Earlier, when the stars still hung above Arkenfall, they had roused briefly—Damon first, then Neriah, stirred by the whisper of movement and the lingering heat between their bodies. With gentle insistence, he'd gathered her in his arms, carried her to the washbasin, and washed her himself. His hands, so often hardened by steel and war, moved with reverence—tracing soap over her skin, rinsing the remnants of their passion without a word. Neriah, drowsy and warm, leaned into his every motion, letting him care for her.
Afterward, she'd slipped into one of his dark tunics—far too big on her but soft, comforting, and rich with his scent—and they returned to bed. Her head nestled into the curve of his arm, she had fallen asleep again within minutes.
Now morning was creeping in. Damon had risen without waking her, dressing silently in his dark doublet and leather belt.
But before he left, he returned to the bed—drawn by the soft rise and fall of her breath.
Neriah stirred gently, lashes fluttering open. The morning light gilded her skin, and the oversized tunic slipped off one shoulder in the most unintentionally alluring way.
She smiled when she saw him, still seated on the edge of the bed, leaning over her.
Damon smiled too. Gods, she looked... radiant. Even wrapped in one of his dark tunics that hung off her in the most endearing way. It swallowed her figure, the sleeves too long, the hem brushing her knees. And still, somehow, it looked like it belonged to her.
"I see you've stolen my clothes now," he murmured, fully dressed for the day in a dark doublet, his hair still damp from the wash.
"I'm not giving it back," she said through a yawn, pulling the collar of his tunic closer to her nose. "It smells like you."
"That's the point," he said, leaning down to kiss her forehead.
She watched him as he adjusted the clasp on his doublets. "You're going to the assembly?"
He sighed, mock reluctance in his voice. "Unfortunately. The realm won't rule itself."
Neriah pouted, soft and sweet. "Maybe you should skip it."
Damon raised a brow. "You want to set the court on fire?"
"I wouldn't mind," she said, smirking. "But they might."
He laughed, and she loved that sound. It wasn't often she got to hear it so freely, so unguarded. She could live a lifetime on that laugh.
As he buckled his sword belt, she rose from the bed and padded barefoot toward him, still cloaked in his tunic. She looked so effortlessly beautiful — and his.
"Before you go…" she said, hesitating slightly.
"I was thinking," she continued, "about Gwen."
He tilted his head. "Gwen?"
"I'd like her to stay with me. I mean, in the here. To help me. She's kind. And I trust her."
Damon studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "If she's someone you trust, then I'll allow it. You should have someone with you."
"I know it might seem trivial," she said quickly, "but she makes me feel safe."
"It's not trivial," he said gently. "It's wise."
She smiled. "Thank you."
He stepped closer, brushing her cheek with his knuckles. "It's good to trust someone," he added, voice lower now, "but don't give it all away. Not in this court. Even the kindest faces can wear masks."
Her smile faded just slightly. She nodded. "I understand."
He leaned in and kissed her again — not rushed, not possessive, just warm. Real. A promise without words.
**********************
Gwen made her way through the eastern wing of Arkenfall, the soft echo of her footsteps lost beneath the steady hum of castle life. Morning had taken full hold—guards rotated posts in gleaming armor, cooks yelled instructions from the open doors of the kitchens, and laundry maids rushed by with linens bundled high in their arms. The whole place thrummed like a living heart.
But Gwen didn't pause.
Her cheeks glowing with something that was both pride and nerves. She had been summoned—not to the Queen's chambers, but to the King's.
That was no small thing.
As she turned the final corner toward the royal corridor, her eyes flicked to the side just in time to catch Ser Leon and his ever-troubled male servant, Desmond.
Leon stood like a carved figure of war and discipline, arms folded, one gloved hand gesturing at Desmond with a tired expression. "You can't just disappear without informing me," he was saying. "The castle is not a tavern, and this isn't a place to gallivant across the grounds chasing kitchen girls, Desmond."
"I wasn't gallivanting," Desmond replied meekly, though his eyes were as shifty as ever. "I just—was helping with the stable girl's apron. It tore."
Leon sighed like a man who aged three years in one breath. "And why, for the fifth time this month, is it always you helping women with their torn aprons?"
Desmond opened his mouth, but Leon held up a finger, silencing him. "Don't. Just… don't."
Gwen passed quietly behind them, suppressing the grin threatening to bloom on her face. She didn't want to be noticed, but she couldn't stop the thought that bloomed in her head like sunlight through stained glass.
Thank the gods my lady isn't like that. She doesn't scold. She's kind. And I—well, I'm practically perfect. Never chasing after stable boys. Never late. I wake before sunrise, I braid her hair just right, and I know how to pour tea without a single spill. And I'm cute. And charming. Desmond could never.
