Chapter 42 Candlelight and Quiet
Lunch was... fine. That’s the best way to describe it. The food was ridiculous; three courses for what was supposed to be a “light meal”. Apparently, the royal chefs don’t understand the meaning of simple. But it wasn’t bad. It’s just... strange, sitting at a table that long, surrounded by staff who hover like they’re waiting for me to stab myself with a fork accidentally. I’m starting to think the palace doesn’t do casual. Dinner wasn’t much different. A guard fetched me when it was time, all polished armour and polite stiffness. I asked if Damien would be joining us, and he said the king had “duties” to attend to. Duties. I’m not sure what that means exactly. Maybe there’s a royal to-do list somewhere that just says 'brood, look majestic, and sign important-looking papers.' It’s fine, though. Honestly, I don’t blame him for hiding in whatever kingly corner of the castle he works in. It’s been a weird adjustment for me having people around all the time. I can only imagine it's odd for him, too. Still, I can’t quite shake the feeling that I miss his quiet presence, which is insane. Because who misses the person who accidentally kidnapped them? Apparently, I do.
After dinner, I decide I need space from all this grand decor. So I slip away down the corridors until I find myself standing in front of the library doors again. The handles are cool beneath my fingers, the metal curling into shapes like vines frozen mid-bloom. I push them open, and the soft creak of the hinges echoes into the silence. It’s just as beautiful as it was before. Rows upon rows of shelves stretch into forever, and the faint scent of parchment and candle wax fills the air. There’s something alive about the room, like it’s been waiting for me to come back. I light a few candles near one of the reading tables, their flames flickering against the gold of the book spines, and the warmth settles over me like a blanket. Gilfred is curled somewhere in my room tonight, probably on a pillow he’s decided belongs to him now. Which means, for once, it’s just me, no chaos, no interruptions—just me and the quiet. I wander along one of the lower shelves, fingers trailing over the spines until I find a section I didn’t see before. The titles here are simpler — Tales of the North Woods, The Girl with the Golden Hair, The Sleeping Thorn. Fairy tales, finally. I smile a little as I pull one free and settle into the nearest chair. The candlelight pools around me, soft and golden, and for the first time all day, I let myself relax. The story is familiar — a girl locked away, a monster in disguise, a curse that only love can break. It’s the kind of tale I used to cling to when I was younger, back when I thought happy endings were a given. But reading it now, the words feel different. I keep wondering what happens after the curse breaks. After the beast turns human again and the girl smiles like everything’s perfect. Does she ever look at him and miss the part of him that wasn’t human at all? I’m halfway through the story when I hear soft footsteps against the marble. I don’t need to look up to know who it is. The air itself warms when he walks into a room, like he's a walking fire, here to defeat my frost.
He doesn’t say anything. Just moves quietly until I can feel his presence behind me.
I glance up from my book. “You know, for someone who owns a castle, you really need to work on your entrances. You sneak around like a ghost.”
There's no answer; he just watches. Always watching... I close the book gently and turn in my chair to face him. He’s half in shadow, half in candlelight, the flames catch on the edges of his hair, painting him in gold and copper. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something softer around the edges tonight.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask.
He shakes his head slightly. “Working late.”
“Ah, yes,” I say, leaning back, “the mysterious kingly duties. Very official. Very important.”
He gives me the faintest curve of a smile, quick and gone again. “Something like that.”
He moves closer but still doesn’t sit. I can feel the tension rolling off him, that constant, measured restraint, like he’s afraid to take up too much space.
I pat the seat across from me. “You can sit, you know. The chair doesn’t bite.”
For a second, I think he won’t. Then, quietly, he lowers himself into the chair opposite mine. The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable, exactly, just heavy with all the things we’re not saying.
I trace the edge of the book with my thumb. “You’ve been busy today?”
“Yes.”
I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. So I try again. “How was your day?”
That gets him. His eyes flick up, startled, like he can’t quite believe I asked.
“My… day?”
“Yes, Damien. You know, the thing that happens between morning and night? Most people have them.”
He blinks, caught off guard. “It was... adequate.”
“Adequate?” I repeat. “That’s the most tragically boring answer I’ve ever heard.”
He exhales through his nose, and I think I see the ghost of amusement there. “What did you expect?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe a little colour? Some flair? A dragon-sized anecdote about scaring your advisors?”
“I don’t frighten them.”
I raise an eyebrow.
He corrects himself, voice low. “Not intentionally.”
I smile faintly. “Progress.”
He doesn’t reply, but his eyes linger on me a little longer than they should. The candlelight catches the amber in them, and for a second, the whole room feels smaller, like the space between us is less than what it is. I look back down at the open book, pretending to read, though the words blur together. “You know,” I murmur, “these stories are a lot different when you live in one.”
His voice is quiet when he finally answers. “And how do you find it?”
I glance up at him again, the corners of my mouth lifting. “Confusing. Dramatic. Occasionally terrifying. But…”
“But?”
“Not bad.”
Something flickers across his face then, something unreadable but real, like he wants to say something and doesn’t know how.
I close the book and stand, stretching. “Well, your Majesty, I think I’ll call it a night before I start analysing the moral failings of every fairytale ever written.”
He stands too, automatically, as though it’s instinct, and when I pass him, the faintest brush of warmth grazes my arm. I don’t know if it’s deliberate or just the dragon in him sitting too close to the surface, but it sends a tiny shiver up my spine.
“Goodnight, Damien,” I say softly.
He inclines his head, eyes still searching mine like he’s looking for something he’s not sure he’ll find. And as I slip out of the library, I hear him murmur behind me, so low I almost miss it.
“Goodnight, Snowflake.”