I never thought I'd see her wear something like that.
The dress was unlike anything she typically allowed herself to be seen in. No armor. No heavy royal regalia. No hardened plating or carved obsidian motifs. Just soft, silken fabric in ivory white, trimmed with pale gold, the design hugging her frame in ways no battle attire ever could. It clung to her curves like mist—fitting tight around her chest and waist before flaring into sheer, flowing layers that shimmered around her legs. The fabric draped just enough to hint at the toned muscle beneath, the swell of her hips, the fullness of her thighs.
She stood in the center of the room, wings half-folded, arms crossed as though waiting for judgment.
"Well?" she asked.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
She narrowed her eyes. "That's not an answer."
I blinked. My throat felt dry. "You… you look…"
"Yes?"
"Beautiful."
The word came out quiet. Honest. Awed.
Vilo's expression didn't change at first. She simply nodded, stepping toward me, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Each movement made the fabric sway against her figure like a breeze caught in clouds.
"I wasn't sure," she admitted. "Dresses like this are... impractical. Fragile. A waste of coin."
I chuckled. "And yet you're wearing one."
She looked away, her cheeks tinged just faintly with color. "I wanted to see how it felt."
Her tail curled behind her as she walked past me, trailing her hand along the desk until she reached a stool near the window. She didn't sit. Instead, she turned and looked at me again.
"Draw me."
"What?"
"You've done it before. When I was in armor. In sleep. In casual robes."
"I—yes, but—"
"You stare when you draw," she said plainly, folding her arms again. "You see things. Details. That I don't. I want to know what I look like to you. In this."
There was no teasing in her voice. No smugness. Just quiet interest. A vulnerable, open request from someone who never asked for such things.
I nodded.
The next few hours passed in silence, broken only by the scratching of pencil against parchment and the occasional shift of her pose. Vilo stood by the window at first, then at the foot of the bed, her hands folded in front of her waist. She even knelt once—one leg extended, dress rippling around her thighs—letting the train of silk flow over the stone floor.
Her gaze stayed locked on me the entire time.
She never smiled.
But her wings slowly relaxed.
Her tail coiled gently around her feet.
And her voice, when she finally spoke again, was low and soft. "You keep looking at my chest."
I flinched.
"I—sorry, I was just trying to get the shape right—"
"I didn't say stop."
I looked up.
Vilo was still watching me. Still in her wedding dress. But something about her expression had changed.
She wasn't evaluating me.
She was letting herself be seen.
And somehow, in that stillness, I saw her not as a queen, not as a warrior—but as a woman who had chosen to share a piece of her vulnerability with someone who never asked her to be anything else.
"You're the only one I let see me like this," she said.
"…I know."
She stepped closer again, lowering herself to sit beside me. The dress pooled around her legs, soft and weightless. Her hand came up, claws brushing the side of my face, tracing the edge of my jaw.
Her lips brushed mine.
Slow. Lingering.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For seeing me."
A knock sounded at the door.
Both of us froze.
"Your Majesty!" a voice called from outside. "Forgive the intrusion. There's trouble with one of the generals. Northern garrison. They're demanding your presence."
Vilo sighed, her forehead leaning briefly against mine.
Of course.
Duty always came knocking.
She stood, adjusting the folds of her dress with military precision. But before she turned fully away, she paused. Looked at me.
Then she walked back over.
She wrapped her arms around me—firmly, tightly. One hand pressed between my shoulder blades, the other curling around my waist. Her tail brushed against my ankle.
She held me for a long moment.
Then pulled back.
"I'll return soon," she said.
Before I could respond, she leaned down again and kissed me—deeper this time. Her hand cupped the back of my head. Her lips stayed on mine longer than necessary.
When she pulled away, her voice was low.
"You've made my life better," she said. "Even if I forget to say it."
I blinked. "Vilo, I—"
She was already turning, already striding toward the door in her gown like a queen in full armor.
And yet, she looked back once, just before the doors opened.
"I'll wear it again," she said. "For you."
Then she was gone.
I sat there in silence.
Staring at the half-drawn sketch. At the silk she left draped over the back of the chair. At the ghost of her scent on my shirt.
Did I really make her life better?
Maybe.
But if I did… it was only because she finally let me.