Saelthiryn waited until the cathedral slept again.
Not truly slept—stone never did—but until the voices softened, footsteps faded, and even her family's presence receded into that gentle hush that followed shared warmth. She lay on her side in the room she had built, blanket drawn up, eyes open to the narrow strip of sky she'd aligned just so.
She should have been exhausted.
Instead, her thoughts paced.
You look steadier around him than you have in years.
Her mother had said it lightly. Teasing. Almost careless.
Almost.
Saelthiryn stared at the stars and let the words sit without trying to smother them.
Steadier.
She rolled onto her back, one hand resting on her stomach, fingers curled loosely. The cathedral felt unchanged—patient, quiet—but she felt… alert. Not anxious. Not excited.
Aware.
She replayed the evening, wincing at herself in places. The heat in her cheeks. The way her shoulders had betrayed her. The ridiculous mortification of realizing her mother had noticed what she herself hadn't wanted to name.
Safety, Althiriel had said.
Relief.
That was the part Saelthiryn couldn't dismiss.
She had felt attraction before. Infatuation. Interest sharpened by novelty or rebellion. Those had been loud things—bright, insistent, demanding explanation.
This was not that.
This was quieter.
She thought of Aporiel as he stood near the altar—wings folded, gaze aligned with space rather than people. How he never moved closer unless she did. How he answered questions without shaping her conclusions. How he healed her without telling her, not to bind her to gratitude, but to leave her unburdened.
Favor, hidden.
Her chest tightened—not painfully. Thoughtfully.
She remembered the morning she'd woken after the attack, whole without knowing why. The way he'd told her the truth only when she asked. The way he had never once said you owe me—not in word, not in posture, not in implication.
She turned onto her side again, drawing one knee up.
If you were inclined toward impossible, unattached beings…
Saelthiryn pressed her lips together, suppressing a groan.
Inclined.
She wasn't inclined. She hadn't decided anything. She wasn't even sure what there was to decide.
And yet—
She noticed him.
Not the way others did. Not the wings or the crown or the way the air bent slightly around him. She noticed the pauses he allowed. The way he listened as if words mattered even when they contradicted themselves. The way he treated her choices as fixed points rather than variables to be optimized.
She had spent her life being optimized.
For duty.
For faith.
For legacy.
Aporiel did none of that.
He simply… allowed.
Her mother's laughter echoed faintly in her memory, warm and unafraid. Affection often grows where relief is allowed to linger.
Saelthiryn closed her eyes.
Was that what this was?
Affection?
The word felt heavy. Premature. Like naming a constellation before you were sure the stars weren't just coincidence.
She opened her eyes again and stared at the ceiling stone, tracing familiar lines in the dark.
He terrifies power structures, her mother had joked.
Saelthiryn smiled faintly despite herself.
Yes.
But he had never terrified her.
Not even when he had been terrible.
Especially not then.
She remembered the aftermath of the attack—the way his wings had folded around her, not to hide her, not to shield her from the world, but to give her space to breathe. How he had knelt to her level, claws still marked with consequence, voice steady.
You remain.
Not you are mine.
Not you are saved.
You remain.
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow, groaning softly. "This is ridiculous," she muttered.
The pillow did not argue.
She lifted her head and sighed.
She didn't love him.
She wasn't even sure she liked him in the way people usually meant.
But she trusted him.
And that realization settled differently.
Trust had always come with strings before. Expectations. Obligations. Futures pre-written by councils and gods and bloodlines.
With Aporiel, trust came with… nothing attached.
No trajectory.
No demand.
Just the quiet certainty that she would not be shaped without consent.
She stared at the narrow slice of sky again.
What if it changes? a part of her wondered.
Another part answered, calmer: Then I will notice.
She smiled faintly at that.
Her mother would visit again. Her father would continue to sulk. Gods would scheme. Kingdoms would posture. The world would keep trying to press itself into her life.
But here—here was a pause that didn't ask her to fill it with certainty.
She turned onto her side, drawing the blanket closer.
"I don't even know what this is," she whispered to the quiet.
The cathedral did not answer.
Aporiel did not speak.
And somehow, that made it easier.
Saelthiryn closed her eyes, thoughts finally slowing—not resolved, not concluded, but allowed to exist without being forced into shape.
If affection was growing, it was not loud.
It was not urgent.
It was simply… present.
And for now, she decided, that was enough.