The late afternoon light bathed the Dravenhart study in a somber amber hue. The air smelled faintly of ink and cedar — heavy, serious, much like the man seated at the desk.
Kael Dravenhart wrote with his usual precision: back straight, jaw set, his attention fixed on a spread of reports that looked far too grim for the hour.
Zelene, seated on the chaise by the window, had been staring at him for what felt like an eternity — chin propped on one hand, her emerald eyes glinting with mischief.
Finally, she spoke.
"First step to making them believe we're deeply in love," she said, her tone light and almost singsong, "is to start calling ourselves with no title."
The scratching of Kael's quill halted mid-stroke.
He lifted his gaze slowly. "...What?"
"You heard me." She sat up straighter, folding her hands neatly in her lap with mock formality. "If the court is going to see us as some grand, star-crossed couple, we can't go around saying Your Grace and Lady Evandelle. It sounds like we're in a business meeting."
His expression barely shifted, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his confusion. "That's... because we are."
She gave him a look of exaggerated dismay. "You're hopeless. No wonder everyone thinks you were carved from stone."
He sighed quietly. "And you intend to fix this by abolishing titles?"
"Exactly." She leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming. "You'll call me Zelene. Or better yet—" She paused, savoring the moment, "Zel."
"...Zel?" His tone was halfway between disbelief and alarm.
"It's a nickname," she said cheerfully. "You know, a thing people use when they actually like each other."
"I see no need for that."
"You see no need for anything remotely human," she shot back. "Come on. Humor me."
Kael's quill rested motionless now. The sunlight caught on the edges of his dark hair as he looked up, meeting her gaze — calm, composed, and utterly unamused. "Zelene."
"That doesn't count."
"It's your name."
"Yes, but you said it like I'm your tax report."
A quiet sigh escaped him — the sound of a man losing an argument he hadn't even wanted to have.
"Try again," she said softly.
He hesitated. "You're insistent."
"I'm persuasive."
"...Zelene."
She tilted her head, pretending to evaluate the effort. "Better. But still stiff. Imagine I just saved your life or something. There should be at least a hint of emotion."
"Emotion isn't required for this arrangement."
"Oh, but that's where you're wrong, Kael." Her grin widened as she deliberately used his name, testing it like a weapon. "If we're going to fool the court, you'll need to at least pretend you have a heart."
He froze for a fraction, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his face.
"...Kael?" she prompted again.
He blinked once, like realizing he'd just walked into her trap. "Do whatever you want."
Zelene gasped in mock offense. "That's it? No protest? No lecture about propriety or boundaries?"
"I've learned resistance only encourages you."
"Smart man," she teased, leaning back with a satisfied smile. "Then it's settled. I'll call you Kael, and you'll call me Zel."
"I won't."
"You already did."
He rubbed his temple, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience.
Zelene laughed — soft and genuine this time, not the sharp edge she usually carried. The sound filled the quiet space, weaving through the dust motes dancing in the sunlight.
Kael looked at her briefly, eyes unreadable. "You find this amusing."
"I find you amusing," she corrected. "You try so hard to be unreachable, and yet here you are — sitting across from me, practicing nicknames."
"That's not what we're doing."
"That's exactly what we're doing."
For a moment, his gaze lingered on her — something almost curious flickering there before he turned back to his papers.
"Lesson concluded?" he murmured.
"For now," she said, voice softer. "But remember — step one to convincing the world we're in love..." She smiled. "...is calling each other like we mean it."
Kael didn't respond, though the faintest color rose at the edge of his ear.
And as Zelene watched him return to his writing, she couldn't help but think — if step one already felt this difficult, then maybe step two would destroy them both.
---
The act began quietly.
At first, it was only for the servants — a hand brushing Kael's arm when she passed him in the hall, a too-bright smile when they shared breakfast, a soft laugh timed perfectly when a maid happened to walk by.
It spread like wildfire.
The Dravenhart staff — once cautious and stiff in her presence — now whispered behind polished corridors. "The Lady and the Duke," they murmured. "Perhaps it's true love after all."
Kael, of course, despised every second of it.
He endured Zelene's small theatrics with the resigned patience of a man forced to sit through a performance he never bought tickets for. When she looped her arm around his during their morning strolls, his shoulders stiffened; when she smiled up at him in front of the maids, he offered nothing but a faint, practiced nod.
Still, he didn't stop her.
Perhaps that was why Zelene pushed further — delighting in every twitch of his brow, every quiet sigh that escaped him when her antics went too far.
Once, she even dropped her napkin at dinner, bending close enough that her laughter brushed the air between them. "Smile," she whispered, lips barely moving. "They're watching."
Kael's jaw tightened. The corners of his mouth lifted half a breath — and that was enough to send the maids near the door practically melting with glee.
"Your Grace smiled," one whispered after they left. "Can you believe it? He actually smiled."
Zelene did. Because she made him.
And she would again.
A week later, Kael's office was filled with the smell of candle wax and parchment. Darius stood by the window, arms crossed, expression somewhere between tired and amused as Zelene leaned against the edge of Kael's desk, reviewing a list of visiting nobles.
"So," Zelene said, tapping the parchment, "the merchants from Valemont will attend. That's good — we'll need them for trade."
Kael didn't look up from his seat, his voice low and clipped. "As long as they stay out of politics."
"They won't," Darius muttered. "They never do."
Zelene smirked. "Then I'll make sure they're too charmed to think straight."
Kael gave her a long, unimpressed glance. Darius choked back a laugh.
The room settled into a rhythm — papers shifting, quills scratching, the muted hum of plans forming. Then, out of nowhere, Darius broke the quiet.
"If this act goes real," he said, tone almost casual, "what would you two do?"
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Zelene blinked, caught off guard. "Excuse me?"
Darius shrugged, but his gaze was sharp. "You play the part well, both of you. But if one day, someone forgets where the act ends and something else begins... what then?"
Zelene stared at him, trying to gauge whether he was joking or not. He wasn't.
She let out a small laugh — airy, dismissive. "You're protective, aren't you?"
Darius met her eyes, unflinching. "You could say that."
Zelene crossed her arms, her playful tone returning, though softer now. "Well, you don't need to worry. I won't fall for him." She turned toward Kael, half-grinning. "Your Duke can have as many mistresses as he pleases once this alliance is over. What matters now is reputation — stability. We're building a façade, nothing more."
Darius didn't look convinced. Kael, meanwhile, hadn't said a word.
He sat behind his desk, hands steepled beneath his chin, his eyes fixed on the candlelight flickering between them.
The silence stretched.
Finally, Kael spoke — voice calm but distant. "That won't happen."
Zelene tilted her head. "What won't?"
"The act," he said simply. "It won't turn real."
For some reason, that answer stung more than she expected.
"Well," she said lightly, forcing a smile, "then it sounds like we have nothing to worry about."
She pushed off the desk, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt, the echo of her laughter trailing behind her as she headed for the door.
Darius watched her go, then turned to his lord. "You're sure about that?"
Kael didn't look up. His eyes lingered on the parchment she'd left behind — her handwriting looping across the edge of the page like a small claim to space she didn't belong to.
"I'm sure," he said quietly.
But Darius knew better.
Because the Duke's tone — for the first time in years — sounded almost uncertain.