Lloyd paused, his spoon still halfway to his mouth before he set it down with a quiet clink and reached for his glass of water. He sipped it in a slow provocating manner his eyes roaming the table.
"You all seem to be quite worried about Zyran's wife," he said, his voice calm but laced with sarcasm. "Have any of you stopped to consider how she might perceive this overwhelming display of insincere affection?"
He reached for his napkin, wiping his fingers like he'd just touched something unpleasant.
Amira froze mid-bite, the fork halfway to her mouth suddenly heavy in her hand. A flush crept up her neck. Insincere affection he wasn't wrong. But hearing it out loud, in front of them all, made her feel too seen.
The Queen his mother shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. "We don't need to air our family drama at the table every time, Lloyd. I was merely making a suggestion, son."
Novalie shifted beside Amira, worry flickering across her face. Her fingers tightened slightly around her knife before she relaxed them. Then, catching Amira's eye, she gave her a brief, crooked smile. A tiny "you're not alone" kind of smile. Something warm pressed lightly on Amira's ribs at the gesture. Not enough to stay the dread, but something.
Then came the King's voice, cutting through the conversation like a gavel. "Zyran, it would do you well to take your wife out and spend some quality time together. I'm sure there's a lot for both of you to catch up on."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Zyran replied simply, already pushing his plate forward.
After breakfast, Amira and Zyran made their way to the front gates, where a black-and-silver carriage stood waiting in the sharp morning light. The colors gleamed like oil over water.
Matthew, the butler, held the door open. "My lady," he murmured with a bow. Amira stepped up awkwardly, trying not to trip on the hem of her gown, her hand cold against the polished wood as she climbed inside. Zyran followed, moving with that smooth, careless grace she couldn't stop noticing.
Inside, the silence settled like a thick fog. She sat straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, knuckles white. He sat across from her, legs slightly apart, head tilted back against the seat. A loose strand of hair slipped into his face. He pushed it back without much thought.
She watched him, quietly. Out the corner of her eye at first but then her gaze drifted, caught in the sharp lines of him. His nose was so... elegant. Like it had been drawn deliberately. Jawline like it had been carved with a blade. Lips pale, unbothered. He looked like someone who didn't know what it meant to second-guess himself.
She blinked hard, when his eyes flicked open and landed on her.
She was caught.
Her face burned hot, eyes darting away fast, too fast. She stared hard at the passing trees outside the window, trying to pretend she hadn't just been ogling her own husband like a lovesick—
The carriage suddenly jolted—hard.
"Ah!" Amira yelped, her whole body thrown sideways. Her hands flailed for balance, grabbing at air, the edge of the seat—
Zyran moved fast. One arm around her waist, locking her beside him with practiced ease. Her breath hitched, caught in her throat as she found herself pressed against him, the scent of something cold and clean like rain sinking into her lungs.
The carriage ground to a sharp stop.
"What's happening?" Zyran called out, already shifting to look out the window.
The coachman appeared a moment later, tugging at his hat. " The wheel's busted, sir. It needs replacing."
"How long?" Zyran's voice was clipped, already annoyed.
"An hour at most."
Amira adjusted her gown, cheeks still flushed. Her heart hadn't caught up to her body yet. When she looked up, he was watching her again.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
"What?" Her voice came out breathless and confused.
The road stretched ahead like a ribbon that had been pulled too tight. Dust clung to the edges of her gown. Her shoes pinched. The sun didn't let up, beating down like it was trying to flatten her into the earth.
He moved with long strides, like the distance didn't even register. She tried to keep up, but the walk it wasn't a stroll. It was a trek. A march.
Her lungs burned. Her legs trembled with every step.
She stumbled slightly and bumped into him just as he slowed to a stop.
"We'll take forever like this," Zyran muttered.
"I'm sorry," Amira whispered, not daring to look up.
"This gown..." she murmured, more to herself. "It's hard to walk in."
Zyran stared ahead, his mouth tight. Then he offered his arm to her in silent. She hesitated her fingers twitching. Finally, she reached out and grabbed a pinch of his fabric, like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to touch him.
He sighed. A sound that made her shrink a little, like she'd failed a test she didn't study for. But then, without a word, he reached down, moved her hand gently guiding her to take his arm properly.
Their pace evened out after that. Her legs didn't shake so much with his rhythm guiding hers. The town crept closer. Crowds, voices, with colors and so many people. The streets buzzed with life. It was too much, all of it at once. Her fingers clung tighter to his arm.
They reached the market square, where voices clashed and coins clinked and the smell of roasted meat twisted her stomach in knots. Her shoes were punishing her now. Sweat clung to the back of her neck. She squinted against the sun, longing for a scrap of shade to cool her aching head.
