He closed the last of the space between them, and his lips found hers. The kiss was unhurried, deliberate, a slow unfurling, like a blossom turning to meet the sun. Each caress was a ray of warmth coaxing her open, dissolving her guardedness into the shelter of his embrace. His lips were warm and smooth; hers were cool and soft.
When at last they parted, Leesa's breath came uneven. Her knees faltered, and she all but collapsed into the chair, her strength undone. Flavian's skill in such matters was unmatched, of which she was well aware, or perhaps it was a memory her mind refused to forget.
"I believe that should suffice for a month's worth, my lady," Flavian murmured, brushing his thumb across her cheek. Then, with a faint smile, he added, "Now, allow me to atone for whatever havoc I may have wrought upon your concentration."
With that, he turned his attention to the heap of volumes before them, though only after settling Leesa upon the nearby sofa. There, he covered her with his coat, ensuring she rested while he leafed through the books she had been consulting.
Morning came with no trace of the evidence they sought, no mention in any chronicle of souls dwelling within the forest. This was the first such claim to reach the palace, and it was not one to be left unchecked. Thus, at dawn's light, Leesa departed with her loyal soldiers and the mage Greig, riding out to seek the truth for herself.
Several days after Leesa's departure, a letter arrived which plunged the palace into sudden unease. The seal upon the parchment was unmistakable, the sigil of the Wraisan Empire.
The name alone was enough to spread whispers through the corridors. For years, the Wraisan Empire had been a thorn at the borders. Their raids and shipborne warfare were ceaseless, though never decisive against the might of Astandra's armies. Skirmishes were common, trouble habitual, but a direct missive, sealed and sent to the heart of the Empire, was unprecedented. A knock sounded upon the doors of Flavian's study.
"Enter," came his reply, his tone clipped, though his eyes remained fixed upon the documents before him. The absence of Leesa had left him restless, his usual diversions reshaped into routine: burying himself in statecraft, then tormenting Anton with errands, sparring with Elzar when work became intolerable, and, least of all, drifting into the library, only because it reminded him of her.
Anton stepped inside, his face pale as though a death sentence had already been spoken over him. He clutched a letter tightly in his hands, the wax seal glinting with menace. Advancing to Flavian's desk, he raised it with trembling fingers.
"It is from the Wraisan Empire, Your Highness," he said solemnly.
At once, Flavian abandoned the half-finished reports before him, his attention narrowing upon the missive like a hawk upon prey. His voice was calm, but steel underlined the command.
"Read it. Let us hear what they dare to say for themselves, after all their futile gambits at the borders, their pitiful attempts at ship warfare."
Anton inclined his head. "Yes, certainly, Your Highness." He broke the seal with deliberate care, the crack of wax echoing louder than seemed natural in the tense silence of the chamber.
To His Highness Crown Prince Flavian Attila Hadrian of the Astandra Empire,
Greetings. I trust that time has not worn you, and that you remain as hale and steadfast as when last we crossed paths. Our… spirited exchanges upon the seas have ever been a source of reassurance to me, for they prove that you remain vigilant, active, and worthy of the station you bear.
But let me not tarry with pleasantries when the purpose of my hand is far more personal. It concerns my youngest and most cherished daughter, Veraminta Rose Daffodil. The child, grown into a blossom most radiant, has of late declared herself weary of the courtly seasons within my own beloved realm. In her restlessness, she resolved to voyage toward your Empire, setting sail of her own accord. Such is her spirit, bold, curious, unrestrained by the chains of caution.
To ensure her safety in the foreign lands, I have dispatched with her a chosen company of my finest men, loyal knights whose swords shall guard her well, though I should hope that, as host, you will not allow the burden to fall entirely upon them. Indeed, it is only fitting that one so precious should be afforded the highest consideration within your authority.
It is my wish that she be lodged within the Jade Palace. I trust that this request shall not be found wanting, for in my Empire, my daughter has never been denied a desire, and she may not readily grasp the meaning of refusal. I rely upon your grace and courtesy to see her wishes fulfilled in kind.
That is the heart of my missive. Take care of her well, Crown Prince of Astandra.
His Imperial Majesty,
Saber Wraisan Daffodil of the Wraisan Empire.
Flavian let out a low, bitter laugh, tossing the letter onto his desk as though the parchment itself were an insult.
"Ha… the last time he saw me was when I was ambushed by a handful of pitiful assassins. And he stood there, pretending blindness, before vanishing like smoke. And now he speaks of 'spirited exchanges'? The only exchange I remember is sending the First Division to the border to keep his ships from sabotaging our people, our food, our fields. And he dares to imagine I'll coddle his daughter? A daughter who doesn't even know her tone from the sound of this letter."
Anton shifted uncomfortably, his grip tightening on the parchment. "Well, certainly, Your Highness, one might wish that the emperor of Wraisan kept his spoiled daughter at home with him. There is… definitely no need for another person like that here."
Flavian turned his head slowly, one brow raised. "...Anton, what did you even just say?"