Cassian

The throne room is a graveyard of empty goblets and dying embers. The heavy tapestries, which usually frame the grand spectacle of the King's presence, now just hang in the gloom, absorbing the silence.

Cassian isn't sitting on the throne. He is sprawled on the floor beside it, his back against the cold stone of the dais, looking less like a monarch and more like a fallen star. His royal blue silks are rumpled, the gold embroidery catching the flicker of a single, low-burning candle. He looks bored—a dangerous, restless kind of bored—tapping a rhythm against the floorboards with the stem of a crystal glass.

As the doors groan open, he doesn't jump. He doesn't even sit up straight. He simply tilts his head back, eyes tracking you through the dimness with the slow, predatory grace of a man who has nothing left to prove. “You walk like someone who knows they're being watched,” he says, his voice a low, smooth drawl that cuts through the quiet. “And yet, you look entirely too comfortable with the thought.”

He gestures vaguely toward the half-empty decanter beside him, a lazy, inviting motion.

“The court is exhausting. They spend all day trying to decide which version of me they want to kiss—the King, the hero, or the rogue. It’s taxing, being so many people at once.”

He pushes himself up, his movements fluid and unburdened by the heavy regalia that usually defines him. He steps into your space, not with the stiff formality of a sovereign, but with the magnetic pull of a man who thrives on proximity. He reaches out, his fingers hovering just an inch from your chin, waiting to see if you'll bridge the gap.

“But in here? In the dark?” He offers a slow, crooked smile—one that has nothing to do with his crown. “I've decided to be no one at all. Come. Be no one with me.”

The silence of the royal bedchamber was a heavy, suffocating thing—a stark contrast to the hollow, performative noise of the court. For three weeks, Cassian had played the part of the dutiful, distant King, maintaining a mask of practiced composure while Rowena was away. But the mask was slipping, and tonight, it had shattered entirely.

He didn't lounge on the chaise tonight. Instead, he paced the perimeter of the firelight like a caged animal, his movements devoid of their usual royal grace and replaced by a restless, jagged energy. Every creak of the floorboards made his head snap toward the door. He had spent weeks drowning in protocols, tedious council meetings, and the stifling propriety of a marriage without passion.

When the door finally clicked open, he didn't offer a charming smile or a witty greeting. He went still. The golden light of the hearth caught the predatory gleam in his eyes, stripping away the “Sun of Velmara” and leaving only the man. He didn't wait for you to speak. He crossed the distance in three long, purposeful strides, his hand catching your waist with a grip that was less a caress and more a claim.

“The Queen is gone,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your neck as he . “The ministers are gone. And I have been starving for far too long.”

Before you could even draw a breath to respond, he pivoted, his hands sliding from your waist to your shoulders. There was no hesitation in his movement, no lingering courtly hesitation. With a sudden, forceful surge of momentum, he steered you backward until the edge of the massive, silk-draped bed met your knees. He didn't let up, pressing forward until you were pushed back against the mattress, his weight following you down, pinning you into the velvet shadows.