The Queen's study in the eastern wing was quiet, save for the steady rhythm of Neriah's voice. Scrolls lay open across the polished table like the wings of ancient birds, the ink still smelling faintly of ash and herbs. Lady Vax's seal sat on the edge of each parchment like a warning sigil — red, exacting, disapproving.
Neriah was pacing the chamber barefoot, a fur-lined robe wrapped around her shoulders, her red hair falling over one shoulder in a loose braid that had long since begun to unravel. She wasn't reading. No, she was performing. Her voice rose and dipped, hands gesturing as she moved across the room like a stage actress.
"'A ruler must be gracious in victory, and measured in anger,'" she declared, flinging one hand up dramatically, "'For the heart of the realm beats through the weight of her temper!'"
She paused. Frowned. "Gods, Vax, must you make everything sound like a sermon written by a brooding owl?" She spun around and paced back again, speaking aloud the next line—
"'...and thus must the Queen observe, consider, and advise, and speak last — only when silence no longer serves.'"
A sigh escaped her lips.
"You're going to fry my brain like pigeon stew, Lady Vax."
"I hope not," came a voice from the door, amused and warm. "I quite like your brain just the way it is."
Neriah turned sharply.
And there he was — Damon. Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, hair slightly wind-swept, and eyes utterly unreadable.
Her face lit up.
"Damon," she said, softly.
She didn't say 'My Lord.'
He noticed. Gods, did he notice.
And something inside him clenched like a fist loosening.
"You smiled," he said, stepping in.
"What?"
"Just now. Your face lit up like the sun."
"It did not."
"It did. I should leave and come back again, just to confirm."
"Don't you dare—"
But he was already turning around, strolling back to the door. He opened it, dramatically stepped out, and then came in again.
"Hello, wife."
Neriah covered her mouth in a laugh, her eyes wide. "Stop it."
"There it is again," he said. "You smiled. Same spot. Same shine. As if I'm your favorite person in this castle."
She bit back a smile. "That's not true"
He crossed to her, slow, sure. "Are you going to admit it?"
"Admit what?"
"That you like me."
"I—" she tried, but her tongue tangled in her throat.
He grinned. "I'll take that as a yes."
"You're insufferable," she muttered, crossing her arms, though she couldn't hide her grin.
"And you're adorable when you're lying." He gently brushed a stray lock of red hair from her face.
It was a simple touch. Bare fingers to cheek. But it stole the breath from her lungs like a punch to the chest.
He didn't move away.
"I came to see how you're doing," he said, softly now. "With the testing. I heard Vax has been giving you hell."
Neriah sighed. "She's… demanding. Everything must be perfect. I think if my fork slips an inch during supper, she'll mark it as a failure. I'm trying, though. Gods, I'm trying so hard."
Damon reached forward, took one of her hands in his.
"You're doing well," he said. "Better than anyone expected."
She searched his face. "Even you?"
He smiled. "I never expected you to try this hard. You surprise me, Riah. Every day."
Her heart fluttered.
He drew her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles — slow and purposeful.
Neriah forgot how to breathe.
"I don't care if you pass her test," he said, eyes locked with hers. "You're already my queen."
"Damon…"
"And I'll be damned if anyone makes you feel lesser than what you are."
Her cheeks burned. "You keep saying things that make me—"
"What?"
"I don't know..." she said nervously, stepping back.
"You're the one pacing around like a bard reciting battlefield poetry."
"I was practicing!"
"You were monologuing,"
"I was not!"
"You even threw your hand in the air."
"I was gesturing."
He stepped closer. "You do that when you're nervous."
"I do not."
"You're doing it now."
Her hands immediately went behind her back.
Damon chuckled.
"I like watching you study," he said.
"Why?"
"Because you mutter under your breath and chew on your lower lip, and you frown like the scroll personally insulted your ancestors."
"That's very specific."
"Observation is part of my charm," he said, reclining with a self-satisfied smile as he settled onto the velvet-lined settee near the hearth.
Neriah didn't sit. She paced the length of the room like a flustered scholar, clutching her testing scrolls like a lifeline.
Damon's gaze followed her every step, eyes amused. "Should I be worried you're about to duel someone with that scroll?"
She spun to face him, cheeks pink. "I'm going to fail, Damon. Lady Vax will declare me unworthy, and I'll be remembered as the queen who couldn't name the courts or the difference between a steward and a seneschal!"
"I don't think that would be your legacy."
"Oh, really?" she huffed. "Then tell me, my Lord, what exactly is the true purpose of the Eighth Court? And why are there so many titles? What's the difference between a Justicar and a High Justicar? Between a banner-knight and a sworn sword? It's like everything means the same thing — except when it doesn't!"
She sighed, exasperated. "They make it all so complicated on purpose."
Damon chuckled. "That's not far from the truth."
"See? I knew it."
"You're learning already," he said, resting his arm on the chair. "So. Ask."
"Fine," she said, pulling a parchment from a nearby table, "What is a Castellan? I've seen the word three times and Lady Vax keeps using it like I should know."
Damon leaned forward, his voice playful. "A Castellan is the one who governs a stronghold or castle when the lord is away. Oversees everything. Walls, guards, food stores. So, if I left Arkenfall for campaign, my Castellan would ensure no one accidentally burns the kitchens down."
"Or poisons the soup?"
"Also that."
Neriah made a note on her scroll. "Right. Castellan — glorified caretaker."
He laughed — a real, deep laugh that made her heart flutter. She tried not to notice the way he looked: the loose white shirt untied at the collar, the way it clung to his chest as he leaned back, relaxed and entirely too handsome for her own comfort.
