Astra's pulse thudded beneath his skin as the bishop's smile curved toward him, refined and unreadable. The weight of the man's presence pressed down on the room like a second ceiling—unseen, but undeniable. Astra steadied his grip on the champagne flute, the crystal rim cool against his fingertips. He raised it with idle grace, masking the unease coiling in his chest.
The bishop didn't speak. He didn't need to. A mere flick of his eyes toward the door was enough.
Astra stepped forward. Measured. Smooth. Collected. Just another noble following a bishop into a side discussion—at least, that's most should believe.
They moved down a quiet, dimly lit corridor. The heavy hush of the tapestries lining the walls soaked up the sound of their footfalls. Every inch of fabric shimmered faintly, reflecting patterns too intricate to name, their threads dyed in deep shadow and age-old secrets.
Around Lord Alistair, the darkness seemed alive. The shadows curled and slithered at his heels like obedient hounds, responding to his presence with reverence. Astra's own shadows remained still. Passive. Unwilling to draw attention. He could feel their silence.
Don't let him subjugate you. He reminded himself of that, quietly and with steel. He was not a pawn, not another tool. He had survived too much to become disposable. If he showed weakness here—too much deference, too much fear—he'd be seen as exactly what they wanted him to be: a weapon to wield, a name to exploit, a throne to inherit and discard. To make allies, one needed strength. Leverage. The power to give—and the spine to refuse. Astra calmed himself down. I control the Church and The Kingdom of Stars. I wield tangible power. Act like it.
The chamber they entered was darkly beautiful: high-backed chairs of lacquered obsidian, deep violet drapes like velvet nightfall, and a table carved from black ash wood. As the door closed behind them with a soft click, the bishop raised a hand.
The shadows obeyed instantly, weaving into the cracks of the room and forming a barrier—a ward of silence and secrecy. The temperature dropped. The air thickened. Astra felt each breath stretch tighter in his chest.
The Bishop turned. His gaze landed like frost.
"Prince Astra Noctis of Night," he said, each syllable sculpted with precise formality. "I am High Lord Alistair Tenebrous, Bishop of Shadow. We received your call for aid."
Astra offered a polite nod, his voice calm and cool. "Your honor Lord Tenebrous. It is a pleasure."
Astra had taken the time—more than once—to study the intricacies of noble decorum, though "study" hardly seemed the right word for something so labyrinthine. Etiquette in the realms was not merely a matter of manners; it was a codified reflection of power, lineage, and divine favor. In the sprawling dominion of Sahara, titles spiraled upward from the modest weight of a baron, through viscounts, dukes, kings, and the almost mythical bloodlines of emperors. Yet this was but one realm's hierarchy. Others had their own tangled orders—Snaer with its ancient tribal chieftains and war-kings, Wai with its island lords and sea-bound councils whose authority was measured as much in tides as in steel. Each system was an old tree with roots too deep to untangle, and each realm guarded its traditions jealously. Oh also those who were more divine than human were called higher beings. So high lords or Dukes or Kings.
And then, there were the divine lines—families whose blood shimmered with the faint trace of godhood. They fit nowhere neatly, for mortal and divine protocols collided like waves against cliffs. A mere mortal lord might kneel before them… or refuse, if his own house's pride allowed it.
In most of the realms, there was at least one unspoken constant: one addressed others according to the respect due their station. A pawn—lowest among the ranked—was beneath notice, unworthy of any honorific. A squire fared little better. But a Rank Three, the Knight, was addressed with Ser or Sir, Madam or Lady. Even Jesters who were usually outlaws throughout the realms bore the same honorific. Bishops and Blasphemers—those who wielded divine sanction or profane miracles—were Your Honor, as one would a magistrate or judge. Saints were Your Excellency, or else addressed solely by the name of their holy office, for their very titles carried the weight of miracles.
