The dining room in Azrael's father's mansion was like something torn from an old-world painting—long, elegant, and cold. The table stretched down the center like a path neither of them had walked before. Candlelight flickered from golden sconces along the high stone walls, and a soft, haunting violin played in the background from a hidden source. The ceiling arched like a cathedral, painted with faded murals of stars and battles, and every detail whispered wealth wrapped in shadow.
Isabella sat at the far end of the table, her dress a flowing burgundy silk that Azrael had chosen for her. Her hair was pinned half-up, soft curls brushing her collarbone, and a pair of silver earrings dangled lightly at her jaw. She felt like a stranger in her own body, like she had been dressed for a role she hadn't studied for.
Azrael sat to her right, dressed in a black tailored suit, no tie, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned just enough to look dangerously effortless. His golden eyes flicked between her and the heavy wooden doors at the far end of the room—the ones they both knew would open soon.
And they did.
Two men entered first, dressed in black, their faces unreadable. They moved to stand behind two empty chairs across the table. Then, he came in.
Lord Valerius.
Azrael's father.
He moved with the quiet grace of someone who didn't need to command the room—because the room already belonged to him. His presence was heavy, calm, and devastatingly powerful. He wore a high-collared coat lined with deep crimson, his long silver hair pulled back neatly. His eyes—pale, almost white—were like winter storms.
He stopped just beside his chair, gaze settling on Isabella.
"You're prettier than I imagined," he said, voice smooth but without warmth.
Azrael tensed beside her.
"Father," he greeted with a nod. "This is Isabella."
Valerius sat. "I know who she is."
The servants entered next, carrying silver trays that gleamed under the candlelight. The table was slowly filled with food—steamed vegetables, roasted duck glazed with dark honey, rich cream soup, bowls of grapes and berries, warm bread with soft butter.
To Isabella's surprise, everything looked… normal.
No blood. No raw meat. No dramatic chalices filled with something sinister.
Just dinner.
She picked up her spoon slowly and tried the soup. It was creamy, spiced with something faintly sweet, and warm enough to melt the tension in her chest for a moment.
Valerius spoke first. "How long do you intend to keep her, Azrael?"
Isabella's spoon froze mid-air.
Azrael didn't look away. "That's not your concern."
Valerius gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. "When a prince brings a mortal into our house without council approval, it becomes my concern."
Isabella's chest tightened. She lowered her spoon.
"I'm not a threat," she said, her voice quieter than she intended. "I didn't ask to be here."
Valerius turned to her slowly. "That's the only reason you're still breathing."
Azrael's eyes darkened. "Enough."
Valerius raised a brow but said nothing.
Dinner continued in silence for a while. The food was too good for the mood it was served in. Isabella glanced at Azrael, who hadn't touched his plate. He sat there, spine straight, jaw clenched, hands resting lightly against the table as though ready to fight the moment he needed to.
"You've changed," Valerius said, eyes still on Azrael. "You used to know where your loyalties lay."
Azrael's voice was low. "They're still where they should be."
"Are they?" Valerius leaned back. "You forget, I knew what you were the moment you were born. You've always been torn between love and war. I thought you'd learned by now that love is the weaker path."
Azrael's hand brushed lightly against Isabella's under the table. It was a small gesture, but it made her heart skip.
"She's not weakness," he said simply.
Valerius smiled—sharp and cold. "We'll see."
After dinner, Isabella followed Azrael into the garden. The air was cooler out there, crisp with the scent of roses and night air. The moonlight bathed the pathway in silver, and the distant trickle of a fountain gave a peaceful rhythm to her racing thoughts.
"That was intense," she whispered.
Azrael exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "It could've gone worse."
"He doesn't like me."
"He doesn't like anyone."
"Do you?"
He stopped walking. She turned to look at him, expecting hesitation. But his eyes were already on her—focused, deep, honest.
"I don't know what this is yet," he said. "But I like who I am when you're near."
The world seemed to still.
Her heart thudded. "What happens now?"
He looked up at the moon, then back at her.
"We stay the night. And in the morning… we pretend it's all normal again."
She nodded slowly. "And your father?"
"He won't touch you."
"You're sure?"
"I won't let him."
They walked in silence a little longer, the weight of the evening still heavy between them. When they reached her room, Azrael didn't walk away immediately. He stood there at the door, eyes lingering on her face.
"You handled him well," he murmured.
"I didn't say much."
"Sometimes silence is louder than defiance."
She smiled a little. "Is that something your mother taught you?"
His gaze softened. "No. She was fire. You… you're something else."
"What am I?"
He didn't answer. Just leaned in slowly, brushing a soft kiss to her forehead.
Then he turned and disappeared down the hallway.
Isabella stood there for a long time, heart pounding, the sound of the kiss still echoing in her skin. The mansion behind her was quiet, but nothing about that night had been calm.
She stepped inside, closed the door, and leaned against it—trying to understand this world she was now a part of.
A prince.
A father.
A war unspoken.
And the weight of something dangerous blooming between them both.