Check, Not Mate

The silence between them stretched like silk over a blade.

Thorian stood just a breath away from Milena, his words still echoing in her ears:

> "You'll marry me."

He said it like a prophecy. Like law.

Milena tilted her head slightly. "So the prince believes claiming me in public gives him the right to own me."

His expression stoic. "I only claimed you to keep you from being used."

She stepped back, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. "By claiming me, you become my first user."

He took a slow breath. "Maybe. But not yet."

Milena's voice was cold steel. "You don't understand who I am. I survived fire — literal and political. I walk these halls with my head high because I decided to live."

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he studied her behind the silver mask—looking for cracks, for truth. Finally, he spoke, quiet enough almost to be her secret:

> "Teach me, then."

Milena regarded him, uncertainty flickering in her eyes—before resolve hardened her gaze.

> "I will. But only if you learn to play the same game I've had to master… and stop protecting me from it."

A long pause hung between them, heavy with possibility.

Thorian met her gaze—no crown, no court, just two people standing dangerously close to change.

> "Then teach me," he echoed softly. "Because I don't want to protect you. I want to stand with you."

She didn't answer. Instead, she stepped forward and placed a gloved hand on his chest—lightly, but firmly.

> "We'll see if you can keep up."

He nodded just once.

They were no longer prince and ghost.

They were players.

And the court? They were already moving their pieces.