Angels, however, defied even that simplicity. They were never addressed directly, but rather in the third perspective, as if speaking about them even in their presence—an old, superstitious safeguard against drawing too much of their gaze. One referred to them as a Holiness or by their holy title, a being above mortal touch.
As for rank sevens yeah good luck finding anything related to talking to a god, A normal mortal could live forever and even then he would be considered blessed and insanely lucky to even be in a setting that may allow him to gaze upon an angel, a rank six. let alone a God, for If one even attempted to they would die instantly. Man cannot gaze upon god after all. Astra imagined they'd be addressed by their titles, Such as the Eternal Keeper, or the Warfather Astra knew his fate was intertwined with gods at this point, for better or for worse, if he were to live long enough, he will attract their sights once again, especially The Eternal Keeper who had already collaborated against his house. He sighed inwardly still being annoyed with the titles.
The trouble was that titles were seldom pure. They overlapped, intertwined, and in some cases outright contradicted each other. A Bishop descended from a god, an angel who bore the crown of a mortal king, a Pawn, who bore the lineage of a holy dead god—protocol became a minefield. And now, Astra himself stood at the center of one such knot.
By the inheritance of Noctis and Umbra, the godhoods of shadow and night, he bore both their lineage and their claim. In the courts of certain realms, he was a prince by divine right. In the eyes of the chessboard-like ranking system, he was still but a pawn. Yet here he was, speaking to a Bishop of Shadow—a man who, by decorum, should be Your Honor, yet by blood might owe Astra the bow of a vassal.
It was the sort of contradiction nobles delighted in: an intricate, self-contradicting game where every rule existed only to be bent, and every bow might be a prelude to a blade. Astra was brought back from his stupor as the bishops mighty calm voice resounded around the shadowy area.
"The Council of Shadows was... intrigued," Alistair continued. "A child of Nights lost lineage, bearing godhood. Rare blood, rarer fate. Umbra and Night's lines do not often converge." His smile thinned "In a way, you are kin to me."
Astra matched the gesture with a shallow dip of the head. "Then perhaps this is a long-awaited reunion.
Alistair's eyes twitched at the corner, amused but wary.
"I imagine your Council has questions," Astra said. "As do I. So—how shall we speak of terms?"
Alistair blinked—just once, and slowly. It was subtle, but telling.
"What do you mean, Heir of Night?" he asked at last. "You requested sanctuary. We answered. You will receive protection from the enemies of your house and be integrated into ours. That is the will of the Angel of Shadows."
"Yeah be integrated and used, also so they can take over the Church of Night and even possibly use me for gods knows what, I will never trust them, Good thing I already "control" the church or I would have been in a much worse situation." Astra scoffed inwardly, he had of course been right.
The air seemed to grow heavier with those words. Astra held his composure.
Astra felt it then—the air, sharp and close. The words were spoken plainly, but the subtext was iron.
He offered a slow smile, deliberate and quiet.
"That is their will," Astra said. "Not mine."
The words struck like flint. The silence that followed was absolute.
Alistair's smile faded just a fraction, his eyes narrowing in quiet assessment. Around them. The shadows stirred faintly behind him, deepening, rippling with mood.
Alistair's smile returned, colder now. "Oh? And what is your will, my prince?"
Astra did not hesitate. "To rise. In strength, in power, in name. Not for the sake of the dead, or even for my fallen house—but for the one who will stand in their place."
Of course, it had been a lie—woven from half-truths, the most dangerous kind of lie. Astra laughed inwardly. He cared nothing for duty, nor for riches. Those were the tools of lesser men. What he had been given was something far rarer: a key—no, three keys—each one unlocking a path to power, to influence, to glory and renown. Why, then, should he shackle himself to a house that had long since cast him aside, that would not lift a finger for him? Why trade the chance to command a Church devoted to an olden god, perhaps even the chance to bend House Shadow itself to his will, for the scraps of loyalty to a lineage that wished him dead or forgotten?
