Her next stop was the stables. She giggled as one of the horses nibbled at her flower crown and she stroked its mane with gentle hands. Watching the groom brush the horses, she picked up a brush herself and tried her hand at grooming. The black horse, which she was told belonged to Ilion, caught her eye with its sleek, powerful form.

Having walked through almost every corner of the castle, Cyrene paused and looked around, trying to decide where to go next. Then she heard a chuckle behind her. She turned, curious to see who it was.

“Cyrene, is something the matter?”

“Ilion!”

She turned to him with delight. Ilion’s eyes widened slightly as he scanned her from head to toe.

A crown of flowers, partly nibbled by a horse. Hay tangled in her hair. A dress dusted with flour, wrinkled and splashed with soapy water from stomping laundry. Despite her dishevelled state, Cyrene looked at him with a bright smile.

“Well, I don’t know whether to scold you or be relieved that you look so happy.”

Ilion said, picking a stray piece of hay out of her hair.

“I made bread.”

“Did you?”

“And someone gave me flowers. They said not to tell you.”

Ilion burst out laughing, the sound filling the space between them.

“I did some laundry too.”

“Sounds like a busy day.”

“And the horse ate my flower crown.”

“Shall I scold him for you?”

“No, it’s fine.”

She wasn’t sure why she felt so happy, but the smile never left her face. Taking his arm, she began to tell him about her adventures around the castle, chattering excitedly.

It made her happy to be with Ilion, and she loved that he listened to everything she had to say, no matter how trivial. When they stopped for a moment, he deftly repaired her flower crown, which the horse had chewed on.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, but you look cold.”

“I’m not that cold,” she replied, shaking her head slightly, though her nose and cheeks were slightly pink from the cold.

“It’s just excitement.”

Ilion said with a soft chuckle, removing his cloak and draping it around her shoulders. The warmth enveloping her back made her realise for the first time how cold she had been. Her nose felt as if it had been frozen.

“Achoo!”

Cyrene suddenly sneezed, her eyes widening in surprise. Ilion frowned slightly and reached over to secure the buttons of her cloak.

“You’ll catch a cold.”

“I’ve never had a cold.”

“Then perhaps this will be your first.”

He took her hand and gently led her along. Whether it was because they had been out for so long, or because it was Ilion, his hand felt particularly warm. As they walked, a flower petal floated down beside Cyrene’s cheek, carried by the breeze.

Later, as Ilion added logs to the fire, Cyrene watched him in silence. Areos would never have done such a thing himself. She wondered briefly if all marquises did things for themselves – or if Ilion was just different.

“You should sit a little closer.”

Ilion suggested, pulling the sofa effortlessly towards the fireplace. The warmth of the fire spread through Cyrene’s entire body, driving away the lingering chill.

“Your Excellency.”

He opened the door with a quick movement and returned with something in his hands.

“Here, drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Medicine. I thought it would be better for you to take it before you get unwell.”

The taste was slightly bitter, but there was a hint of sweetness, as if honey had been mixed in. Cyrene drank it all in one gulp, then hugged her knees to her chest.

The fatigue of the day was finally catching up with her, making her body feel heavy.

It was fun, she thought with a small smile.

Ever since meeting Ilion, Cyrene had seen and done so many new things. Back in the Crown Prince’s palace, no matter how much she wandered, not a single person spoke to her. If she so much as opened a door to the kitchen, the staff would pale and rush to push her out.

So she had assumed that was how things were. Bread simply came out perfectly shaped, clothes taken by the maids were returned clean and neatly folded, and flowers were always arranged beautifully in vases.

“Haaam…”

Cyrene couldn’t hold back a long yawn. Ilion gently took the precariously balanced glass from her hand.

“You must be tired.”

“A little sleepy.”

She smile bashfully before leaning her cheek against her knees.

“I’ll go light the fire in your room. It’ll take a bit of time to warm up, so wait here for a moment.”

As he turned away without hesitation, Cyrene quickly reached out and grabbed his hand.

“…Cyrene?”

“Ilion.”

The warmth of the fireplace was nothing compared to the heat of their clasped hands. Cyrene slowly intertwined her fingers with his, pulling him closer.

“Can’t I stay here tonight?”

It wasn’t about s*x. She simply didn’t want to be apart from him. She wanted to hold him, to share warmth, and to stay nestled in his embrace. That was all she wished for.

She had never felt this way about anyone else—not even Areos. Not once had his arms felt like a peaceful place to her. They were a refuge from others, perhaps, but never a space where she could truly rest.

Ilion looked down at her. With the firelight at his back, his expression was hidden in shadow, but his dark eyes seemed even deeper, darker, as they looked at her.

“…It’s better if you return to your room.”

Cyrene tightened her grip on Ilion’s hand as he weakly attempted to pull away. Though he could have easily broken free, he didn’t. In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to push her away.

The crackling of the firewood echoed loudly, almost like the pounding of her heartbeat. Cyrene shrugged off the blanket he had wrapped around her. Her bare shoulder peeked out from under the thin fabric, exposed to the cold.

“You’ll be cold. Can’t I stay?”

She murmured, bringing her cold nose to the back of his veined hand. Her wide eyes blinked up at him, and her trembling fingers gently brushed against his long lashes.

“Ah…”

A sound fell from Ilion’s lips, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. His chest rose and fell deeply, betraying the conflict within. After a moment he reached out, grabbed the fallen blanket and carefully wrapped it around her again, pulling it tight.

“Just for a little while longer.”

“All right. Just a little longer.”

Cyrene smiled softly. Ilion sat down beside her and she rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. She found herself wishing she never had to return to the Crown Prince’s palace.

***

“Would you like to ride a horse?”

Ilion’s voice interrupted her thoughts, as if he had noticed her gaze. Cyrene looked up at him, her eyes wide.

“Can I?”

“Do you know how to ride?”

“No.”

Ilion chuckled slightly at her honesty. He dismounted gracefully from his black horse and knelt before her on one knee. Not knowing what he wanted from her, Cyrene just stared at him in confusion. His laughter deepened at her bewilderment.

“Step on my knee, put your foot in the stirrup and…”

She stepped onto his knee as instructed but hesitated, unsure if she could swing her leg over to the other side. Instead, she ended up awkwardly draped halfway across the saddle, looking more like a sack of grain than a proper rider. Ilion’s laughter rang out, loud and uninhibited.

“I suppose that was too difficult a request.”

Effortlessly, he climbed into the saddle and in one swift motion pulled her up to sit in front of him. The world seemed to shrink as she looked up, making her heart skip a beat.

“This is my first time on a horse.”

“We’ll take it slow.”

He draped his cloak over her shoulders, the lingering warmth chasing away the chill. His strong arm encircled her waist, steadying her, while his other hand held the reins tightly.

The cold wind brushed against her cheeks, but despite the chill, her eyes were drawn to the passing scenery, which blurred as they moved.

“Can we go faster?”

“You like speed? Then I’ll have to teach you how to ride properly.”

Ilion chuckled softly and urged the horse to go faster. Cyrene reached out and enjoyed the feel of the wind through her fingers. It felt exhilarating, almost freeing, to run forward with nothing to hold her back. She laughed aloud, thinking that it wouldn’t be so bad to ride endlessly, far away, to a place from which she could never return.

“When we get back, I’ll find you a suitable horse to ride.”

“I want a black one.”

Cyrene replied quickly. Areos had always ridden a gleaming white horse and she didn’t want to emulate him. Ilion nodded without hesitation and readily agreed.

They rode farther and farther, until the castle looked tiny in the distance, like a speck on the horizon.