The days since the High Court dragged by, filled with nobles whispering at her door. Every morning nobles pressed their offers at her door — distant cousins, nieces, daughters, all dressed and waiting to be paraded into her household.
The pressure was relentless. Every offer came with strings attached.
At last she had relented. Count Resca had won his first victory; his daughter Resme was named as her head maid. But the appointment was only ink on paper for now. Resme would enter her service tomorrow, and Metheea could already feel the storm that would follow.
Tonight, at least, was different.
Tonight Azrayel had sent for her — a private dinner, the first since the court session that had reintroduced her as princess.
The chamber he chose was smaller than she expected, tucked away in one of the inner wings, far from the great halls where the court usually feasted. A single table stood beneath a lattice of candles, their light glinting across polished silver dishes already laid out.
Two servants stood at the walls when she entered, heads bowed, silent as shadows.
Azrayel was already waiting. He rose when she approached, his presence filling the quiet room more than the flicker of flame ever could.
"Sit," he said simply.
She obeyed, her skirts brushing the chair as she lowered herself. At a nod from him, the servants poured wine and set the first course — light broth in shallow bowls, steam curling faintly into the candlelight. Then, just as quickly, he dismissed them. The door closed with a muted thud, leaving only the two of them and the quiet clink of silver.
For a moment, they ate in silence, the air heavy with unspoken things. Finally, Metheea set her spoon down.
"I want to add Kalistra to my household," she said. Her tone was calm, but she kept her eyes on him, testing.
Azrayel did not look surprised. He set his spoon aside, wiping his hands carefully on a cloth before answering.
"Kalistra of Ravines? The daughter of Baron Ravines?" His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile but close. "A good choice. Their house has always been loyal to the crown but only if the count's daughter remains formally approved as head."
Her lips pressed together. "So even choosing my own maid is politics."
"In this palace, everything is," he replied. His voice wasn't cruel, only steady as if stating the most obvious truth.
The next course arrived: roasted quail with spiced fruit. Metheea turned her knife slowly in her hand before speaking again.
"Why hasn't the emperor spoken to me alone?" she asked, her voice lower now. "Days have passed. He hasn't called for me."
Azrayel's gaze shifted to her, unreadable. He was silent for a long breath before he answered.
"Our father is not always clear of mind," he said carefully. "High Chancellor Malrick often speaks in his stead."
Her throat tightened. "So Malrick rules in his place?"
"Malrick holds the law. He interprets our father's will. He is trusted."
"And you?" she pressed. "Why not you? You are his heir. Why does the chancellor carry more sway than the crown prince?"
This time, his spoon stilled. He set it down, his eyes darkening. "Because I have not yet awakened."
Her pulse stuttered at the weight of the words, and for a heartbeat she imagined what such power might mean or cost.
Metheea's breath caught. The words felt heavier than they should have. She remembered half-forgotten rumours about Katarthan princes and their "sleeping power."
"You mean—"
"Yes," he said. "Our bloodline unlocks at maturity. Until then, strength is only half-formed. Authority is questioned. And I… delayed."
He leaned forward, his voice quieter. "I chose caution. But with war stirring, I cannot remain unawakened. To be seen weak now would be a death sentence for Katarthan."
It was the first time she had seen fear in him — not for himself, but for the kingdom. Something twisted in her chest.
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
"Are you still sleeping with others, then?"
"Yes, I am still… sleeping with others," he said, the words heavier than she expected.
He did not look at her when he said it, as if the admission itself was something he would rather keep buried.
She blinked, startled. "So you are—"
His jaw tightened. "The court demands it," he said quietly. "But it isn't something I speak of easily. Awakening is not a matter I take lightly."
Relief flickered through her, though she crushed it quickly, unsettled by what it revealed. Her voice came out lighter than she intended, almost teasing. "Then perhaps it will only happen when you meet your mate."
Azrayel didn't laugh. He only stared at her, his eyes holding something she couldn't name. The silence stretched until her pulse thudded in her ears.
He poured her wine, hands steady, eyes flicking briefly to hers. Something unspoken passed in that glance — a promise, a warning, or both.
She looked down, fumbling for another thread of conversation.
"You invited me here to talk of war and awakening?" she asked, forcing her voice to stay steady.
"No," he said. His tone softened. "To speak with you without the court's eyes."
The final course arrived with sugared fruit and wine.
"There will be a ball," he said. "A celebration of your return. I will stand as your partner."
"Ofcourse", she said.
"Dythrid is invited."
The name was a blade. Her body stiffened, memories of her other bloodline pressing close like shadows.
"We cannot exclude them," Azrayel continued, watching her carefully. "To do so would be an admission of guilt. We must appear unafraid — that you belong here, in Katarthan."
She set her cup down, her hands colder than before. The palace was a cage, yes, but this was the first time she felt the bars closing from both sides.
"So the ball is not for me at all," she said quietly. "It is for them. For Dythrid. To see me on display."
His gaze did not waver. "It is for Katarthan. You are the symbol they must see. If they doubt your place here, they will doubt the crown itself."
Her throat tightened. "And if I falter?"
"You will not," he said at once. There was no hesitation in his voice, no space for doubt.
She lifted her eyes to him, searching. "You speak as though certainty can shield me."
"It can," he replied. Then softer, leaning forward just slightly: "Because I will not let you fall."
The words struck her harder than she expected. For a moment she could only stare, her pulse loud in her ears. She looked away quickly, fingers brushing the stem of her cup.
"And what of Dythrid?" she asked, forcing her voice steady again. "What do they want from me?"
"Leverage," Azrayel answered. His tone sharpened. "A claim. Perhaps even to pull you back under their banner. They will smile, bow, and search for cracks in your resolve."
She swallowed. "Then I should be afraid."
"You should be ready," he said.