The carriage had not yet arrived when Amor and Valdor stepped through the front doors of House Moons, though the morning was already bright enough to turn the estate’s pale stone walls almost silver beneath the sun. Amor stood near the edge of the broad entrance terrace with one hand resting lightly around Valdor’s forearm, his lavender-gray coat stirring whenever a breeze crossed the open courtyard. Behind them, servants carried travel cushions, water, and several unnecessary parcels toward the drive while pretending not to stare at how closely the young master remained beside the Blackstone warrior.
Valdor appeared entirely indifferent to their attention.
His eyes moved instead across the estate gates, the surrounding walls, and the road beyond them, marking every position from which danger might approach despite Amor’s repeated assurances that the capital road was closely patrolled. Morning light emphasized the deep caramel tone of his skin and the black markings visible above his longer furs, while the decorated braids near his temples shifted against his shoulders whenever he turned his head. Even dressed more modestly than the previous day, he looked far too wild and powerful to belong among the estate’s marble statues and manicured hedges.
Amor found the contrast exceptionally pleasing.
He had already caught himself looking at Valdor several times since leaving breakfast, though the warrior’s sharp awareness made extended admiration difficult. Each time Valdor’s gaze turned toward him, Amor redirected his attention toward the road or adjusted some completely unnecessary detail of his sleeve. His inability to behave with ordinary flirtatious confidence remained irritating, especially when he had spent years in his old world mastering the art of appearing interested without ever seeming vulnerable.
Valdor did not make vulnerability feel dangerous. That was the problem.
The sound of wheels finally reached them from beyond the gates, accompanied by the rhythmic clatter of hooves across the paved road approach. A polished black carriage bearing the silver crescent emblem of House Moons rolled into the courtyard, driven by an experienced coachman in dark livery, while two footmen rode upon the rear platform. The vehicle was elegant, newly cleaned, and entirely appropriate for conveying a noble heir through the capital.
Amor’s satisfaction lasted until it stopped before them. His gaze moved from the carriage door to Valdor’s shoulders. Then it moved back.
The carriage had been designed to accommodate four ordinary adults with enough room for polite distance, but Valdor was not an ordinary adult by any reasonable measurement. His height alone would force him to lower his head considerably, while the breadth of his shoulders and the heavy muscle of his legs promised to consume most of the interior. Amor imagined the warrior attempting to fold himself onto one of the cushioned seats and immediately frowned.
"This will not do...."
He said. Valdor looked at the carriage.
"It moves."
"That is the minimum requirement for a carriage, not evidence of suitability."
"It has wheels."
Amor turned toward him with narrowed eyes.
"I noticed haah."
The nearest footman lowered his gaze respectfully, though the corner of his mouth threatened to move. Amor ignored him and gestured toward the coachman, already preparing to order the vehicle exchanged for the larger traveling carriage used during extended family journeys. It would delay them perhaps fifteen minutes, but discomfort seemed a poor beginning for the capital tour he intended to make unforgettable. Valdor touched Amor’s wrist lightly before he could speak.
"It is fine, I will fit."
He said.
"You haven’t entered it yet."
"I will fit."
"You could fit inside a pantry if sufficiently determined, but that does not mean I should transport you in one."
Valdor studied the interior through the small window.
"The floor is wide."
Amor stared at him.
"You intend to sit on the floor?"
"It is comfortable."
"It is a carriage floor."
"It is covered."
That was technically true. The interior had been laid with a thick woven rug to protect passengers’ shoes from cold and vibration, while the space between the opposing benches remained broad enough for Valdor to sit with his back against one seat. To Amor, the arrangement still looked undignified for an honored guest. To Valdor, who had slept on stone ledges and traveled for days across rough mountain roads, the cushioned floor apparently represented luxury.
Before Amor could continue objecting, one footman opened the door and lowered the small folding steps. The servant bowed, extending a gloved hand toward Amor in the traditional manner so the young master could enter without risking his balance. Amor had performed the routine hundreds of times and should have denied it and asked for a new carriage immediately. Valdor moved first.
The warrior ducked beneath the carriage frame and stepped inside.
To kingdom nobles, the action would have appeared discourteous, because the highest-ranking passenger customarily entered first while attendants and escorts followed. Several servants behind Amor exchanged startled glances, uncertain whether they should correct a foreign guest or trust the young master to overlook the breach. Amor barely noticed. Valdor had entered to test the space before Amor committed himself.
He lowered onto the floor with his back against the forward-facing bench, extending one powerful leg slightly to determine how much room remained. His head cleared the ceiling once seated, and although his shoulders occupied nearly the entire width beneath the window, he did not appear painfully confined. The arrangement was unconventional but workable.
Amor’s irritation eased.
’At least Valdor won’t have to spend the journey bent in half like a shrimp.’
He stepped toward the carriage and placed one heeled boot upon the lowest folding stair, gathering the flowing edge of his coat with his free hand. The footman raised his gloved palm again, ready to guide him over the narrow threshold. Before Amor could accept it, another hand reached from the carriage.
