The next day, Dravenhart woke under a veil of soft gold light.
The castle hummed with quiet life — the sound of servants moving through the halls, the smell of bread baking, and somewhere far off, faint laughter carried by the wind.
Zelene couldn't remember the last time she'd felt peace that didn't ache.
But something still felt… off.
Not with the manor.
With him.
Kael had been— different.
Too gentle. Too close.
He had pulled her chair before she sat, brushed a stray lock of hair from her face as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and during their walk through the gardens that morning, he'd offered his arm like some noble courting his betrothed.
And worse, she hadn't stopped him.
---
She found him later in the training courtyard, standing beneath the morning sun. His sword glinted, movements precise and clean — fluid in a way that spoke of habit, not effort.
He noticed her at once, lowering his blade with that faint smile she was starting to dread.
"You're awake early," he said.
"I could say the same."
He stepped closer, sweat glimmering faintly along his collarbone. "I never stopped waking early. Old habits die hard."
Zelene crossed her arms, studying him. "You're acting strange, Kael."
He tilted his head slightly. "Strange?"
"Yes." She took a step forward, her tone flat, eyes steady. "You've been smiling too much. Speaking softly. Pouring tea. You even laughed yesterday."
He pretended to think. "You make that sound like a crime." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Perhaps the peace is contagious."
His eyes — gods, those eyes. Gray as stormlight, with the faintest glint of silver when the sun caught them right. Calm, steady, always watching — as if he could read the quiet thoughts she'd rather keep buried.
There was something sharper about him now, too — the clean line of his jaw, the faint stubble along it, the scar near his temple that always made her want to reach up and trace it.
He had the kind of beauty that wasn't soft. It was carved. Sculpted by battle and silence, refined by restraint.
And for the first time, Zelene realized how much effort it took to not look at him.
"It is when it's you."
Kael sheathed his sword slowly, lips curving in amusement. "So what exactly is it that's bothering you, Zelene? That I've stopped glaring at the world?"
"That you've started acting like someone who—" she cut herself short, her voice lowering, "—cares."
Silence hung between them.
The word care seemed to echo in the air, heavy, fragile.
Kael's gaze lingered on her — too long, too steady. Then, with a slow exhale, he said lightly,
"I thought we needed to act like real lovers to fool the nobles."
Zelene blinked. "What?"
"The Council dinner next week," Kael continued smoothly, tone maddeningly calm. "You said it yourself — rumors keep eyes away from truth. If they think the Duke and the Lady are entangled, they'll stop questioning why we're aligned."
Zelene's mouth opened, then closed again. "You're… spreading rumors?"
He shrugged. "Not spreading. Just… encouraging."
Her face twisted. "Encouraging—Kael!"
He grinned, the faintest spark of mischief in his usually solemn eyes. "What? You'd rather they think you're here because of politics? This way, they'll only gossip."
"That's worse!" she hissed, stepping closer. "You can't just— act like that! People are talking!"
"Good," he murmured. "Let them."
She froze.
Something in his tone — low, deliberate — made her heart skip.
It wasn't teasing. Not really.
Zelene swallowed hard, suddenly unsure of where to look.
"You're impossible."
"I've been called worse," Kael said softly, eyes never leaving hers.
The moment stretched, neither of them moving. The air between them was too still, too warm — charged with something unspoken.
Finally, Zelene tore her gaze away and muttered, "Next time, warn me before you decide to 'act' affectionate."
He tilted his head. "Would it make a difference?"
"Yes!" she snapped. Then quieter: "Maybe."
Kael smiled — not the sharp, mocking one she remembered, but a quieter kind. The kind that reached his eyes.
"Noted," he said.
---
That night, as Zelene lay in bed, the conversation replayed in her head over and over.
Acting like lovers to fool the nobles.
It made sense. It should've made sense.
But his tone — that low, calm voice, the way he'd said let them talk — it didn't sound like someone pretending.
It sounded like someone daring her to believe it was real.
And that terrified her more than any curse ever could.