The dining room was intimate rather than grand - a deliberate choice on Damien's part. Not the great hall where his father entertained political guests with shows of excess, but a smaller room with a table for six, lit by candles rather than harsh chandeliers.
Elara paused in the doorway, taking it in. Margaret had helped her fix her hair and smooth her robes, but she still felt underdressed compared to the polished elegance of the room. Then she saw Damien and relaxed slightly.
He'd changed into fresh clothes but kept it simple—a dark shirt and vest, nothing ostentatious. He stood when she entered, a small courtesy that felt genuine rather than performative.
"I wasn't sure if you'd prefer something formal or relaxed," he said, gesturing to the table set for two. "This felt like a reasonable middle ground."
"It's perfect," Elara said honestly. The informality was a relief. "Though I should warn you, Church meals are usually silent affairs. I might be terrible dinner company."
"Silent?" Damien pulled out her chair. "Why?"
"Contemplation and gratitude." She settled into the seat, hyperaware of his proximity as he pushed it in. "We're meant to reflect on the Goddess's blessings while we eat."
"That sounds profoundly lonely." He moved to his own chair across from her. "And a waste of good conversation."
Margaret appeared with the first course—a light soup that smelled of herbs and cream. She set the bowls down with a knowing smile that made Elara blush slightly, then departed with instructions to ring if they needed anything.
Leaving them alone again.
"So," Damien said, lifting his spoon. "If we're being thoroughly improper already, tell me something the Church doesn't want you to say."
Elara nearly choked on her first sip of soup. "That's a dangerous question."
"The best ones usually are." He watched her with those sharp, calculating eyes that somehow also seemed genuinely curious. "Come on, Elara. No one's listening. What would you say if you could speak freely?"
She set down her spoon carefully, considering. The old instinct was to deflect, to maintain proper decorum. But something about the candlelight and his expectant expression made her bold.
"I think the Church's obsession with purity is exhausting," she said quietly. "Every day someone lectures me about remaining unsullied, as if a single improper thought might shatter my connection to the divine. As if I'm made of glass instead of flesh."
[CORRUPTION OPPORTUNITY: Questioning Sacred Doctrine]
[Intimacy +4]
[Subject expressing forbidden opinions - major trust indicator]
Damien leaned back, a slight smile playing at his lips. "Made of glass. I like that. Though I'd argue you're more like steel wrapped in cotton - stronger than anyone gives you credit for."
The compliment landed somewhere in her chest, warm and unexpected. "You barely know me."
"I know you fought off armed bandits while exhausted. I know you question your faith even though it terrifies you. I know you're brave enough to have dinner alone with a suspicious noble despite every warning you've ever received." He counted off on his fingers. "That seems like knowing you fairly well."
"Or knowing the version of me that exists today."
"Is there another version I should meet?" he asked, genuinely interested.
Elara found herself smiling. "Maybe. The version who wanted to be a healer in a village somewhere, helping people directly instead of being paraded at ceremonies. The version who wondered what the ocean looked like, since I've only seen it in paintings. The version who—" She stopped, suddenly aware of how much she was revealing.
"Go on," Damien encouraged. "The version who what?"
She took a breath, then plunged forward. "The version who wanted to dance. Just once. I've watched nobles dance at Church functions, and it always looked like... like freedom set to music."
The confession felt absurdly intimate, more personal than admitting her doubts about divine presence. It was such a small, human desire—to dance—but the Church taught that excessive joy in physical movement was vanity, a distraction from spiritual pursuits.
Damien's expression softened. "You've never danced?"
"Never. It's considered frivolous." She laughed self-consciously. "I told you I'd be terrible dinner company. Who admits they've never danced?"
"Someone honest." He paused, then stood abruptly. "Come with me."
"What? Where?"
"Somewhere nearby. Trust me." He extended his hand.
Elara stared at it, heart suddenly hammering. "Damien, we're in the middle of dinner—"
"The soup will keep. This is more important." His hand remained steady, patient. "Do you trust me, Elara?"
She shouldn't. Every lesson screamed warnings about trusting nobles, trusting men, trusting anyone outside Church authority. But when she looked at his face, she saw only genuine excitement, the desire to give her something she'd admitted wanting.
"I'm insane," she muttered, then took his hand.
His fingers closed around hers, warm and solid, and he pulled her to her feet with surprising gentleness. He led her out of the dining room, down a hallway lined with portraits of stern-faced Valcrest ancestors, to a set of double doors.
"Close your eyes," he instructed.
"Damien—"
"Please? Just for a moment."
She sighed but complied, standing in darkness while she heard him open the doors. Cool air touched her face, bringing scents of night-blooming flowers and cut grass.
"Alright," he said softly. "Open them."
Elara opened her eyes and gasped.
They stood on a stone terrace overlooking gardens lit by hundreds of floating lights—some magical, some simple lanterns, creating a constellation of gentle illumination. A fountain sang in the center, and beyond it stretched formal flower beds now mysterious in shadow and selective light.
"How—when did you—"
"I didn't," Damien admitted. "This is always like this. My mother loved evening gardens before she passed. Father maintains them out of... I'm not sure. Sentiment, maybe, though he'd never admit it."
The beauty was breathtaking, but more than that, it was private. No witnesses, no supervisors, just the two of them and the singing fountain.
"It's beautiful," Elara breathed.
"Yes." But Damien was looking at her face rather than the gardens. "Now, about that dance."
She turned to him, suddenly nervous. "I don't know how. I'll step on your feet."
"Then I'll have bruised feet. Hardly the worst fate." He moved to stand before her, taking her right hand in his left. "Other hand here—" He guided her left hand to his shoulder. "And I put my hand... here." His right hand settled carefully on her waist, proper but present.
Elara's breath caught at the contact.