He led her to a little eatery tucked between vendors, found her a seat before disappearing with a short, "Wait here."
She sat, too tired to even think of doing anything else. A server brought her a menu. She blinked at it like it was written in another language.
People watched hershe could feel it. Glances, whispers, curious stares. Her dress, maybe. Or her face. Or maybe just the way she didn't fit.
Amira didn't touch the glass of water the server had placed in front of her. Her fingers hovered over it, then curled into her lap instead. The condensation on the glass slowly dripped down its side, pooling into a small, patient circle on the table. She just sat there rigid, back too straight trying to pretend she wasn't shrinking under the glances thrown her way.
They were looking at him. Of course they were.
And why wouldn't they?
Zyran returned just then, as if summoned by her thoughts. The crowd's energy dimmed in her ears the moment he came into focus, satchel slung casually across his chest, eyes alert. Like he was made of something steadier than everyone else.
Amira tried to speak before her thoughts slipped out of her mouth by accident.
"Where… where did you vanish to?" she asked, her voice small. Too soft. It felt ridiculous once it left her lips, like a child asking why the moon disappeared behind a cloud.
Zyran didn't answer immediately. He simply set the satchel down with a muted thud and sat across from her. The sun glinted off his silver hair and cast sharp shadows across his cheekbones.
That hair. Her eyes kept darting back to it, against her will. No one else in the square looked like that. Like he'd stepped out of a story no one dared to tell out loud.
She saw the way people were looking at him. The women. The men. Even the vendors paused when he walked past. She hated how it made something twist beneath her ribs hot and tight. Ugly, almost. Possessive? She didn't want to be possessive. She didn't even know him.
But still.
Zyran's brow quirked, a slow curve that made her heart thud unevenly.
"Is your wife's instinct kicking in?" he said, voice edged in that teasing, unreadable tone he wore like armor.
Her throat dried.
No. Or yes. She didn't know. She didn't want him to think she was that type. The clingy, suspicious wife who kept asking where he'd been, what he'd done, with whom. She was nothing like that. She barely knew how to be anything at all in his world.
She quickly looked down at the edge of the table, shaking her head so fast it looked almost frantic.
"No. I was just… just wondering. That's all." Her words came out too quickly, fingers fumbling with the edge of the tablecloth like it could anchor her embarrassment.
He said nothing. Just leaned back a little, one arm resting on the back of his chair, gaze still on her like he was watching a page try to write itself.
She hated how aware she was of him.
Of his presence looming but never suffocating. Of the way the fabric of his clothes moved when he breathed. Of the sound of his sighs, how they never seemed irritated, just... tired. Or maybe resigned. Like he'd seen too much and decided silence was easier than explanation.
The silence between them stretched long. People chattered and clinked glasses and called out prices in the background, but none of it touched her.
"I didn't mean to stare earlier," she blurted before she could stop herself. "Back in the carriage. I didn't mean to."
Why did she say that?
Zyran blinked, just once. "You were staring?"
She felt her soul threaten to crack open and crawl under the table.
"No! I mean—yes. But not in a weird way."
He didn't laugh. Thank the heavens. But the ghost of something amusement? curved at the corner of his mouth.
She picked up the glass now, finally, and took a sip just to do something. It was lukewarm. Of course it was.
"I've just… never met anyone with silver hair before," she mumbled, her voice barely above the hum of the crowd.
Zyran tilted his head, and the sunlight caught on the strands she was talking about. "You'll find a lot of strange things about me if you keep looking."
Her stomach turned. Was that a warning?
Or worse… an invitation?
She nodded mutely, cheeks warm again, and set the glass down with a small clink. Her fingers still trembled a little. No one had taught her how to do this. Be someone's wife. Especially his wife.
What was she supposed to do with a man like Zyran? So unreadable, yet so... there. Present. Even when silent.
She peeked across the table again, watching the way he unwrapped the small cloth bundle he'd returned with. Inside were slices of fresh fruit, small buns, something that smelled faintly sweet.
He pushed one plate toward her.
She blinked. "You bought food?"
"You looked half-dead."
The bluntness of it caught her off guard, but somehow it made her smile. Just a little. Barely. But it was there.
"Thanks," she said, and meant it.
She picked at the edge of the fruit slice with careful fingers, her appetite slowly nudging its way past the discomfort. Something in her began to ease. Not much. Just a sliver.
And even though they sat across from each other with the space of a table and a dozen spoken-unspoken things between them, Amira felt… maybe for the first time since arriving at the castle… like she was with someone, not just beside them.
It scared her. But it didn't feel bad.
Just… new.