Ilyria hums innocently and tears a piece of bread from the basket placed in between us. “Oh, is it too spicy? That must’ve been the chef’s doing. We wouldn’t know anything about spice blends.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing. My shoulders tremble with the effort.
Azyric turns his head toward me slowly. His expression is unreadable, but the tiniest flicker of confusion is apparent from the slight pinch of skin between his eyebrows as he stares at me.
“You’ve become fast friends,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now as he glances between us. It’s dry, though not unkind. “I’m not sure if that’s a miracle, or a regret. Perhaps both.”
Is that…humor I detect in his words?
I take another sip of wine to help hide my small smile. I almost don’t want him to realize that he’s showing this part of himself, because the moment he does, I know a wall will rise up in its place.
“I’m delightful,” Ilyria says before licking a drop of stew from her finger she dunked in. Her nose wrinkles at the taste before offering a dazzling smile to Azyric. “You know this, even though you don’t like to admit it. So of course Wren likes me.”
He doesn’t argue. He simply watches her for a few seconds before nodding and looking at his stew.
“It's good to see you laugh again, Ilyria,” he murmurs, so low I’m not sure I was meant to hear it. “Even if it comes at the cost of damage to the kitchen and my stomach.”
His admission does something strange to my core and I avert my gaze for a moment. Heat flares at my cheeks and my stomach seems to flip around at this display of…love he clearly has for his twin.
I glance at him again and this time, he’s already looking at me.
Our eyes lock, and the space between us tightens, like we’re being drawn together by a single thread. His gaze is blank as it searches my face, and for the first time since I met him, I think he might be trying to understand me. To see me.
He blinks, breaking the moment.
Ilyria breaks another piece of bread in half as her voice dips into something less playful. “The fae refused the proposal at the borderlands yesterday. I thought this alliance for the war was going to smooth out these issues, Az.”
Azyric’s body straightens as his attention snaps to her. “You’re certain?”
Just like that, the king is back in full force. I take a large sip of my wine and wonder if my head is supposed to feel this tingly.
“I wasthere,” she replies, her tone edged with irritation. “You sent me as your envoy, remember? I stood in the dreary weather while Sylvin’s advisors smiled through their teeth and promised nothing. No reinforcements and no magical artifacts. No clarity on why. Just the same vague excuses the fae love to give.”
His jaw tightens and I watch a small tendril of shadow leave the ink on his arm and trail toward me on the table. Neither of them notice it, and for the first time, I wonder what it will do if I play with it.
“They’re delaying on purpose,” she continues as I slide my hand flat on the table toward his shadow. “I think they want the other magical factions to face losses first, considering they are the furthest from the human occupied states.”
The shadow crawls on top of my fingers and I instantly splay them, testing if it will fall between. They stick to me and I turn my hand over. Just as it begins to pool in my palm, the shadow is yanked back as Azyric clears his throat.
We’ve been caught.
His gaze is still on Ilyria as he says, “It was supposed to be a part of the pact that Sylvin agreed to.”
I sit back in my chair and try to focus on their conversation. I wanted information, but after having a taste of fun with Ilyria, a part of me doesn’t want to return to dwelling on the heavy topics right now.
Maybe it’s the wine talking.
Ilyria shrugs and says flatly, “I chose not to stand around and argue with those silver-tongued fae. We were getting nowhere.”
The words land with the weight of finality in my chest as I observe her. A decision made and a door closed, but the moment after she says it, something shifts.
The air feels heavy and a faint glow appears.
A golden thread rises from Ilyria’s chest, so delicate it could be mistaken for a trick of the candlelight. Yet it pulses, slow and rhythmic, like it's alive. It twists and loops slightly in the air between us, like it’s waiting for me to reach out and touch it.
My heart stumbles as they continue their conversation like nothing is happening.
Neither of them see it, but I do.