It was foolish, perhaps. Naïve. But what else was left to him? To die, or to be enslaved? What choice had he ever truly been given?
Astra smiled, a shadow curling at the edge of his lips.
Why not see how high I might climb? Why not see how far I might fall?
No doubt, Shadow saw him as little more than a desperate fool—a pawn with delusions of grandeur. But even fools, desperate or not, could become dangerous. And Shadow was nothing if not cautious. Clever, too. He could feel the shape of their hunt. They had tried to find him. He was sure of it. But to pierce the veil of godhood's secrecy—to tear through the second cloak that hid his existence—they would have needed an artifact, or a being of equal rank. The fact that they had failed told him all he needed to know.
They needed him.
He was no genius, not in the way scholars spoke of genius, but he had lived with his eyes open. He had seen too much, read too many signs, caught too many whispers to remain blind. The political state of the realm made their need plain as moonlight. If he miscalculated, if his assumption proved false, then yes—it would be humiliating. He would be broken, stripped of status, mocked to ruin. But no… the weight of evidence was too great. He was right.
Shadow believed him cornered. Weak. A lost heir clutching at old names. But he had seen through the veil of their words, the smiles sharpened like blades. He was far more than they believed.
And they needed him.
The signs were everywhere—subtle, yes, but not invisible. If they could have hunted him down, they would have. If they could have ripped the godhood's veil aside, they would not be here now, cloaking their overtures in diplomacy. They would have dragged him in chains. Instead, they courted him.
Dawn. Dusk. Dune. And Shadow. Four powers that pulled at the great realm of Sahara. Three were royal, bound by blood and throne. One was not. Yet House Shadow stood among them like a golden serpent coiled in a court of lions, hawks, and owls—unrecognized, unthroned, but no less lethal.
War was coming. Astra could feel it in the air, taste it in the silence between words. The houses no longer even bothered to pretend at alliance. Shadows lengthened. Tensions thickened. And in that storm, House Shadow required more than strength. They required symbols. Tools. Catalysts.
And Astra… was all three. A symbol. A wedge. A spark. Most of all, a key. A means to annex a Church and wield a god's name as well as their banners.
He looked Alistair in the eyes, steady.
"I will not be folded beneath Umbra's banner as some adopted scion," Astra said, his voice cold, steady—though his pulse pounded against his ribs. "I will retain sovereignty of Night. That is my right, my duty. The line of Noctis still breathes, and it will not be erased. Shadow has tried, time and again, to divine my whereabouts… and failed. Ever wonder why, my lord Bishop? I am not so simple. So please let us put an end this farce."
For a heartbeat, silence. The chamber itself seemed to tighten. Shadows coiled along the walls like serpents, curious, testing his defiance.
At last, Alistair spoke. His tone had hardened, edges drawn."That will be… noted. Then tell me, Prince—what is it you demand?"
Astra stepped forward, claiming space with each word as if they were weapons drawn.
"One. Asylum, protection, and training, as promised.Two. Sovereignty and full rights as heir to Noctis—and as godbearer of Night. Three. An equal alliance between my power, my assets, and House Shadow."
He did not mention the Cloak of Secrecy. Best not to dangle that truth. Angels were predators with endless appetites, and if they discovered he bore the godhood of their dead goddess… perhaps they would ignore it. Or perhaps they would unmake him for it. He was not willing to risk the latter.
Alistair scoffed, a sharp crack in the silence."You ask much. I hear the voice of a fallen prince clinging to his olden status 'me, me, me.' Why should House Shadow—great and patient—indulge such arrogance, when it is you who standeth in need?"
Astra laughed softly. Not nervously, but with the silk-smooth tone of a blade being unsheathed."True. Yet it is that same great and patient House Shadow who needs me more. You need me to open the gates of the Church of Night. You need me to garnish support for your coming war. You need me to grant you leverage over Dawn and Dusk."
The air thickened. The shadows stilled, listening.
