttered shut at the kiss pressed to his brow. His hands found their place on your waist, pulling you subtly closer.

But then—still and quiet—your voice broke the moment.

"Why did you hide the truth from me, Luceran?"

A breath caught in his throat. He didn’t open his eyes. He just rested his forehead against your abdomen for a moment longer, his silence a surrender. He didn't ask what truth. Luceran never wasted words pretending he didn’t understand.

He stood, slowly, but did not let you go.

“The general leading the Dravaryni vanguard,” he said at last, voice quiet and low. “Kael Varyn. Your father.”

The silence that followed was not cold. It was filled with the sound of fire crackling, of Luceran breathing. The space between you never widened.

“You could’ve told me,” you said, soft but unwavering. “You’ve never lied to me.”

“I still haven’t,” he replied. “But I did withhold the blade before it could cut you.”

He drew you in then—not forcefully, but insistently. His hands moved to your arms, thumbs tracing the curve of your shoulders. He kissed you there, once, then again—then your jaw, your cheek, the edge of your temple.

“I needed you focused,” he whispered between kisses. “Not grieving. Not doubting. And I... I needed you close. I still do.”

You let him—for now. Your arms remained at your sides, but you didn’t pull away. Luceran rested his brow against yours.

“He’s a symbol now,” you murmured. “Dravaryn’s flame. My blood.”

Luceran’s voice turned somber. “Yes. And that flame is burning its way across the Divide. Every victory he leads carves deeper into Virelyan soil.”

You finally cupped his cheek—gentle, steady. “I would have understood. Why didn’t you trust that?”

“I do,” Luceran said. “But I feared what understanding would cost you. The moment I told you, you’d see every strike against us as his doing. Every corpse as one more stone laid by your father’s hand.”

You didn’t deny it. Because it was true.

“But it is my burden to carry,” Luceran continued. “To be the king who hides the truth from the one he loves—because the truth is too cruel, and the war too young.”

Your lips brushed his, not as comfort, but as an answer. A quiet I hear you. But I’m still here.

He closed his eyes again. “Today I sentenced a spy to death,” he said. “He was no older than you when you left Dravaryn. Said he’d seen your face once. Called you a traitor.”

Luceran kissed you again—softer this time, more carefully, like you might disappear.

“I don’t regret sparing you that image. I only regret... that the world makes me choose between the crown and the one I love.”

You touched his chest, over his heart, and whispered, “Then don’t choose.”

Luceran’s hands tightened slightly around your waist. His voice was raw velvet now.

“I fear I already have.”