Aiden sat alone by the open window of his chamber, the cool wind brushing across his bare forearms, the faint scent of ink, parchment, and perfume mingling in the air.
The sunlight fell across the desk, silvering the scattered papers—the guild drafts, sigils, half-finished maps.
Tanya had already come to him earlier. She had told him everything.
Of course she would.
He leaned back in his chair, lips curling faintly at the thought. She belonged to him. In body, in mind, in spirit.
Yes, she might still wear the livery of the Leonidus household, still bow to the Duchesses, still obey the etiquette of nobility—but deep down, her devotion was carved in the shape of him.
He could still feel her trembling hands from earlier that evening, the warmth of her confession—whispered not in fear, but in longing.
She had fallen to her knees, words tumbling out of her like prayers before the altar of his will.