He pressed on, his smile calm, dangerous."And I doubt House Shadow expected me to already be in contact with the Church. But here I am—not only in contact, but with it firmly under my hand. I am not only Caliph but Castellan. And I know just how desperately House Shadow hungers for allies."
"I, Astra Noctis, swear this upon my own godhood."
The words left him like a blade unsheathed, bright and dangerous. In that moment, he had bound himself. A godhood's oath was no mere promise—it was a contract etched into the fabric of existence. Had he lied, his soul itself would have splintered beneath the backlash, punishment meted out by the law of divinity. Perhaps death. Perhaps worse.
The chamber fell still.
Alistair's brows lifted, a movement so slight most would have missed it. But Astra saw. For a demi-god to show even that much was a slip, and in that slip Astra tasted victory. He had startled him. He had shaken him. Not by power, but by daring.
Alistair's voice, when it came, was smooth but weighted differently now."If that is the case, then matters… change. The Council of Shadows had prepared for the possibility, yes, but few thought it more than a dream. And yet, here you stand. Very well. Then our terms shift."
A pause. Shadows stirred like ink across the floor.
"Shadow asks you to be integrated under our banner—formally. Unofficially, your sovereignty remains untouched. The Church of Night stays yours, but aligns with us. In exchange, you gain a seat in our council. You will lend support to our schemes—unless they clash directly with your own interests. A generous compromise, wouldn't you agree?"
Astra's lips curved faintly.
So. They had prepared for this too. His weakness, his ascent, even this very bargain—they had drawn the map long before he arrived. But that was fine. Maps were not destiny. Even the most precise cartographer could not chart the storms ahead.
He would play their game. For now.
"I accept," Astra said, letting the words carry weight.
And Bishop Alistair smiled, the expression sharp and knowing.
[Contract set][Alliance forged: Shadow and Night.]
Astra sighed quietly as Lord Alistair Tenebrous finally lowered himself into the seat across from him.
"Very well, Prince Astra Noctis," the bishop said, his words coiled like silk about steel, a blade hidden in velvet. "It seems you've managed to claim what you wanted after all."
"It would seem so," Astra replied, his tone even, cold enough to hide the quiet fire beneath. In truth, he knew: this was no victory, only the opening move in a far larger game. Shadow's ploys did not end at the surface; they sank like roots into every crack, every silence, every shadow itself.
Alistair's gaze shifted, a flicker—almost imperceptible, but Astra caught it. The bishop was listening to something unseen, or perhaps simply recalculating. Always recalculating.
"You will be escorted, once the ball concludes, to the Shadow Estate in Duskfall," Alistair said at last. "There, you will meet our city's head of operations. From there, your course will be… aligned."
Aligned. The word tasted like chains wrapped in honey.
Astra gave a subtle nod, his mask perfectly calm, though behind it his thoughts sharpened. Expected. Orchestrated. Each step confirmed the precision of their stagecraft. But every confirmation, too, was a warning: he was walking deeper into their design.
Alistair leaned forward just slightly, lowering his tone. "Stay away from the spotlight until we depart. Unnecessary attention is… troublesome. Dune is aware of one of our operations—something I suspect you've already guessed. Refrain from basking in the limelight. Dusk and Dawn keep their talons deep here, and we are not yet ready for their attention."
So that was it—warnings woven as courtesy. A leash hidden as advice.
Astra inclined his head, his voice smooth, rehearsed. "Of course. Thank you, Lord Tenebrous."
The bishop smiled faintly, expression carved from unreadable stone. "A pleasure."
And then he rose, the weight of his presence uncoiling like a tide being drawn back into the sea. "Let us talk again soon," he said, his tone touched now with the faintest amusement, as though the whole conversation had been a joke only he understood.
Then, like a curtain peeling away, Alistair slipped into the crowd. The shadows obeyed him—fluid, alive, moving as though loyal hounds trailing their master's heel.
And just like that, Astra was alone again. Alone, and yet not—because the silence they left behind pressed closer than any voice.
