Ignis's POV:
Ignis stood on the highest balcony of the eastern tower, the one that overlooked the jagged volcanic cliffs where the wind howled most fiercely at dusk. The sun had already slipped behind the mountains, painting the sky in bleeding shades of crimson and obsidian—the colors of his own banners. Below, the palace gardens lay quiet, the serpent-shaped hedge now perfectly restored, as if that humiliating night had never happened.
He hated how often his eyes still drifted to that spot.
A servant approached silently, bowing low before offering a sealed scroll. "Reports from the escort, Your Excellency. The carriage reached Seiena safely three days ago. Princess Seraphina is in excellent spirits."
Ignis took the scroll without a word. His claws pierced the parchment slightly as he unrolled it. The words were formal, efficient: detailed accounts of the welcome, the floating markets, the galas. Seraphina had danced. She had laughed. Prince Asher had been "attentive and gracious at every turn," the report noted. They had been seen together on balconies overlooking the Azure River, her arm linked with his, her tail curled with obvious delight.
Ignis's tail lashed once, hard, against the stone railing. The tufted tip left a faint scrape.
Attentive. Of course he was. He's diplomat. And a charming one at that.
He crumpled the edge of the report in his fist.
The palace was quieter. Seraphina's absence left an echoing void no amount of council meetings or administrative work could fill. Meals tasted flatter. The gardens felt colder. Even his own chambers felt too large, the silk sheets still carrying the faintest phantom trace of incense and warm human skin if he allowed himself to remember.
Ignis turned sharply and strode back inside, robes whispering against the stone. He should not be thinking of him. Ash was courting his daughter. The future of both realms depended on that courtship succeeding.
And yet.
He sat at his massive obsidian desk, the one carved with coiling dragons, and pulled out fresh parchment. The letter he had sent during their trip to Seiena still haunted him. He had kept it short, formal, almost curt. The palace feels quieter without your laughter. He had nearly crossed that line out. It revealed too much. But he had left it. A small crack in the armor.
Now he wrote another.
Seraphina,
I trust Prince Asher continues to prove a worthy host. Remember your station. Human courts are full of pretty words and hidden daggers. Do not let charm blind you to substance. The western cliffs grow colder at night. Return safely.
—Ignis
He stared at the words. They sounded cold even to him. Protective, yes—but also bitter. He sealed the letter with black wax and his crest, then handed it to a waiting messenger.
"Ensure this reaches her promptly."
Alone again, Ignis rose and paced. His claws clicked against the floor. The memory of Ash in his study before their departure replayed relentlessly: the way the human had stood there in mint green silk, asking permission to take Seraphina away. The steady green eyes. The careful deference masking something far more dangerous underneath.
Ignis had wanted, for one wild moment, to refuse. To keep them both here. To demand Ash look at him again the way he had that night—hungry, awed, unafraid.
Instead, he had given permission like a proper father and king.
A low growl built in his throat. He stopped before the tall mirror in his chambers and stared at his reflection. Obsidian horns gleaming, golden eyes sharp and restless, dark chocolate skin taut over the hard lines of his chest and shoulders. He was the Dragon Lord of Night. Feared. Respected. Untouchable.
So why did he feel hollow?
That night, sleep evaded him. He lay sprawled on the silk sheets, robe open, one arm thrown over his eyes. Every brush of fabric against his skin felt too much. He imagined—against his will—smaller alender hands, butter-blonde hair tickling his chest, a clever mouth tracing the ridges of his horns until he arched and snarled and begged in a voice he refused to recognize as his own.
Ignis sat up with a curse, tail thrashing. He crossed to the window again, staring out into the starlit darkness as if he could see all the way to Seiena.
What were they doing right now?
Were they walking together along the river?
Did Ash tuck Seraphina's hair behind her ear the way he had once traced Ignis's jaw?
Did she lean into him, trusting and bright, while Ash smiled that disarming smile—the one that had once been directed at him with far less innocence?
The jealousy was ugly. It coiled in his gut like living flame. He hated it. He hated Ash for awakening it. He hated himself more for letting it fester.
Morning found him in the council chamber, listening to reports with his usual cold precision. Yet when a second messenger arrived with news from Seiena—more accounts of Seraphina's delight, another mention of Prince Asher's "devoted care"—Ignis's claws dug into the armrest of his throne until the wood splintered.
"Enough," he said, voice deceptively calm. The advisors fell silent. "Send word that I expect regular, detailed reports. I will know if my daughter is truly well."
He dismissed them early.
Back in his private study, Ignis poured himself a measure of strong spirits and stood at the window once more. The western cliffs looked lonelier than usual. He pictured Seraphina there as a hatchling, perched on his shoulder, laughing as she tried to catch clouds. Now she was half a continent away, building a future with a man who made Ignis's blood burn with equal parts rage and longing.
He closed his eyes.
Let her be happy, he told himself. That is what matters.
But the dragon in him—the ancient, possessive part that had claimed Ash as his own—whispered something far darker: He was mine first.
Ignis drained the glass in one swallow, the burn doing nothing to extinguish the heat beneath his skin.
Ignis's tail curled tightly around his own ankle, the same unconscious gesture Ash had once teased him for.
He refused to name the feeling twisting behind his ribs.
Not yet.