By nightfall, the memory of blood had mostly faded.
The palace staff cleaned the bathroom spotless before I could even think of returning to it. No one mentioned what happened. No one dared.
Even I tried to forget it. But the image of her—the way she'd torn through that woman without hesitation, and then checked me like I was the most fragile thing in the world—stayed in my mind longer than I wanted to admit.
I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel about it.
That night, I stood outside her chamber, nervous.
As usual.
I knocked once.
No answer.
I knocked again.
Still silence.
Then, muffled through the heavy doors, her voice came:
"Come in."
I stepped into the dim candlelight and found her already in bed, lounging on a pile of deep red pillows, one wing lazily draped across the blankets.
"Get in," she said, eyes half-lidded.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
I moved slowly, carefully climbing beneath the sheets beside her like always. But this time was different.
This time… she moved.
Her arms slipped around me—firm, deliberate, confident.
I froze.
This was the second time I'd ever been hugged by her. The first time had been awkward, almost mechanical. This one was warm. Strong. Possessive.
She didn't say anything at first.
Then she whispered, "Put your arms around me."
I hesitated, heart pounding. My hands rose shakily, barely brushing her sides as I wrapped them around her shoulders.
She exhaled softly… then stiffened.
"Your hands are shaking."
"I—I didn't mean—"
"Are you scared of me again?"
"No! I mean… a little," I admitted.
She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes.
"Why?"
"I didn't want to do it wrong," I said honestly. "I thought if I messed up you'd get mad at me."
She stared at me for a moment. Then, finally, she sighed.
"You're doing it wrong because you're scared," she muttered. "Just hug me like you did the first time."
"The first time?"
"That dumb little hug on the balcony. The one you begged for like an idiot. You hugged me properly back then."
I blinked.
"You… liked that?"
"It wasn't horrible," she said flatly. "Which, from me, is high praise."
"Oh."
"This is supposed to help us get closer," she added. "So stop acting like I'm going to bite your head off."
"Yes, Your Maj—"
"Don't call me that right now."
"…Yes, Vilo."
I adjusted my grip. This time, I didn't hold back. I wrapped my arms around her waist properly, pressing close enough to feel her breathing—slow and steady. She was warm. Softer than she looked. One of her wings shifted and folded gently around my back like a second embrace.
She didn't say anything else.
But she didn't let go.
And for the first time since I came to this world… I wasn't scared to hold her.
Four months.
That's how long I'd been in her world. Four months of living in the shadow of the most terrifying creature I'd ever met. Four months of learning how to fold her gowns, how to soothe her draconic temper, how to sleep in the same bed as her without having a heart attack.
And still, I hadn't really given her anything.
Not something that was mine. Something from me.
Then, one day, I overheard two maids whispering in the garden. Something about the Queen's "coming of flame"—a ritual marking the day of her birth. Her birthday.
I don't think she even remembered.
But I did.
So I got to work.
I read every old book I could find on volcanic smithing, bribed a dwarven crafter for basic metal tools, and stole pieces of discarded obsidian from the castle furnace. I wasn't a blacksmith. I wasn't even good with my hands. But I poured every spare hour—every moment not spent by her side—into shaping a gift.
A simple ring.
Black stone, smooth and faintly glimmering with crimson threads like lava veins. A barely-there curve shaped like a dragon's wing across the band. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't beautiful. But it was mine. And I made it for her.
Two months later, I finally had the nerve to give it to her.
She was sitting at her war table, reviewing maps. When I approached, she didn't look up.
"Is it urgent?"
"Not really," I said, then swallowed. "But… important."
That got her attention.
She looked up, eyes sharp, and tilted her head. "Speak."
"I know your birthday passed… I didn't get to celebrate it with you. But I made you something."
I held out the ring.
She stared at it.
No reaction.
No movement.
Just… staring.
The silence was unbearable.
"I-I'll just throw it away," I mumbled, starting to pull it back. "It's not that good anyway—"
Her hand snapped out and grabbed my wrist.
"Give it to me."
I froze. Then slowly, carefully, I handed it to her.
She took it gently, holding it between two fingers like something fragile.
"You made this?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said, trying not to look at the flaws. "It took me two months. I didn't know what I was doing."
She was quiet for a long time. Then:
"Why obsidian?"
"It reminded me of you," I admitted. "Dark. Strong. Sharp. And… a little warm, underneath."
Her expression flickered.
"You can destroy it if it's not good enough," I added quickly. "I just wanted to make something you might—"
"Shut up."
I flinched.
"Don't ever insult a gift you give to me," she said, voice low. "Don't you dare spend that much time, that much effort… and act like it's trash."
I looked at her, wide-eyed.
"You idiot," she muttered. "You spent months making something for me. And you'd just take it back?"
"I just thought… maybe it wasn't beautiful enough for you."
She slipped the ring onto her finger.
"It looks nice," she said simply.
I forced a smile. "I'm glad you like it."
Her eyes narrowed.
"That's a fake smile."
I winced. "I just… I wanted it to be beautiful. Not just good. You deserve beautiful."
She stared at the ring, turning her hand slowly.
Then she looked back at me.
"It is beautiful," she said. "Because you made it for me."
And just like that… the smile on my face became real.