The moon hung high over Sovia, casting pale silver across the cobbled roads as the carriage pulled away from the Iris Palace. The lanterns inside flickered gently, throwing warm light over the velvet cushions.

Mer leaned back, the weight of the evening still clinging to her like a second skin.

Philip’s too-familiar voice.  

Penelope’s lingering stares.  

The silent glances exchanged at a royal table.  

It all pressed behind her eyes like a tension headache.

The clatter of hooves was the only sound until she broke the silence.

“Princess Penelope…” she began softly, watching the city blur beyond the window. “She… Did you ever court her?”

Cecil didn’t answer right away.

“No,” he said at last. “But…”

“But?” she turned to look at him.

He exhaled, steady. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

“So she wanted you to?” Mer asked, her tone light but sharpened with meaning.

“Yes,” Cecil admitted, watching her carefully. “She did.”

Mer said nothing for a moment. Then she slid closer, wrapping her arm around his.

“She still does,” she muttered. “It’s not over for her.”

Her voice held no dramatics, only quiet conviction.

Cecil turned to face her fully.

“You’re jealous?” he asked, a note of surprise—almost amused.

“I don’t like it,” she said, resting her head against his shoulder. “Yes. I’m jealous.”

Cecil’s hand reached for her face. He cupped her cheek gently, turning her toward him.

His voice was low. Certain.

“I would never love anyone but you.”

Her breath hitched—not from disbelief, but the way those words settled deep into her bones.

She chuckled, leaning closer.

“You better not,” she said, teasing—but her eyes were soft, glistening in the lantern light.

Their lips met—no rush, no urgency. Just warmth. Familiarity. Reassurance.

And in that kiss, the weight of the palace, the whispers, the rumors—all of it melted away.

For that moment, there was only them.

---

Cecil stirred to the soft pull of sunlight spilling through the curtains. The room was warm, wrapped in the hush of early morning.

Beside him, Mer was curled against his back, one arm draped over his waist, her breath steady and slow. Her golden hair shimmered like woven light, trailing across the sheets and brushing softly against his shoulder.

Carefully, as if afraid to wake a dream, Cecil turned to face her.

He could feel her warmth.

He could touch her skin.

She was real.

He pulled the cover higher around them and leaned in to press a kiss to her lips—gentle, reverent. Her hand stirred, reaching up instinctively, sliding behind his neck to hold him there.

She kissed him back.

Deeper this time.

Her legs wrapped around him, holding him in place. He groaned softly against her lips, caught in the sudden heat of closeness. Her fingers trailed up from his waist to the nape of his neck, weaving through his hair.

She gasped when he entered her—soft, breathy—and exhaled like she was finally able to breathe.

He’s here.  

She’s here.  

They’re still alive.

The memory of broken magic, of dying light and bleeding cores, felt distant now—blurred and unreal against the clarity of this moment.

Mer didn’t let go.

She wouldn’t.

Cecil cradled her face, his thumb brushing her cheek as he moved with her. He laced his fingers with hers, held tight, and kissed the soft spot where her shoulder met her neck.

His breath was uneven. Shallow. Each motion deliberate.

“Mer,” he whispered.

She arched into him, fingers pressing into his back, voice breaking as she unraveled beneath him. She kissed the side of his throat, anchoring herself there, holding him tighter as if her body could promise never let go.

He gasped her name when he came, his voice strained and raw. He buried his face in her neck and held her like he could protect her from waking.

As if he feared—if he loosened his grip even a little—she’d vanish.

But she didn’t.

She stayed.

Wrapped in sheets and morning light.

Still his.

Still here.

---

They had lunch with her family before their departure—roasted duck, sweet potatoes glazed in honey, and fresh strawberries chilled in cream. Her mother dabbed her eyes discreetly as they said their goodbyes, and her father gave Cecil a long, quiet nod that carried more weight than any speech.

Hand in hand, Mer and Cecil returned to Ravenrow through a magic circle drawn by Cecil himself. In a single breath, Sovia disappeared—and their castle welcomed them home.

At the steps, Steward Stan stood flanked by a line of butlers and maids.

They bowed deeply.

“Welcome home, Lord and Lady Ravenrow,” Stan said.

Then they looked up.

And blinked.

Mer’s fingers were still laced with Cecil’s. Her shoulder brushed his. Their heads leaned just slightly toward each other—close enough to suggest more than formality.

A wave of hushed surprise rippled silently through the staff.

The lord and lady… in love?

---

Within days, her chamber overflowed.

Gifts poured in—delivered by jewelers, dressmakers, silk merchants, potters, and perfumers. Boxes stacked high with imported fabrics and rare teas. A hand-painted ceramic vase from the Eastern Coast sat untouched by her window.

She sat on a wooden chair while a merchant tried to describe the symbolism of a phoenix etched into gold trim.

She smiled politely. But her eyes were dull.

And then she stood.

Without a word, she left the merchant mid-sentence and marched straight into Cecil’s office.

---

The room fell silent as soon as the door swung open.

His vassals—gathered around the table—stood immediately.

“Duchess,” they greeted in unison, bowing.

Mer didn’t even glance at them. “We need to talk.”

The vassals didn’t need to be told twice—they cleared out with remarkable speed.

Cecil stood, surprised. “Is something wrong?”

Mer crossed her arms. “Gifts. Again. More dresses, more jewelry, more ridiculous vases. Are you trying to turn my room into a museum?”

Cecil blinked. “I thought you liked them…”

“One or two, maybe!” she said, exasperated. “I don’t need a warehouse, Cecil!”

He frowned slightly. She had never refused his gifts before. Not even once.

She stepped closer, still scowling—but more animated than angry. “And another thing—I’m bored.”

Cecil tilted his head.

“I could help,” she continued. “Let me do something. Bookkeeping, inspections, anything. I don’t need to be pampered like I’m made of glass.”

Cecil sighed. “You don’t need to do anything.”

“What?”

“I just want you to enjoy yourself,” he said. “Do whatever you want.”

Mer narrowed her eyes. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t take that back.”

“I won’t.”

She grinned.

Then—leaned up on her toes, kissed him quick and warm on the lips, and turned toward the door.

“Good,” she said, already halfway down the hall. “Because I just had an idea.”

Moments later, a butler knocked at his door.

“My Lord… the Duchess has taken a carriage. She’s gone to town.”

Cecil leaned back slowly into his chair.

He wasn’t sure if he should be impressed… or terrified.