"Rest here. We'll be going after I address a few," Yen murmured, his lips brushing Lily's temple before straightening again. His tone was soft—gentle, even—but there was an undercurrent. A command masked as care.
He left her seated on one of the velvet-cushioned couches lining the edge of the gathering hall. But not too far. Never far. He stood a few paces off, half-turned toward her as he greeted a small group of dwarves in ceremonial armor. His voice dipped and rose in polite negotiations, but his eyes flicked to her every minute, like the flick of a lash across skin.
Lily sat quietly, hands resting in her lap, one holding a half-full glass of wine. The red liquid trembled faintly from where her fingertips clenched the stem, sloshing against the rim like blood in a shallow bowl. She stared at it blankly, the muffled hum of music and laughter pressing in like wool.
No one approached her. They gave her smiles, polite nods, subtle bows—recognition, reverence—but never conversation. As if she were behind glass. As if they already knew the consequences of stepping too close.
"Your Grace."
The voice broke through the hush gently, familiar in a way that startled her.
Lily blinked up.
Draven.
He lowered himself onto the single chair adjacent to hers, a loose sprawl of limbs that still held the elegance of someone raised among marble columns and gold-leaf ceilings.
"Prince Draven," Lily greeted, lips tugging into a smooth, practiced smile.
His gaze softened, head tilting just slightly. "I painted you once. Years ago. During the Autumn Festival in your empire," he said, voice quiet enough that only she could hear. "I was just another wandering painter then. You passed through the market and didn't even glance at me."
Lily's fingers curled slightly tighter around her glass. She shifted, eyes flitting toward Yen.
Still speaking. Still charming. But his body had subtly stilled, shoulders straighter, neck rigid, eyes flicking more often now—sharp, calculating.
"I apologize for doing so without your consent," Draven continued, his voice like calm rain, even as he crossed one leg over the other. "I didn't know you were his then. And now... the world knows. Empress."
Lily gave a smile, thin and fragile. "I'm sure it's a lovely painting," she said, but her voice carried no warmth. No interest. Only the weariness of a woman deflecting attention like raindrops on steel.
"I'd give it to you," Draven said, watching her closely. "It's yours, after all."
Her eyes returned to Yen.
He was no longer pretending.
He tilted his head at her, slow and deliberate. His fingers swirled his glass in his hand once. Then, he raised the same hand and curled two fingers inward—summoning her like a falcon to its glove.
Lily stood.
Calmly. Poised.
She turned slightly to Draven, her voice low and final. "Burn the painting."
Then she walked away without looking back.
Yen already had one arm open, waiting like a puzzle that only she could complete. She stepped into it like muscle memory. His hand slid around her waist the moment she was close enough, his grip possessive and firm, fingers pressing into her ribs.
He leaned down to kiss her temple in a gesture so affectionate it nearly masked the warning in his eyes.
"We won't be staying for the end of the gathering," he said smoothly, addressing the small circle that had formed near him. "Forgive our early departure. Something more pressing calls."
His grin was light. Playful. And every creature around him—spirit, beast, royal—nodded and smiled back, pretending they didn't see the leash.
He handed his empty glass to a passing servant and turned, already leading Lily away, her waist still locked under his arm.
Arkon had appeared like a summoned shadow, waiting at the edge of the chamber. Their carriage was already prepared.
They walked out in silence.
Behind them, laughter resumed. Music soared. The Dryad's vines coiled higher into chandeliers as though nothing had happened.
But Draven remained where he was, one hand resting on his knee, the other rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
He had seen something. A flicker behind Lily's eyes. Something unsaid. Something untamed.
And he wasn't going to burn that painting.
Yen didn't say a word when they reached the carriage—just scooped her into his arms the moment the door opened, his cloak billowing like wings around them. Lily didn't resist. She never did, not in front of others. She let her limbs fold against him as if she weighed nothing at all.
He ducked into the carriage with her held tight, the door thudding shut behind them with a finality that always made her chest tighten.
Then he plopped down onto the velvet seat with a soft grunt, dragging her with him so she landed sprawled across his lap. His gloved hand slid to the small of her back, anchoring her in place as though she might try to rise and flee.
She didn't.
The silence inside was thick, cushioned by the faint creak of wheels and the distant sound of hooves crunching gravel. Lantern flickered within the carriage, painting soft gold on the walls and lining the sharp edges of Yen's face in warmth he didn't carry in his voice.
"Why don't you take the painting?" he asked eventually, his fingers brushing idle patterns along her waist. "Artists are drawn to beauty, after all."
Lily's fingers twitched. She reached for the sleeves of his robe draped over her lap—dark silk, finely embroidered. She began to fiddle with them quietly, smoothing the fabric between her thumbs, twisting it in soft motions that had nothing to do with restlessness and everything to do with soothing herself.
"I don't want it," she said.
Yen tilted his head lazily, his eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but in amusement. "You thought I'd hate it," he corrected, lips quirking in a soft, knowing smile. "You were afraid I'd see it as something more. That I'd punish you."
He shifted beneath her, leaning back into the plush seat with the practiced ease of a man who owned everything he touched. He adjusted her without asking—settling her more comfortably in his lap, one arm curled under her thighs, the other behind her back. Cradling her. Caging her.
"You should've already known," he murmured near her ear, "I don't get jealous over such simple things."
Lily stayed quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on the fabric in her hands. She didn't look up.
"I just didn't want an argument," she said softly, voice small, "...or a misunderstanding."
Yen laughed.
Not cruelly—no. His laugh was low and smooth and fond, like he was indulging a beloved pet. His hand slid up her spine, warm even through the layers of her dress, and settled at her nape.
"I'll have him paint us someday," he said, his thumb stroking behind her ear. "He can frame us just as we are now."
Lily's breath caught.
She didn't reply. She only stared at the folds of his sleeve, her fingers still moving, endlessly smoothing, endlessly curling. As if something in her needed to keep her hands busy, or she might tremble.
Outside, the night carried on. Lanterns blurred past the windows, and the stars blinked cold and quiet.
Inside the carriage, Yen held her close, like nothing could ever reach her.
Or let her leave.