A dull ache throbbed deep inside her, and her inner walls tightened as if craving something. She shifted her hips slightly, and the firm pressure against the soft inside of her thigh twitched and trembled in response.
“Haa…”
A breathy sigh, its source unclear, filled the room. The crackling of the wood in the fireplace broke the silence. The hand that had been gently running through her hair moved to wrap firmly around her back, pulling her closer.

“Ilion.”

The moment she whispered his name, her view shifted abruptly as Ilion’s face filled her vision. Was the faint flush on his face from the glow of the fireplace or from the heat of the moment? Her expression blank, reached up and placed her hand on his cheek.

He gripped her hand tightly and brought it to his lips. His kiss pressed deep into her palm, sending shivers through her entire body. It wasn’t even a kiss on the lips, just a tender one on her hand, but it resonated with an intensity that left her breathless.

“Haa…”

Cyrene let out a quivering breath, her br*ast rising and falling with a mixture of anticipation and longing. She wanted to hold him, to be held by him. The thought crossed her mind that if it was Ilion, it would be all right – perfect, even. She wanted to press her skin against his, to join their lips, to share each other’s breath. That was what she wanted.

The warmth of his lips on her palm was almost unbearable, like holding a piece of fire. Her fingertips trembled as Ilion slowly lifted his head.

Flames seemed to flicker in his dark eyes. His lips parted slightly and she felt the faint brush of sharp teeth against the softness of her palm. He bit down gently, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh before his body slowly pulled away, disappearing from her sight.

The bed shifted slightly as Ilion stepped back, putting a few steps between them.

“Ilion.”

A voice, mixed with a low moan, slipped out. Cyrene called to him, but he didn’t even turn his head. As she began to sit up, Ilion moved quickly, almost as if in flight, and opened the door.

When he looked back, there was a complicated smile on his face.

“You must be tired. Get some rest.”

The door closed with a soft click. She blinked, her eyes lingering on the empty room he had just occupied. All that remained was the faint warmth of the bed and the heat radiating from the fireplace. The bite mark on her palm had already disappeared, leaving no visible trace.

She brought her lips to the spot where Ilion’s kiss had been, as if to seal an invisible mark he had left. The area felt hot and tingling, as if an unseen brand had been etched there. With a deep sigh, Cyrene sank back into bed, her body and mind heavy with unspoken emotions.

The first night in the Marquisate of Laska passed quietly.

***

How had she ended up kneading dough here of all places? Cyrene chuckled to herself as she squeezed the soft, springy dough in her hands.

After waking up and having breakfast, she wandered around the castle much like she used to roam the Crown Prince’s palace. However, instead of gazing at a beautiful garden through the windows, her eyes landed on a training ground. There were fewer maids and servants than she had expected, and instead, there were far more knights and guards moving about.

Her aimless exploration led her to the kitchen, where she peeked inside curiously. A man with his hair neatly wrapped in a headscarf spotted her and waved her in.

“You must be the young lady His Excellency brought here, right?”

That’s how it started. He had launched into a lively stream of chatter. For Cyrene, this was her first time being in a kitchen. To her, food had always been something that appeared perfectly prepared in front of her.

As she half-listened to his enthusiastic words, her curiosity led her to poke the dough with her finger. The unexpected texture surprised her, making her giggle, and the chef joined in with a hearty laugh. Now, here she was, eagerly kneading the dough herself.

“When you bake this, it’ll become bread?” she asked, breaking off a piece of dough into a manageable size.

“Are you planning to bake it in that size?”

“Well… bread looks like this, doesn’t it?”

Cyrene mumbled uncertainly, her words trailing off as doubt crept in. Was she wrong?

The man chuckled and expertly reshaped the dough in his hands.

“Bread rises when it bakes, so it needs to be a bit smaller.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding in understanding. That made sense.

No matter how hard she tried, her attempts to shape the dough were nowhere near as smooth or neat as his. A few lumpy and uneven pieces sat on the tray, looking far from professional.

“I’ll make sure to save one of these for His Excellency.”

“I want to eat it myself.”

Because it was something she had made, Cyrene felt confident it would taste good, even if the shapes were a little odd. At her words, the chef leaned in and whispered as if sharing a secret.

“His Excellency will love it.”

“Why?”

Wouldn’t he prefer something made more beautifully?

The chef burst into laughter but offered no clear explanation.

“Well, thank you for helping out.”

Cyrene said, washing the flour off her hands. The dough’s soft, squishy texture had been fascinating, even pleasant to the touch. As she left the kitchen, she glanced down at her dress, noticing the white flour smudges scattered across it.

She tried brushing them off, patting her dress with her hands, when suddenly someone blocked her path.

“Uh, uh, um…”

A stammering voice came from the figure before her.

At the sound of the trembling voice, Cyrene looked up to find a large, broad-shouldered man standing in front of her, his face flushed a deep red as he stared. She tilted her head in confusion.

“You idiot! What’s with the stuttering?”

“Just move!”

“Who stepped on my head?!”

A commotion erupted behind him, drawing Cyrene’s attention. She craned her neck, peering to the side, and spotted a group of men huddled near the corner. The moment her gaze met theirs, they scrambled to hide behind the wall as if they had rehearsed it.

“Well, uh, His Excellency… that is… he brought you here, so, um… there must be… some kind of, uh… connection…”

The man continued to stumble over his words, his face now as red as it could be. He scratched at the back of his head with a hand so large it made an audible noise as it ran through his hair.

“Still, uh, well…”

The man’s voice faded until it was barely audible. Cyrene couldn’t make out what he was saying. He let out a long, shuddering sigh and suddenly thrust forward the other hand he had been hiding behind his back.

In his hand was a rather large bouquet of flowers, held up in front of her face. Cyrene blinked. The flowers were nowhere near as extravagant as the ones she’d seen in the capital. In fact, they were quite simple – humble, even. Some of the blossoms seemed to be missing leaves, perhaps removed to tidy them up, and instead of lush, large roses, the bouquet contained tiny blooms no bigger than a fingernail.

A moment of silence passed. His hand trembled, as if the bouquet might fall apart at any moment. The flowers swayed precariously, and Cyrene’s eyes darted between the bouquet and the man’s face.

“Is this for me?”

“Yes, yes!”

He nodded so vigorously it seemed his head would fall off.

Cyrene took the bouquet, a light, delicate scent wafting from the flowers. As her fingertips brushed the stems, the man flinched, visibly startled, and jumped back as if burned.

“Please don’t tell His Excellency.”

Before she could ask why, the man turned and ran, his companions, who had been hiding behind the wall, scrambling to follow. It was almost comical to see them flee in such a hurry.

She buried her face in the bouquet, a small laugh escaping her lips. Strange things were happening here. She’d made bread for the first time, and now someone was giving her flowers.

Clutching the bouquet to her chest, she walked on, her steps light. Compared to the Crown Prince’s palace, this place was full of life and energy. It felt like people actually lived here.

Unlike the suffocating silence of the palace, where even footsteps were muffled and voices suppressed, the castle was alive and bustling. It was a refreshing change and it fascinated her. Feeling a little dizzy, Cyrene wandered around the castle, taking in every new sight.

When she reached a stream running through the castle grounds, she paused to watch the servants and maids doing their laundry. She soon found herself stepping into a tub of soapy water and gleefully stomping on the clothes. One of the maids, smiling warmly, plucked a few flowers from Cyrene’s bouquet and skilfully wove them into a flower crown, which Cyrene promptly placed on her head.