After dinner, Seraphina excused herself to return some borrowed books to the library—she'd promised, she said, and Ash should stay, finish his wine, keep her father company because he always drank alone and that was sad.
She was gone before either of them could protest.
The silence settled like snowfall.
Ash stared at his wine glass. Ignis stared at the window. The evening light had faded to the deep purple of approaching night, and somewhere in the gardens, night-blooming flowers were beginning to open.
"That was unexpected," Ash said finally.
"Seraphina has her own ideas about propriety."
"She does." A pause. "I can leave, if you'd prefer. No need to—"
"No." The word came out faster than Ignis intended. He moderated his tone, added, "Finish your wine. It's a good vintage."
Ash looked at him for a long moment. Then he settled back in his chair, cradling the glass, and did as suggested.
They sat in silence. Not the thorned silence of the corridor, not the weighted silence of the council hall. Something else—something that felt almost like a held breath, waiting to see what shape it would take.
"She had a good time today," Ash offered. "At the markets. She talked about it all the way back."
"I heard."
"The sparkly things—I tried to limit the damage. She's very persuasive."
"So I warned you."
"You did." Ash smiled slightly. "You know her well."
"I'm her father."
"Some fathers don't." A beat. "Mine didn't. He knew the prince, the heir, the person I was supposed to become. The rest of me was... optional."
Ignis looked at him properly for the first time since dinner began. Ash's expression was open, unguarded—not performing, not tailoring. Just a young man who had said something true without meaning to.
"I'm sorry," Ignis said. It surprised him. He hadn't intended to say it.
Ash shrugged, the motion deliberately light. "Ancient history. Different world." He lifted his glass. "But it's nice, seeing the other version. The father who actually knows his daughter. Who notices everything and the persuasive skills and the way she feeds toast to three-eyed creatures under the table."
"You noticed the creature."
"Hard not to. It has three eyes."
Despite himself, Ignis felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "She's had it since she was small. Found it in the gardens, half-dead, insisted on nursing it back to health. I thought it would die. It didn't."
"They never do, when she's involved."
"No." The pride in his voice was automatic, unguarded. "They don't."
Ash was watching him with an expression Ignis couldn't quite read. Not the warm attention he gave Seraphina. Something quieter. More careful.
"You love her very much," Ash said.
"More than anything."
"I know." A pause. "That's—good. That's how it should be."
The silence returned. Different now. Softer.
Alex should end this. Should make his excuses, retreat to his chambers, put distance between himself and the source of this persistent, impossible wanting. It was the sensible choice. The right choice.
He didn't move.
"The clause," He said eventually. "The artifact transport one. You really didn't have to help with that."
"It was the efficient choice."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"It's not just true." Ash set down his glass, meeting Ignis's eyes with that directness he had—the one that made lying feel pointless. "You could have let it slide. Let your advisors exploit it. Gained leverage. Most rulers would have."
"I'm not most rulers."
"No." Ash's voice was very quiet. "You're not."
The space between them felt suddenly charged—the same texture as that night, but without the incense, without the excuse. Just two men in a quiet room, the last of the wine warming their blood, and the memory of something that had happened and never been acknowledged.
Ignis stood.
It was too fast. Ash could see it.He looked uncomfortable. As feeling that gaze, was becoming impossible.
"Thank you for dinner," he said, the words coming out more formal than he intended. "Seraphina will be sorry she missed the end of the evening."
Ash rose too, slower, deliberate. "Lord Ignis—"
"Goodnight, Prince Asher."
The door clicked shut behind Ignis with a finality that felt like a slammed book.
Ash stood alone in the dining room, surrounded by the remnants of a perfectly pleasant evening—half-empty wine glasses, crumpled napkins, the faint scent of whatever roasted thing they'd eaten for the main course. Somewhere in the palace, Seraphina was returning books to the library. Somewhere else, Ignis was walking away from him with that measured, deliberate stride that made Ash want to throw something.
He didn't throw anything.
He refilled his wine glass instead, sat back down, and stared at the door like it had personally offended him.
Goodnight, Prince Asher.
Not even a glance back. Not even a flicker of those golden eyes. Just the perfect, impenetrable courtesy of a man who had spent centuries learning exactly how to close a door without letting anything slip through the crack.
Ash drank his wine.
It was good wine. Ignis had good taste in everything, apparently, including vintages that probably cost more than Ash's monthly allowance back in Seiena. He drank it slowly, letting the warmth spread through his chest, and tried very hard not to think about the way Ignis had looked at him during that one unguarded moment.
You love her very much.
More than anything.
Right. Of course. Seraphina was the sun, the moon, the entire constellation of Ignis's emotional universe. Ash was just—what? A diplomat. A suitor. A temporary inconvenience that would eventually become a permanent in-law, assuming he didn't completely destroy everything first.
He should be happy about that. Seraphina was wonderful. She was warm and genuine and she fed three-eyed creatures under the table. Marrying her would secure the alliance, save his empire, and give him exactly the future he'd planned since the moment he transmigrated into this trash novel.
So why did it feel like settling for leftovers?
Seraphina returned a few minutes later, cheeks still pink from her walk back from the library. She took one look at the empty chairs and the half-cleared table and tilted her head.
"Father already left?"
"He had… things to attend to," Ash said, forcing a casual smile as he stood. "You know how he is."
She sighed, though there was fondness in it. "He works too much. Always has." Her golden eyes studied him for a moment, bright and far more perceptive than people gave her credit for. "You two seemed to be getting along tonight. That's good, right? I want you to like each other."
Ash's stomach twisted. "We do. In our own way."
Seraphina beamed, clearly pleased with that answer, and linked her arm through his as they left the dining room. She chattered about tomorrow's plans—something about flying over the western cliffs at sunset—while Ash nodded and hummed at the right moments. But his mind kept drifting back to the quiet intensity of Ignis's gaze across the table, the way his tail had remained perfectly still even when the rest of him seemed coiled tight.
He was getting dangerously good at pretending.