Their talk went on for a while—easy, light, filled with teasing and a surprising amount of substance. Damon was clever in ways that caught her off guard. He had an eye for detail, a sharpness that slipped out between humor and warmth, and the more he spoke, the more Neriah found herself leaning in—not just physically, but emotionally too.
They laughed. They argued about whether the capital's history scrolls were exaggerated.
And she didn't want it to end.
But it had to.
"If I stay here any longer, my council members will riot," Damon said as he stood.
Neriah's face dropped—just a flicker, barely perceptible, but it was enough. She schooled her expression quickly, straightening the scrolls in her lap. "Right. You must go."
Damon raised an eyebrow. "That was the most unconvincing 'I understand' I've ever heard."
Neriah stood too, deflecting. "Don't flatter yourself."
He grinned, stepping closer. "You'll miss me."
She sniffed, half-amused. "I'll survive the hour."
"Will you?"
Neriah looked away, feigning great interest in a tiny ink stain on one of her scrolls. But her silence said more than any witty retort could.
Damon's smile softened. He reached out, brushed a loose curl away from her face, and this time… he didn't tease. He simply leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to her forehead.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't casual.
It was reverent.
As if the kiss wasn't meant to mark affection—but to offer something deeper: safety, intention, and maybe even promise.
Neriah stilled.
Her breath caught in her chest, held tight like a secret.
The feel of his lips against her skin—it wasn't like anything else. It wasn't wild or feverish. It was quiet. Warm. Intimate in the most profound way. And somehow, that made it far more dangerous.
Because it told her, without words, that this wasn't some arranged alliance. Not to him. Not anymore.
When he stepped back, her heart thudded in her ears. "Don't forget to rest,"
She nodded—mute, dazed—and watched as he left the study.
The door closed behind him.
And Neriah just stood there.
The silence was heavy, but not empty. It was filled with everything Damon had left behind—his voice, his scent, the lingering warmth of his touch on her skin. She clutched one of the scrolls to her chest, as if it could somehow calm the wild pulse hammering in her ribs.
She had tried to guard herself. To approach this marriage with a steady hand and a cautious heart. She told herself she would not lose herself in him. Not yet. Not so soon.
But the truth pressed in from all corners, undeniable.
She had already fallen.
Fallen for the Storm Lord.
For his wit. His gentleness. His aggravating charm. His fierce protectiveness. The way he saw her—not as a crown or a symbol, but as a woman.
A woman he liked. A woman he wanted.
She stared at the door.
She missed him already.
Not because of the time or the distance—but because part of her had come to life in his presence. And now that he was gone, that part ached.
*****************
STONECREST
The torches flickered against the damp stone walls, casting long, dancing shadows across the cavernous hall beneath the northern cliffs of Stonecrest.
Lord Travis leaned forward in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The air smelled of wet rock and fire oil. Around him, three cloaked figures knelt in a semi-circle, their heads bowed low, weapons sheathed but ready.
"You failed," Travis said softly, his voice like velvet sheathed in steel. "And yet here I am—generous enough to hear you out again."
One of the kneeling men shifted uncomfortably. "We didn't expect the Storm Lord to move so quickly," he said. "The security doubled. We couldn't get near them."
Travis didn't respond immediately. He poured himself a goblet of dark wine and stared into it as though it held secrets. "And yet," he mused, "you promised me a bloodbath on his wedding night."
Another assassin raised his head. His face was partially hidden behind a black scarf, but his voice was sharp and focused. "We have another plan. A way to distract the king... something that'll hurt him, unsettle him. Enough to pull his gaze from the Eastern caravans."
Travis sipped the wine, eyes narrowing. "I'm listening."
"His wife," the assassin said. "Take her. Kill her. Slowly."
The goblet froze halfway to Travis's lips.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then he set the cup down, gently. "No," he said. "Not her."
The assassin blinked. "My lord?"
"I said no." Travis's tone remained calm, but his gaze sliced like a blade. "Not yet. Her death would echo too far, too soon. It would make a martyr of her. And he would burn kingdoms in retaliation. I want his mind distracted—not sharpened."
The room fell silent. Even the fire in the brazier seemed to quiet.
Another voice, this time from the figure furthest back—a woman, judging by the shape beneath her hood. "What of the half sister?" she asked. "Lady Kaelith."
A slow smile crept across Travis's face.
"Now there's an idea," he murmured. "Beloved by the king. Regal enough to spark grief, but not central enough to light the continent on fire." He looked up. "Yes. If Lady Kaelith were to fall—mysteriously, perhaps even inside the castle—his focus would turn inward. Suspicion would bloom everywhere. He would be blind to what moves beyond his walls."
He stood then, stretching like a cat, and walked to a large oak table covered in scattered parchments, ledgers, and maps. His hand moved swiftly, writing a single line on a strip of parchment. He sealed it with black wax.
"You will send this," he said to the woman. "To our friend within the castle walls. Use the dry route, through Hollow Bend. I want the message in his hands by dawn."
She nodded, taking the scroll.
Travis turned his gaze to the other two assassins. "You two will prepare in case our man fails. Lady Kaelith must die. And it must look like an accident. Or worse—treachery. I want chaos. Rumors. Something they can't contain."
He turned back to the shadows, eyes gleaming.
"The Storm Lord has declared war on the slave routes. Foolish. He forgets how many pieces must move before a kingdom falls. Let us remind him."
The assassins bowed low again. "Yes, my lord."
And then they vanished, slipping into the shadows as silently as they came.
Lord Travis remained behind, watching the flames lick the sides of the iron brazier.