Valdor’s hand.
It was larger by half than the footman’s and entirely bare, the deep caramel skin crossed by calluses, faint scars, and the darker edges of old training wounds. His palm remained open, offered without command, while his obsidian eyes rested calmly upon Amor. The choice should not have required thought. Amor looked from the servant’s immaculate white glove to Valdor’s rough hand.
He placed his fingers into Valdor’s.
The warrior’s grip closed carefully around him, firm enough to provide unquestionable support without pulling him forward faster than he wished. Amor stepped onto the second stair and entered with an ease that made the footman’s assistance unnecessary. Valdor guided him until both feet rested securely upon the carriage rug. The footman bowed again without offense.
Years of service within House Moons had taught him that the young master’s preferences outweighed formal expectations, and Amor’s decision had been obvious enough to prevent misunderstanding. He closed the carriage door with professional calm, then immediately turned toward the driver and slapped the outer panel twice to signal departure. His expression remained composed. His future silence was far less certain.
By afternoon, every servant willing to listen would hear that Amor Moons had ignored a properly gloved household attendant to take the scarred hand of the Blackstone chieftain’s son. The retelling would include the precise length of their eye contact, the gentleness of Valdor’s grip, and probably several invented details concerning how Amor had blushed. House Moons employed excellent staff, but excellence had never defeated gossip.
Inside, Amor settled upon the bench beside Valdor rather than taking the one opposite him. The choice left the warrior seated partly upon the floor, his shoulder and upper arm resting against the edge of Amor’s cushion while one bent knee occupied much of the remaining space. Amor could have moved farther along the seat to create distance. He did not.
The carriage lurched gently into motion. Valdor’s hand remained around Amor’s. Amor noticed after several seconds.
Their joined hands rested between them upon the edge of the seat, Amor’s pale fingers enclosed within Valdor’s darker, broader grasp. The practical reason for the contact had ended once Amor entered, yet neither man had released the other. The carriage rolled through the estate gates before either acknowledged it.
Amor turned his gaze toward the window. Valdor looked ahead. Their hands stayed precisely where they were.
The road beyond House Moons stretched between rows of old trees and cultivated fields, its smooth paving reducing the usual jolting of carriage travel. Morning light flickered across the interior as they passed beneath the branches, illuminating their joined fingers in alternating warmth and shadow. Amor became gradually aware of the texture beneath his palm. Valdor’s hands were extremely rough.
The skin across his palm had thickened from years of friction, and hardened ridges marked the base of every finger where weapons or tools had rested repeatedly. Small pale scars interrupted the darker flesh, some narrow like cuts from blades and others wider, suggesting torn skin that healed without careful treatment. Even his fingertips felt stronger and less sensitive than Amor’s entire hand.
Amor traced one callus with his thumb. Valdor’s fingers tightened slightly.
The reaction revealed that he was not nearly as indifferent to the touch as his expression suggested. Amor continued, moving along the uneven line beneath Valdor’s index finger and wondering what had created each mark. The warrior allowed the exploration in silence.
"Your hands are very rough."
Amor said. Valdor’s gaze lowered toward them. Something cautious entered his face.
"You dislike it."
He concluded. The assumption surprised Amor enough that his attention lifted immediately. Valdor’s tone remained calm, but a faint withdrawal had begun within his hand, as though he intended to release Amor before the texture became unpleasant. Amor closed his fingers first.
"No!"
He said.
"Quite the opposite actually!"
Valdor stopped moving. Amor looked down at their hands again, suddenly aware that the clarification might require greater care.
"I was curious because they feel different from the hands of most noblemen. Yours carry evidence of work rather than perfume, ink, and decorative sword practice."
"They are not smooth."
"I did not say I wanted smooth..."
Valdor searched his face. Amor should have stopped there. Instead, honesty escaped before strategy could intercept it.
"I find them far too appealing."
Silence filled the carriage. Amor’s eyes widened slightly. The words could not be retrieved.
Heat rose from his collarbones to his cheeks with humiliating speed, deepening until he suspected even the coachman might sense it through the carriage wall. Amor turned toward the window, though the reflection in the glass revealed enough color to make the attempt useless. He had intended to offer a composed compliment, perhaps something playful and suggestive without exposing genuine fascination.
He had sounded too sincere. Valdor’s thumb moved slowly over Amor’s knuckles. The warrior’s face remained severe, but warmth entered his obsidian eyes with such force that Amor felt it without looking directly at him.
"Far too appealing, hmm?"
"You need not repeat it."
"I wish to understand."
"There is nothing to understand."
"You like my hands?"
Amor closed his eyes briefly.
"Yes."
Valdor examined them as though seeing his own hands for the first time.
To him, the roughness had always been ordinary and useful, evidence that his grip would hold when weapons became wet, ropes froze, or stone edges cut into his skin. He had never considered whether another person might find the marks attractive. Most kingdom nobles likely regarded them as proof of savagery or labor beneath their station. Amor touched them willingly.
"You are embarrassed?"
Valdor said.
"I am regretting the existence of language."
