The grand theater was carved from volcanic stone, with obsidian pillars rising toward a vaulted ceiling etched with constellations. Velvet banners hung between glowing crystal chandeliers, and the stage glowed gold beneath an illusionary sky. Everything about the venue was opulent, refined—and absolutely not Vilo's style.
Still, she sat beside me, tall and proud in a high-backed chair that had clearly been reinforced for her weight and wingspan. She wore a deep crimson gown tonight, slit up the side to reveal the curve of one thigh, and embroidered with silver threads that caught the lamplight like starlight. A gem sat at her throat—her crown for the evening left behind, replaced by an unspoken attempt at normalcy.
The lights dimmed.
The orchestra began.
And her commentary started exactly six minutes into the performance.
"That armor is decorative," she muttered as the lead actor stepped into view. "No real protection. All gold plating. One sword to the ribs and he's done."
I leaned over and whispered, "He's a prince, not a soldier."
"Then he shouldn't be on the front lines," she said, crossing her arms beneath her chest. "That's what captains are for."
The audience hushed as the first scene opened. Vilo stayed quiet for a while, though I saw her jaw tighten every time someone on stage spoke with overly dramatic pauses or waved a prop sword around like a baton. By the time the female lead started singing about her tragic fate, Vilo leaned toward me again.
"Why is she weeping about her duty?" she asked. "It's her job. Do it."
"It's a metaphor."
"For what?"
"Love. Sacrifice."
She squinted at the stage. "She hasn't bled once."
I stifled a laugh.
She didn't.
At intermission, she stood and stretched, wings unfolding with a faint shiver of tension. "Their fight choreography is an insult," she said. "I saw better moves during your attempt to spar with me last week."
"In my defense, you disarmed me in four seconds."
"Three."
We returned to our seats for the second half, where the drama only intensified. There were declarations of love, duels over honor, and one surprisingly graphic death scene that earned a soft grunt of approval from Vilo. "Finally," she said. "A realistic throat wound."
As the curtain fell and the applause swelled, I clapped politely. Vilo did not.
The cast bowed. Some people in the audience began to murmur.
"That's the Queen of the Monsterlands…"
"Is that her husband?"
"I thought he was human?"
"She brought him here?"
I felt the stares like pinpricks.
Vilo noticed, of course.
She turned her head slightly, and every gaze dropped instantly.
No one dared speak again.
We exited through a side corridor lit by moon-lamps, the cool night air brushing against our faces as we stepped outside. The theater doors closed behind us, muffling the final cheers and orchestral swells.
"You didn't like it," I said as we walked toward the carriage.
She didn't answer immediately. Her wings rustled once.
"I did," she finally said.
I blinked. "You did?"
She glanced at me, her expression unreadable. "Not the play. That was riddled with flaws, inaccuracies, and overly sentimental dialogue."
"So you didn't like it."
"I enjoyed it," she said again, slower this time. "Because I was with you."
My footsteps faltered.
She kept walking, as though she hadn't just dropped that like a tactical hammer.
I caught up, heart thudding a little faster. "You mean that?"
She tilted her head toward me. "I don't lie. You should know that by now."
I smiled. "Still… that was really sweet."
Her eyes narrowed. "Take it back."
"No."
She stopped walking.
I turned to look at her, and she stared at me like I was a puzzle she'd never solved. Then, slowly, impossibly, her lips curved upward into a smile.
Not a smirk. Not a sneer.
A real smile.
Small. Subtle. But there.
"You're lucky I like you," she said.
"I am," I admitted.
She took another step closer and placed a hand lightly on my chest. "I want more."
"Plays?"
"Memories," she corrected. "With you."
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
So she leaned down, pressed her forehead gently against mine, and murmured, "You fluster too easily."
"You're not exactly helping."
"Good," she said, her tail curling lightly around my ankle. "I want to keep doing it."
And then, with moonlight catching the tips of her horns, the queen of monsters took my hand and led me back to the carriage—ready to plan the next memory.
[Season 3 End]