The storm outside had finally broken.
Rain pattered gently against the stained glass windows of the tower bedchamber, and the ever-burning hearth glowed low in the corner, casting flickering amber shadows across the walls. The royal palace felt distant—quiet, tucked beneath the rumble of distant thunder. Here, in this moment, there were no guards, no decrees, no wars or council meetings.
Only her.
And the brush in my hand.
Vilo sat before me at the edge of the bed, her back straight, her wings folded tight against her spine. Her armor lay abandoned across the floor, and she wore only a long, thin robe of midnight silk, cinched loose at the waist. It pooled around her hips and thighs, the slit parting just enough to show the firm curve of one leg, gleaming with faint scale. Her long silver hair cascaded over her shoulders in thick waves, tangled from flight and battle, gleaming like moonlight captured in thread.
She didn't look at me.
She never did, when she asked for this.
The first time had been an accident. She'd been injured—nothing serious, but enough to make lifting her arms difficult—and had demanded help removing her hair ornaments. I had obliged, clumsy and nervous. That night, I had brushed her hair for the first time. She hadn't spoken a word the entire time.
Tonight, she asked again.
She said it with no emotion, just a single phrase: "Bring the brush."
I sat behind her on the bed, my knees folded beneath me, and gently raised the brush to her crown. My hand hovered there a second longer than necessary. Her head tilted slightly, silently granting permission. I began at the top—slow, careful strokes. Long ones. Deliberate.
She didn't speak.
Didn't flinch.
Just sat there, her robe shifting slightly as she breathed, her posture rigid despite the softness of the moment.
The brush glided through her thick silver hair, catching only lightly on a few snarls. I took my time with each one, never tugging, never rushing. The scent of her skin—ash and lavender—floated toward me with every motion, subtle but warm. Her neck, partially exposed by the drape of her hair, gleamed with faint heat from the firelight.
As I brushed, I found myself humming. Soft. Mindless. A tune I hadn't remembered I knew until it was already halfway past my lips.
It must've been a lullaby.
From my world.
Vilo stiffened, just slightly. Then: "What is that noise?"
I paused. "I'm humming."
She turned her head slightly, just enough for one golden eye to regard me over her shoulder.
"For what purpose?"
"It's… something we do back home. A lullaby. Meant to calm people."
She said nothing.
I resumed brushing, gentler now, more careful with each pass. Her hair flowed through my fingers like water, thick and smooth. The sound of the brush against it was soft and rhythmic, almost meditative.
She didn't tell me to stop.
I kept humming.
After a while, she closed her eyes.
I watched the rise and fall of her shoulders soften. Her wings eased back just a bit, the tension bleeding from her posture like a slow melt. Her tail—coiled lazily on the bed—curled slightly inward, the end twitching with each pass of the brush. I let my hand follow the curve of her hair all the way to the tips, repeating the motion over and over.
For a long while, the only sounds were the brush gliding through hair and the quiet hum of my voice beneath the thunder.
Then, suddenly:
"I could kill to this."
The words landed like a thrown dagger.
I nearly dropped the brush.
She didn't move. Still calm. Still seated. Still regal.
One golden eye cracked open again to watch me.
"That was a compliment," she added, deadpan.
I blinked. "Right. I… figured."
"I wasn't threatening you."
"I didn't think you were."
She looked forward again. "But I could."
"To the lullaby?"
"To the tempo."
I almost laughed—but caught myself. She was completely serious. And somehow, in her own terrifying, regal way, that made it flattering.
I nodded. "It's a good tempo. I think it's… meant for rocking babies."
Vilo snorted. A single, sharp breath through her nose.
I took that as a rare expression of amusement.
"You hum oddly," she added. "But not unpleasantly."
"Thanks?"
"Better than the harpist downstairs."
"You hate the harpist."
"She makes me want to invade someone."
"I'm flattered you don't feel that way about me."
"You confuse me," she said quietly.
That made me pause.
Her head tilted back slightly, resting just under my collarbone now, the weight of her leaning into me, just enough to make me aware of how much trust that gesture meant.
"You're so gentle with me," she murmured, "even when I'm not with you."
"I am with you."
She turned her head slightly again, enough to rest her temple against my chest.
"Most wouldn't be."
"You're not 'most.'"
She sighed, a long breath that left her chest rising slowly. Her robe slipped down just slightly at the shoulder, revealing more of the curve of her back. My fingers brushed against warm skin as I gently adjusted the fall of her hair.
"I don't know what to do with this," she admitted.
"This?"
"You. Soft things. Lullabies."
"You let me do them anyway."
She didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
I set the brush aside and gently threaded my fingers through the freshly smoothed strands, combing through them with a reverence I didn't try to hide. She leaned further back against me, her body relaxing completely now.
"Keep humming," she said, so quietly I barely heard it.
So I did.
Long after her breathing slowed, long after her tail curled around my waist and her fingers rested lightly over mine, I hummed that same lullaby.
The thunder rolled outside.
And the queen of dragons fell asleep in my arms, her hair shining like moonlight across my chest.