He stood in the silence for a moment longer, allowing himself a breath. Just one. His heart was still racing, but steady enough now not to show. He hadn't expected this kind of confrontation—not so soon. Yet, he had faced it. And for the first time in a long while, he wasn't walking this path alone.
He had allies. Real ones.
The thought alone was a strange comfort. With the Church under his hand and Shadow's influence at his back, the odds of dying some random, meaningless death had dropped considerably. Not vanished—no, that would be foolish—but lessened. Survival, at least for now, was secured.
Still, Astra knew the rhythm of fate well enough. Most robberies, most plots, most daring escapes failed not at the start, but at the cusp of success. Always at the edge, when one's guard slipped. He swirled the champagne in his glass, its bitterness clinging to the tongue, warmer than he liked.
I can't let my guard down. Not now. Not ever.
He leaned against the table, gaze flicking across the sea of nobles and demigods swirling like peacocks in silk and shadow.
How will Shadow decide to use me?
They had given him a seat of influence, yes. A council voice, a church, sovereignty tied in pretty words. But official power was not the same as true power. Unofficially, he couldn't even be sure if a single order of his would be followed to the letter—or if they would only humor him when it served their ends. That was the question. He would need to make himself… indispensable.
His jaw tightened. For Shadow to agree so quickly… something was wrong. Something deeper. Perhaps the political state was worse than he had imagined. Perhaps the sands were shifting faster than anyone admitted. Months from war? Weeks?
Gods, these schemes never end.
He straightened his shoulders, the faint smile returning to his lips—not forced, but deliberate. A weaponized calm. A prince's mask. He hadn't spoken of the Angel of Craftsmanship, and he wouldn't. Not to Tenebrous. Not to anyone here. One, it wasn't Shadow's right to pry. Two, the dwarven angel had already given too much, and Astra knew better than to reveal cards wrapped in mystery. A power unknown was a power untouchable.
What right did he have to reveal what he did not yet fully understand? None. And that secret would remain his, locked in silence.
He adjusted his cloak, smoothing his expression. The champagne glass clinked softly against the tray of a passing servant as he set it down.
Then Astra stepped back into the grand ballroom. The weight of divine presence, of whispered politics and predator's gazes, still pressed against his skin—but he no longer felt unraveled by it.
No. He was tempered. Sharper. Ready.
As he emerged back into the gold-washed hall, the murmurs of the ball wrapped around him like warm smoke. Music played. Laughter spilled. Deals whispered behind fans and glasses of wine.
He moved through it differently now. The walls were no longer closing in—they were listening.
Eyes followed him. Not just the suspicious or the calculating, but the curious… and the hungry.
Leaning against a marble pillar, Astra sipped his drink, letting the role of "Shadow's noble" cloak him like silk. He remained composed, quiet, observant.
Then they came.
A group of young women—elegant, poised, eyes sharp as jeweled daggers—approached. Their gowns were tasteful, restrained, marked by wealth but not ostentation. Clearly not from House Dune's inner circle, but still born of stature. Their steps were deliberate, their intent clear.
They had seen him standing alone. And they were intrigued.
Astra barely had time to take a sip before the trio approached — poised, watchful, all silk smiles and careful steps.
One of them, Short chestnut hair green eyes spoke, her tone light but deliberate."You're the one from Shadow, aren't you?"A conversation starter.
Astra met her gaze, offered a polite nod, and waited. He'd learned early that silence often drew more than words.
Another woman, slightly older red hair with orange eyes, tilted her head."Penumbra's a mystery, even among noble circles. All we get are whispers."She paused, lips curving just so."Is it true that the umbral abyss never sees daylight?"
Astra who hadn't seen the Umbral plaines, the Shadow keep or even the famed abyss, had to play the mysterious card.
Astra let a flicker of amusement show — just enough to seem disarming."Depends what you consider daylight."He glanced into his glass."But either way, Penumbra has its charm. If you know where not to step."
