"Good night, Your Grace."
The room was huge, like, echo-if-you-try-it huge. Shadows stretched everywhere, only pushed back a little by the dying glow in the fireplace. Zarius didn't reply. He usually did, though. Instead, he gave a small nod, very regal, very him, and then, under the thick silk covers, his hand found Cherion's.
Cherion lay there, staring up at the fancy carved canopy overhead (seriously, who even has time to carve that much detail into wood?), replaying the day like his brain had decided to be a very annoying editor.
The man was always composed, quiet, watchful, basically built out of discipline and not so good at communication skills. But tonight?
He's too quiet, Cherion thought, his thumb lazily brushing over Zarius's knuckles. Even for him. It's like he's holding his breath, waiting for something to go wrong.
Which, honestly, wasn't comforting.
