She looked at him—really, properly looked—and saw the way he was holding himself, carefully, like if he relaxed even a fraction he might fall apart. The way his hands gripped the railing just a little too tightly. The way his smile was too practiced, too perfect.
"Larus," she said quietly.
He didn’t look at her. Just kept staring out at the gardens.
"You don’t have to go back," Heena said.
His head turned sharply toward her, eyes wide.
"What?"
"You don’t have to go back," she repeated, voice steady. "Stay here. Marry ."
Larus stared at her like she’d just told him the sky was falling.
"Your Majesty—"
"I’m serious," Heena said. She straightened, turning to face him fully. "You said it yourself—your kingdom is struggling. Your brother is going to marry you off to so noble house for political leverage. You’ll spend the rest of your life pretending to be happy with soone you don’t love, doing work you don’t care about, trapped in a place that makes you miserable."
She paused.
"Or," she said, "you could stay here. With . We’d be honest about what this is—a political alliance, yes, but one where you’re not miserable. Where you have actual influence. Where you can do work that matters."
Larus’s hands were trembling slightly where they gripped the railing.
"You don’t love ," he said quietly.
"No," Heena agreed. "But I ’like’ you. I respect you. I trust you. And in this world, that’s worth more than love."
She stepped closer.
"I can’t promise you romance," she said. "I can’t promise you’ll be happy every day. But I ’can’ promise you won’t be miserable. I can promise you’ll be treated as an equal. I can promise you’ll matter."
She held out her hand.
"So what do you say, Prince Larus? Want to stay?"
Larus looked at her hand.
Then at her face.
Then back at her hand.
For a long, breathless mont, he didn’t move.
Then, slowly, carefully, like he was afraid it might disappear, he reached out and took her hand.
"Yes," he whispered. "I’ll stay."
Heena smiled—genuine, warm, the first truly relaxed smile she’d worn all night.
"Good," she said. "Then we have work to do."
Behind them, hidden in the shadows, System 427 was vibrating so hard with excitent he was practically a blur.
"HOST!" he shouted internally. "YOU DID IT! YOU ACTUALLY DID IT!"
"I know," Heena replied silently, still holding Larus’s hand. "Now stop screaming. You’re giving a headache."
The system went quiet.
But he was grinning.
This was going to be ’very’ interesting.
.
.
---
’’Returning to the Banquet Hall’’
When they walked back into the banquet hall together, sothing had shifted.
Larus’s entire deanor had changed. The sadness that had shadowed his expression earlier was gone, replaced by a brightness that seed to radiate from him. He smiled—genuinely, openly—in a way he hadn’t all evening. His steps were lighter. His shoulders relaxed. And he stayed close to Heena, closer than before, like he’d claid a space beside her and had no intention of leaving it.
People noticed.
Of course they noticed.
Conversations faltered mid-sentence as nobles glanced over, eyes widening. Whispers started imdiately, rippling through the crowd like wind through wheat.
"Is that—"
"Why is he smiling like that?"
"Did sothing happen?"
"Look at how close he’s standing to Her Majesty—"
"Do you think—?"
Heena acted completely normal. She accepted a fresh glass of wine from a passing servant, nodded politely at a minister’s rambling comnt about grain tariffs, and moved through the room with the sa calm authority she always carried. As if nothing had changed. As if Larus’s entire presence beside her wasn’t screaming ’sothing monuntal just happened’.
Larus, for his part, didn’t say anything either. Didn’t announce anything. Just smiled that brilliant, unguarded smile and stayed at her side like he belonged there.
Her five consorts watched from various corners of the room, expressions ranging from suspicious (Damien) to outright hostile (Kieran) to deeply, quietly unsettled (Raphael).
But Heena ignored them.
She made her rounds, spoke to the people she needed to speak to, and after about an hour, she excused herself.
"I’m tired," she said simply, setting down her empty glass. "Enjoy the rest of the evening."
She left without ceremony, cape sweeping behind her.
Larus watched her go, still smiling.
A few minutes later, he excused himself as well, citing exhaustion from the journey. No one questioned it—he was a foreign prince, after all. Politeness demanded they let him rest.
But the smile never left his face.
Not as he walked through the corridors.
Not as he reached his guest chambers.
Not even as he finally closed the door behind him and stood alone in the quiet room, staring at nothing, replaying the conversation on the balcony over and over in his mind.
He was staying.
He was ’staying’.
The thought made his chest feel too full, like his heart had expanded past the space it was supposed to occupy.
He changed into his sleep clothes, climbed into bed, and lay there staring at the ceiling, still smiling like an idiot.
Eventually, exhaustion caught up with him.
His eyes drifted closed.
And he slept.
.
.
.
# The Morning After
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
The sound drifted into Larus’s consciousness like sothing from very far away, floating through layers of sleep like a pebble sinking through deep water.
He stirred slightly, his body registering the sensation without his mind fully engaging with it. The bed beneath him was impossibly soft—far softer than anything he’d slept on in months of travel, softer even than his own bed back ho. The sheets were cool and smooth against his skin, slling faintly of lavender and sothing else he couldn’t quite na. So expensive soap, probably. The kind that cost more than most people earned in a year.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
His brow furrowed slightly, though his eyes remained closed. That sound again. Persistent. Patient. Not urgent enough to be alarming, but steady enough that it wasn’t going away.
His mind, still wrapped in the comfortable haze of sleep, tried to place it. Not the door—the door had a heavier sound, wood on wood, solid and definite. This was lighter. Sharper. Like...
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
Like knuckles on glass.
The window?
That didn’t make sense. His rooms were on the second floor. Who would be knocking on his *window*?
He shifted slightly, pulling the blankets up higher around his shoulders, trying to sink back into sleep. Whatever it was could wait. Just five more minutes. Just...
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
The sound ca again, more insistent now, and with it ca the slow, inevitable pull of consciousness dragging him upward toward wakefulness whether he wanted it or not.
He exhaled slowly—a long, reluctant breath—and forced his eyes to open.
The world swam into focus gradually, piece by piece, like a painting being revealed one brushstroke at a ti.
Soft morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains that hung over the windows, turning everything golden and hazy. The light was gentle—early morning, then, not quite dawn but past it, that perfect hour where the sun was up but the world hadn’t fully woken yet. Dust motes drifted lazily through the beams of light, turning slow circles in the still air.
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