The third gave a quiet laugh."Cryptic. Very on-brand."
"Habit," Astra laughed. "Where I'm from, being too direct gets you noticed. And that's rarely good."
They leaned in slightly — drawn not just by what he said, but by what he carefully didn't. He recognized the play: they weren't interested in him, not really. They wanted to see what kind of pawn he might be. Ally, fool, asset.
"You deflect well," the first woman said."I had a lot of practice," Astra replied.
A beat passed, tension feather-light but intentional.
"So what brings all of you to Dune's ballroom?" the older one asked as he glanced towards a Dawn and Dusk noblemen conversing. "Not exactly neutral ground for your House."
Astra's expression didn't shift, but something in his posture settled."Let's just say... I'm here under recommendation."He glanced toward the far end of the hall — where the Bishop had vanished minutes ago."And besides, everyone shows their face eventually." He smiled slightly. "Even those who prefer the dark."
Their eyes followed his glance, but they didn't press. Smart.
"Well," said the younger one, recovering with a playful lilt, "you're doing a very good job not looking uncomfortable
"You'd never able to tell if I was. Well you maybe could" he laughed as he rolled his eyes and took a big gulp from his drink.
That earned a laugh — real this time. They relaxed. The probing gave way to posturing. He asked a few questions in return, small things — what estate they belonged to, how they found the wine here. They answered, eager now to be charming rather than strategic.
Still, even as they spoke, Astra watched their movements, read the rhythm of their glances. They weren't the real threat in the room. But they were part of it. Like everything else in this city, they had eyes — and mouths that reported.
And so he played along.
Astra felt the unmistakable weight of Princess Seraphine's gaze—sharp as a blade—cutting through the haze of laughter and idle chatter that filled the marble-walled ballroom. Even amidst the orchestra's flowing melodies and the perfume-laced air, to him her presence sliced through everything else, pulling his attention like gravity itself.
He turned to excuse himself from the women beside him with effortless charm—an easy smile, a murmur of promise, and the faintest dip of his head—and began weaving his way across the hall's golden expanse. The sensation of being watched didn't leave him; if anything, it intensified. He could feel her gaze tracking him—not simply curious, but deliberate. Predatory.
She didn't approach. She didn't need to. A single glance from her—eyes flicking sideways, chin lifting slightly—was all it took. An unspoken command, precise in its elegance.
And he followed.
His heart didn't race from fear—he was far past that—but something about her drew him in. She was a mystery wrapped in finery and laced with menace. Dangerous, but beautiful in the way a dagger hidden in silk could be.
If not for the Cloak of Secrecy wrapped tightly around his essence, the godhood inherited from the goddess of Shadows, he doubted he'd have even glimpsed her true strength. Whatever she was cloaking herself with, it was ancient—layered, divine, and subtle enough to fool even the sharpest mages. A seal, perhaps angelic. Or something far older.
He wondered why she would he masquerading as a Rank two.
And yet, here she was. Smiling as if none of it mattered.
He trailed her through the maze of nobles, through polished stone corridors framed by statues of past Kings and forgotten saints, even angelic statues. At last, they emerged into the palace gardens, where quiet reigned and violet twilight danced across water and vine.
The air was cooler here, kissed by the wind. The scent of night jasmine lingered, tangled with something else—warm sand and old incense, like a memory from the desert or a place older than the palace itself. Pools of still water lay like mirrors, reflecting both starlight and secrets.
She stood at the edge of it all, framed by archways of climbing ivy and marble thorns. A soft smile tugged at her lips, knowing and unreadable.
"I see you met with your house," Seraphine said, her voice as smooth as silk woven over steel. "Astra of Shadow." She tilted her head, sapphire eyes gleaming. "And oh, my—did his lordship, Bishop Tenebrous, seem particularly... disturbed afterward. I wonder, what could a mere mortal possibly do to irritate a demigod so visibly?"