She straightened her shoulders a little as she turned toward the heavy oak doors at the end of the corridor.
Two guards stood flanking the entrance to the King's Chamber. One of them gave her a nod of recognition, having seen her around Lady Neriah all the time.
With a polite bow, Gwen stepped through the open doorway, door closed gently behind her.
And then—she stopped.
Oh.
Oh heavens.
Her wide eyes roamed the grandness of the King's chamber as the breath caught in her throat.
Was this a chamber or a kingdom?
It was massive. A gleaming marvel of opulence and quiet power. The floors were polished to such a sheen that Gwen caught a glimpse of her own face in them. The high vaulted ceilings were carved with ancient designs she couldn't decipher, each one majestic and lined in gold filigree. The pillars looked like something from a cathedral. Thick royal drapes framed windows twice her height. There were seating lounges, a writing alcove, and—
Seven quarters combined. That's what this looked like.
And there—just there—a balcony, tucked off to the left, with an arching view of the entire castle and beyond. Gwen tiptoed—just tiptoed—to glance at it from afar, too afraid to go closer, but her heart thudded in awe.
"Gwen!" a voice called brightly.
Gwen whirled, nearly stumbling over her shoes.
Neriah appeared from one of the inner chambers—wrapped in a soft, oversized tunic that clearly wasn't hers. Her hair was tied in a lazy braid, her skin still glowing, and her smile bright enough to warm the marble floor.
"My lady," Gwen breathed with her mouth slightly agape, stepping forward. "You—Oh! You are glowing. You're glowing, my lady. Like... goddess-glowing. Not just the usual kind of you're-always-pretty glowing. This is something else."
Neriah laughed, trying and failing to look modest. "I am not glowing, Gwen."
"Yes, you are," Gwen insisted, narrowing her eyes and placing her hands on her hips. "Don't argue. I know a glow when I see one."
Neriah rolled her eyes fondly, walking closer. "Maybe it's just the morning light."
"No, no, no," Gwen said quickly, squinting. "This is different. This is 'something happened last night' glow. Oh gods. Did something happen last night?"
Neriah choked on a laugh and waved her off. "Gwen."
"I'm just saying!" Gwen held up her hands. "You're wrapped in what is clearly a man's tunic. A royal man's tunic. That royal man. Are you wearing the King's clothes?"
Neriah raised her brows, tugging lightly on the tunic's hem. "It's possible," she said with a small grin. "It's definitely not mine."
Gwen clasped her hands over her heart. "May I... may I touch it?"
"The tunic?"
"Yes."
Neriah lifted her arms a bit, amusement tugging at her mouth. "Go ahead."
Gwen stepped forward reverently, pinching the fabric between her fingers. "So soft," she whispered, eyes widening. "This is what love feels like, I'm certain of it. Gods, you even smell like him."
"Gwen!"
"I'm just saying!" she said with a grin. "My lady is practically married now—let me be happy."
Neriah laughed, shaking her head. "Well, if it pleases you so much, then yes—I have news. The King agreed that you can assist me here. In the chamber."
The words sank in slowly.
And then Gwen gasped.
"Here?" she squeaked. "As in, in the King's actual royal chamber?"
"Yes."
"Me? In here?"
"Yes, Gwen."
"Oh gods, I need to breathe." She spun in a circle, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. "I'm going to be the luckiest maid in all of Arkenfall. They're going to be jealous. I should start practicing my new walk."
Neriah was giggling now, arms crossed as she leaned against a nearby table.
"Don't get ahead of yourself," she teased. "You still can't go into every part of the chamber."
"Oh, I assumed as much," Gwen said quickly, gesturing vaguely. "The King's private study, the weapon alcove, any war-room-looking corner—I shall not so much as peek. But the rest? I am prepared."
"Good. You're here for me, Gwen. Not to explore."
"And here I am," Gwen said proudly, smoothing her apron. "Ready to fluff pillows, pour wine, braid your hair, and pretend not to notice things."
Neriah gave her a look.
Gwen grinned wider.
Then her tone dipped into curiosity. "Is the King here?"
"No," Neriah said, turning slightly toward the window. "He's gone for the morning assembly."
Gwen's lips curled as she gave her lady an exaggerated wink. "How convenient. Just me and you, and the king's tunic."
"Gwen."
"Yes, yes, I'm done." She bit back another smile, then took Neriah's hands into hers gently. "But truly, my lady... I'm happy for you. You look... you look full. Like your heart is blooming."
Neriah's smile softened, warm and a little shy. "Thank you, Gwen."