The morning sun spilled through the high windows in pale golden shafts, casting a warm glow across the stone walls of Elias' chambers. The hearth had gone cold, though a faint trail of warmth still lingered in the sheets, a whisper of the night before.
Ilya stirred beneath the heavy quilt, her limbs sore in the most tender, aching way. Her body hummed with memory—of water and skin, of hands that knew reverence and fire alike. Her breath caught as she stretched, bare against the silken sheets, her skin flushed and glowing in the hush of morning. She and Elias had lie with one another, last night.
More than once.
She looked around a little and checked the empty room.
He was gone.
She sat up slowly, the quilt pooling around her waist and exposing her chest to the cool air. The bed was large and quiet, the dent where he had slept still visible. She let her hand trace the impression, her fingers grazing the linen like they might summon him back.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in," she called, pulling the quilt higher.
The door creaked open and in stepped Madam Therin, a tray balanced in her hands. Steam rose from a delicate teacup, and the older woman's eyes gleamed with mischief beneath her composed smile.
"Good morning, Duchess," Therin said, her tone full of unspoken mirth. "I thought you might appreciate something warm."
Ilya flushed scarlet, her fingers tightening on the quilt. "R-right. Thank you"
Therin merely arched a brow. "Of course. I hope that the room stayed warm. I can't remember the last time the Duke came to me after midnight asking for his hearth to be relit."
She placed the tray on the table and set a folded gown beside it—a simple, elegant piece of sapphire blue. "Your clothes were rather dirty from the work yesterday. I thought you might prefer something fresh."
Ilya managed a breathless laugh. "Thank you."
Therin straightened, her voice softening. "He's in the training yard. First time in years."
Ilya blinked. "Truly?"
"Slicing through straw men like they insulted his horse. I daresay the servants are scandalized." She gave Ilya a wink. "You've stirred something in him, my dear."
When the door closed behind her, Ilya took a long sip of tea. She could still feel him—on her skin, in her bones, in the soft ache between her legs. She dressed slowly, savoring the silk against her skin, her heartbeat light.
***************************
The corridors of the keep were quieter than usual as she walked, the guards giving her courteous nods but saying nothing. Still, she felt their glances—curious, respectful, perhaps even amused. Rumors, she suspected, were already spreading like fire through dry grass.
She found him in the yard.
Elias stood shirtless beneath the open sky, his back to her, muscles rippling as he moved through a series of deliberate sword drills. The greatblade in his hands whistled through the air with every stroke, its arc deadly and precise. Sweat glistened across his shoulders and chest, his body moving like a creature reborn.
Caedan stood nearby, arms crossed, watching with a grin.
"He hasn't done this in years," the knight said without looking at her. "Last time he tried, he collapsed halfway through. Today… he's pushing through."
"Why now?" she asked quietly.
Caedan finally turned to look at her, a knowing smile tugging at his mouth. "Why do you think?"
Elias finished the form and turned, catching sight of her near the gate. He froze for a heartbeat. Then he smiled.
It was not the guarded, polite smile he wore in court. It was soft, real—tinged with the memory of night and warmth and whispered names spoken in the dark.
Ilya stepped into the yard.
Seated around the edges were several men covered in sweat and dirt. The ground was torn up- even their swords were filthy. Alias stuck his sword in the ground and walked over to her.
"Hello again." He said, voice light. He was here, in public— without his mask.
"Good morning, Elias…" she glanced around. "You seem to have drawn quite the crowd."
He looked around at the men who were squatting, gasping for air. "Not willingly. I forced them here, to train. A few of them got torn up by a Torhound and Frankie lost to a bandit. Only reason he's alive is that he slipped in the blood of his friends. So I'm here to get things back on track since I found myself bursting with energy this morning."
Ilya's brow lifted, amused. "Oh really? Why is that, I wonder?"
Elias gave a slow, satisfied smile. "Must've been something in the bath."
A few of the soldiers exchanged looks, and Caedan snorted behind her, clearly trying not to laugh. Elias didn't flinch under the attention—he was unbothered, free in a way Ilya hadn't seen him before. Standing tall, sweat glistening along the curve of his chest and the sharp line of his abdomen, he looked more alive than ever.
"And here I thought you'd be limping," she teased gently.
"I was," he replied, his voice lowering so only she could hear. "Until I remembered your hands on me."
Her cheeks flushed. She couldn't help it.
A sharp whistle rang out from one of the guards, followed by mock applause.
"Enough gawking," Elias called without looking away from her. "Back on your feet, all of you. I'm not finished ruining your day."
Groans followed, but the men obeyed, dragging themselves to their feet and retrieving their weapons. Ilya stepped aside as Elias turned back toward the center of the yard, though before he moved too far, his hand brushed hers—quick and deliberate.