Her tone was light, but there was an edge to it—like she was testing him.
"Then," she continued, glancing toward the ballroom's distant glow, "flirting with those noblewomen like you belonged here. My, my. Outlaw to aristocrat in under a week." She chuckled, brushing a strand of her void-black black hair behind her ear. "What a city."
Astra didn't respond immediately. He let her words drift into the night, his gaze sweeping the garden—the rhythm of the fountains, the shifting glow of the violet twilight on sculpted stone. then to the majestic city scape. Her presence warped the silence somehow, as though the night itself bent around her.
Eventually, he spoke. His voice low. Casual, but not careless.
"What did I do?" He gave a soft, thoughtful chuckle. "Oh, you know... the usual. A little political maneuvering. A few veiled threats. Reaffirming allegiance while subtly undermining it." He shrugged. "You know. The fun stuff."
Seraphine arched a brow. "So cryptic."
Astra's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You'd be surprised how few people actually try to hide what they want. Most of them walk around with it plain on their sleeves. You, though... I can't get a read on you. Which is rare."
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "I wonder. Why would a princess with a power signature that's clearly not Rank two go through the trouble of pretending to be? And with a seal strong enough to fool even the divine...?"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
She knew the implication.
He was returning the favor—if she knew his secrets, it was only fair he hint at hers. Dangerous equilibrium. His secrets were definitely more severe than hers but still.
Seraphine's smile didn't fade, but it sharpened.Her eyes however widened. She stepped closer, her gown whispering against the flagstones. Not a threat. But not a not threat, either.
"You're very bold, Astra," she murmured, voice dipping just low enough to shift the tone entirely. "Most men try to guess my desires. You try to guess my lies. That's far more interesting."
He didn't move, violet eyes meeting her sapphire ones without hesitation. Her scent—night-blooming iris and old incense—lingered in the air between them. Their proximity made every word feel dangerous.
"You're unlike anyone here," she continued, a softness slipping into her voice. "And it's obvious who you are."
A flicker of something passed through his gaze, but he kept his expression steady.
"I doubt that," he said. "But humor me. What is it you want, Seraphine?"
She paused. Studied him in silence. Her smile returned, this time slower, more deliberate.
"What I want?" she repeated. "Maybe that's the wrong question. Maybe it's more about what you need, Astra."
Astra's jaw tensed, but he said nothing. She was deflecting. That much was clear. But she was good at it.
"Then again," she whispered, stepping closer still, her breath brushing his skin, "why not claim both? Need and want. Desire and purpose. It's more fun that way."
They were close now—dangerously so. The kind of closeness that carried weight. Their lips nearly brushed. The silence between them became its own language.
Astra's voice dropped. "And what game is that?"
Seraphine's laugh was soft. Not girlish, not playful—confident. It shimmered with knowledge he didn't yet have.
She touched his arm. Barely a graze. Intentional. Slow.
"You'll figure it out soon enough," she said, stepping back as though nothing had happened. "But for now... let's enjoy the night. And when it's just us—you may call me by name."
Then she turned, walking into the shadows of the garden, violet light spilling across her gown like oil on water.
Astra stood there for a long moment, watching her go. The air felt colder without her presence. Or maybe heavier.
What did she want from him?
What was she planning?
Why is she hiding behind a divine seal?
He didn't know. Not yet.
But he knew he was playing a game now—one he hadn't realized he'd been drawn into until it was far too late.
He exhaled and leaned back against the cool stone of a fountain, watching the stars ripple across the surface of the water.
"Scary," he muttered under his breath.
Noblewomen. Terrifying.
It wasn't just the power or the politics. It was how easily they could take the ground out from under you—and make you thank them for the fall.
Seraphine, especially. She had him off-balance, and she knew it.
He glanced toward the path where she had vanished, frowning slightly.
"Also," he whispered to himself, "Gods I need a new type. She's just so damn pretty.
And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous thing of all.