Night Came
Yeara sat in front of the fancy mirror, clad in a long night gown—the one she loved to wear. A maid stood behind her, gently brushing her glossy white hair backwards.
The soft sound of the brush running slowly through her hair surrounded the room in the most therapeutic way. If not for the slight worry within Yeara, she was sure she would have fallen asleep.
Why was she even worried about him?
Zalthor had left during their meal as he had something important to do, and ever since then she had not seen him, nor had he returned.
Yeara's hands moved together, her fingers playing with each other almost nervously. She did not understand why, despite how she had forced herself not to care, it felt futile.
'But does he not rest… even kings deserve rest,' she said to herself, her eyes staring into her own reflection in the mirror, yet she was not even there—her mind had flown elsewhere.
She sighed.
'What is even wrong with you…?' She scolded herself. Her thoughts were so loud in her head that she tilted her head to the side, raising a brow like she was responding to her thoughts, as if she was telling them that she too was shocked by her behaviour.
Her personal maid lowered her head into a bow as she spoke, completely misunderstanding the situation.
"Your Grace, should I change the brush… t-there is a softer one."
Yeara turned as embarrassment slightly hit her. She had reacted to her thoughts in real life. She shook her head at the maid as she then spoke.
"No, that is just…" Her words trailed off as the door opened.
Yeara's heart unknowingly skipped in her chest, and before she knew it, she stood. The maid bowed gently before leaving, her shoulders trembling.
Zalthor walked to the wardrobe. His expression was calm, yet the aura he exuded was more dangerous.
Yeara bit her lips. He had not said anything nor even spared her a glance. She just watched him curiously as she wondered if he was still leaving or about to change.
She watched as he removed his robe. His hair looked slightly—almost deliberately—disheveled in the most perfect way. It seemed the wind had done a great job.
Even the wind too respected this man. She was sure if she went outside, the wind would make hers similar to that of a mad woman.
"Are you still leaving?" Yeara slowly asked, as she was curious. Even though she did not like this man, at least rest was needed. Or was he the one who chose this… of course it had to be him. He is Zalthor anyway.
Zalthor finally turned, his eyes resting on her. Yeara's body shivered softly. The way his eyes pierced into her was like he was stripping her clothes off. She bit her lips as he turned back to his wardrobe. As he took another robe and wore it calmly, he replied,
"Yes."
Yeara softly nodded. Her eyes moved to the window through the slightly opened curtain as she looked outside. It was dark. She wondered how he did this.
"I have a night meeting with the Royal Ministers and Elders," he added.
Yeara's lips opened and closed, and then finally she spoke.
"May I come?"
Zalthor's finger paused midway as he turned to her. Yeara nodded again, as if urging him to say yes. And then finally, Zalthor's lips curled upward ever so slightly, his eyes blank.
"No."
Yeara's eyes widened.
"I want to come with you," she spoke, her voice more firm. She then walked towards the wardrobe where he stood, her head raising up at him, her eyes more serious than ever.
"I will come with you, Your Majesty."
Zalthor shifted his gaze, a soft breath escaping his lips as his hand moved to his hair, brushing it backwards with his fingers. The way her eyes held seriousness—yet something else—made the word no unable to come out.
"Yes, you may."
To his surprise, she jumped, smiling widely at him like a kitten who had just been given its special treat because of behaving well.
"Please wait for me, don't go," she said as she turned to the other side of the wardrobe, grabbing a light lavender, plain yet luxurious gown. Of course, she could not wear a night gown for a meeting.
Zalthor's gaze deepened as he watched her, not expecting her to be excited for something like meeting the Royal Ministers. The woman never really ceased to surprise him.
Yeara pressed the gown to her chest as she turned, walking to the bathroom to change. But just as her hands reached the door, she paused as she slowly turned.
"You will wait for me, right?" Yeara asked, searching his face.
Zalthor nodded curtly. He waited for her to turn, but she still stood there, as if that did not give her the reassurance she needed.
"Promise?" she asked, her eyes locking onto his.
"Hm."
A bright smile spread on her lips again as she pushed the door open and entered. The door closed. Zalthor's eyes remained fixated on it, almost speechless. A long silence fell before a calm chuckle escaped his lips.
What exactly was she doing to him?
…
Yeara stepped out of the bathroom, her hair now tied cleanly into a bun. She wore a silver necklace, not wanting to leave her neck bare. Zalthor was now sitting by the bed. He finally stood as he turned to her. Yeara's heart began to pound. Him now looking at her made her heart race.
"I… I decided to pack it instead. Do you think I should have let it fall?" she said to him slightly nervously, unsure if what she did was a great job. She could not afford to mess this up at all
Zalthor walked towards her. Finally, he stopped in front of her. His eyes flickered to her lower lip, which was slightly pouted because she was biting her upper one.
"You look gorgeous," he spoke, his words serious.
Yeara's eyes rose to his, almost in surprise. Her mama and Cedric did compliment her, but she was not used to another telling her. But the way he had complimented her made her heart, for some reason, flutter.
Zalthor held her hands, his large hands wrapping softly around her small, soft ones.
They walked to the door as he opened it. They both stepped out. But there was something—Yeara felt like she could tell him anything. Despite the intimidating coldness of this man, she felt like she could be safe with him.
But why?
"Zalthor… have we met before?" Yeara softly asked.
Zalthor stiffened.