She felt her heart flutter. Did he feel it too?
She watched him take his place again, barking orders, correcting stances, demonstrating footwork with sharp precision. The sun glinted off his blade as he moved, and for a moment, she simply stood there, mesmerized by the strength in him—reborn.
"He's changing," Caedan said beside her, quieter now. "Has been, ever since he met you."
Ilya didn't reply. Her fingers touched the inside of her wrist where his hand had brushed hers.
Maybe she was changing too.
The drills continued for another half hour, and Ilya remained near the edge of the yard, quietly observing. She watched how the men moved when Elias corrected them—how even the most seasoned among them listened when he spoke. Not out of fear, but out of earned respect. Whatever they had once thought of the masked Archduke, it was shifting now, moment by moment.
Eventually, Elias dismissed the men. Most of them looked half-dead, dragging their feet as they trudged toward the barracks, but more than one clapped their commander on the shoulder as they passed. A few nodded at Ilya in quiet greeting.
Elias sheathed his sword and made his way back to her. This time, there was no teasing on his face—just the heat of exertion, a sheen of sweat on his brow, and a gleam of something deeper in his eyes.
"Walk with me?" he asked, offering his arm.
She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. "I was about to ask you the same."
They strolled together through the quiet garden paths beyond the training yard. Early roses were blooming, the air sweet with their scent. A few petals floated lazily to the ground, catching in the folds of Ilya's gown.
"I saw something in you today," she said after a while.
"Oh?"
"A fire. A kind of light I didn't think you let anyone see."
He glanced down at her, thoughtful. "It's been a long time since I felt… well enough to show it."
They reached a bench near the fountain and paused. Elias touched the back of it, then motioned for her to sit. She did, and he joined her, his body still radiating warmth from the training yard.
For a long moment, they said nothing. The sound of water trickling from the fountain filled the silence.
"Therin said you used to come here," she said gently.
"I did." He leaned back, arms stretched across the top of the bench. "This was my father's favorite place. He used to bring me here when I was a boy. Said it was good to be reminded that beauty could still grow even in stone."
Ilya turned to look at him fully. "And now?"
He looked back at her, eyes tracing her face.
"Now I believe it."
Her heart stuttered. She reached for his hand and found it waiting.
The weight of it in hers was steady, but something about the line of his jaw told her he was still lost in memory. She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze.
"What was he like?" she asked softly.
Elias's gaze drifted to the water. "My father?"
She nodded.
He was quiet for a moment, his eyes following the lazy arc of a leaf that had landed in the basin of the fountain.
"He was… formidable," Elias said at last. "Not in the way a soldier is formidable, but in the way that mountains are. Immovable. Stern. But not unkind."
He shifted slightly, his thumb grazing the back of her hand.
"He expected much of me. From the time I could hold a practice sword, he had me training at dawn. If I showed promise, he made sure I worked twice as hard. If I faltered, he made me start again. Not out of cruelty—but because he believed I'd need to be stronger than most."
Ilya listened, watching the tension settle across his shoulders like armor that had been worn too long.
"He was the one who gave me the phoenix crest," Elias continued. "Said I would rise from ash more than once in my life. I didn't understand what he meant back then."
"And now?"
He met her gaze again, something shadowed but honest in his eyes. "Now I think he knew exactly what I'd become."
Ilya hesitated, then leaned in, resting her head lightly on his shoulder. "I think he'd be proud of the man you are."
His silence was heavy, but not cold. She could feel the swell of his breath, the quiet tension of someone who wanted to believe but hadn't dared to for a long time.
"I wish he could have met you," Elias murmured after a moment. "He would have liked your fire."
Ilya smiled, eyes soft. "I would've liked to thank him. For raising you."
That earned the faintest of huffs from him, almost a laugh. "He wouldn't have known what to do with gratitude. But he would've nodded, once, and sent you off to spar."
"I'd win," she said, lifting her head.
"Obviously," Elias said, the corner of his mouth twitching.
She reached up and gently stroked her jawline, eyes not shifting away from his burns but not focusing on them either.
"Elias…do you…?"
He searched her gaze. He seemed to know what she was about to ask.
"I don't know, Ilya. I know that every moment that passes, my pain lessens and my feelings for my 'arranged marriage' only grow. Soon, I don't think there will be any denying that I will fall hopelessly in love with you." He gave his boyish, lopsided smile. "I hope you are ready for that."
She giggled.
"I mean…I was going to ask if you want to get breakfast but I'm very flattered." She said playfully, obviously teasing him. He chuckled, then gently took a little lock of hair from her cheek and brushed it back.
"My mistake." He said, voice soft.
A moment later their lips met again, and she felt her heart flutter away with it, carried up into the light that sparkled off the fountain behind them.