"You spoke truth."
"That is often the source of embarrassment."
Valdor appeared to consider this carefully.
"I like when you speak truth."
Amor risked glancing toward him. The warrior was not teasing. Valdor regarded his unguarded admission as something valuable rather than a weakness to exploit, and the discovery stripped Amor of another defensive response. His blush remained, but the desire to hide it eased.
"Then tell me..."
Amor said, recovering enough composure to redirect the conversation.
"What have you done to make your hands like this?"
Valdor looked down.
"Many things."
"That answer is offensively broad."
"You asked broadly."
Amor lifted one brow.
"Begin with the most common."
Valdor thought for several moments, arranging memories he rarely had reason to explain.
"Weapons. Axes create the thickest skin near the fingers. Bows pull against the first joints, and spear shafts tear the palm if blood makes the wood slip."
Amor traced the line he indicated.
"This one?"
"Bowstring."
"It cut you?"
"Many times before the skin hardened."
Valdor turned his hand so Amor could see a pale diagonal scar crossing the center.
"This came from mountain glass while shaping a blade. The stone split wrongly."
Amor studied it.
"Did it hurt?"
"Yes."
"You answer pain questions with less drama than most people answer questions about weather."
"Pain is simple."
"Only to someone unreasonable."
Valdor’s mouth curved faintly. He continued describing the work behind his hands:
Hauling animal carcasses across rough terrain, pulling rope traps tight enough to restrain monsters, carving bone tools for his younger siblings, and repairing timber walls after storms. He had climbed frozen cliffs where every grip tore skin, dug through collapsed earth to reach trapped hunters, and carried heated stones during winter rites until his palms blistered. None of the stories were presented as accomplishments. They were simply things that needed doing.
Amor listened with increasing fascination. The noblemen he knew wore calluses only where sword instructors insisted they must, preserving enough roughness to imply martial ability while avoiding any mark that might appear coarse while others wore gloves to hide their imperfections. Valdor’s hands carried an entire life of usefulness, each scar proof that strength had been repeatedly spent upon survival, family, and work. Amor found that history more appealing than perfect skin could ever have been. Valdor watched his expression carefully.
"You still like them?"
Amor looked at him.
"Did you expect the explanations to make me change my mind?"
"Some scars are ugly."
"Then the people deciding that have poor taste."
Valdor’s eyes warmed. Amor turned his hand within the warrior’s palm and aligned their fingers more closely.
"These hands cooked dinner for me, treated my bruises, and prepared medicine I did not need."
"You drank it."
Amor became still. Valdor noticed.
"How do you know?"
Amor asked.
"The cup was empty this morning."
"You entered my room again?"
"No. A servant returned it."
Amor relaxed, though the warmth in his face deepened for another reason.
"It would have been wasteful not to drink it."
"You liked it."
"That is not relevant."
"You finished it."
"... The honey helped."
Valdor’s thumb brushed across his knuckles again.
"I added more than medicine required."
"I knew..."
Amor glanced toward the countryside outside the window, concealing the smile beginning at the corner of his lips.
"You seem unusually determined to make everything taste sweet."
"You like sweet things."
"That does not mean every substance entering my body requires honey."
Valdor considered this.
"Most."
Amor laughed. The sound filled the enclosed carriage with easy warmth, loosening whatever restraint remained between them. From there, conversation moved without effort, shifting from Valdor’s work to the markets Amor intended to show him, then toward the differences between Blackstone settlements and the capital’s districts. Amor described shops arranged entirely around decorative fans, perfumed letters, and imported sweets, while Valdor explained that his tribe’s markets revolved around winter needs, hunting success, and what could be carried across mountain paths.
"What do Blackstone people purchase for pleasure?"
Amor asked.
"Beads. Carvings. Dyes. Strong drink."
"No pastries?"
"Some."
"How sweet?"
"Usually honey or berries are used. So not so sweet but sweet enough."
Amor nodded approvingly.
"Your people may yet be civilized."
Valdor looked at him.
"You eat sugar shaped like flowers."
"That is the height of refinement."
"It disappears in one bite."
"Beauty can be brief!"
The answer seemed to please Valdor. He told Amor about night markets held after the autumn hunts, when fires burned between the lodges and artisans displayed polished stone under torchlight. Amor described the capital’s winter festival in return, with crystal lanterns suspended above the river and entire streets covered in artificial snow when the weather failed to cooperate. Each description opened another question, and each question carried them farther from guarded politeness.
The journey stretched on. Yet it also seemed to vanish.
At times, Amor became conscious of how much they had said and wondered whether he was overwhelming someone accustomed to silence. Then Valdor asked another precise question or offered a detail no one else would have considered important, proving that his quietness did not mean disinterest. He listened so completely that Amor never felt he was speaking merely to fill space.
Their hands remained joined throughout. Neither mentioned it again. Valdor occasionally adjusted his grip when the carriage turned sharply, ensuring Amor did not slide against the seat, while Amor continued tracing scars whenever the conversation slowed. The touch became so natural that Amor forgot it should have felt intimate. It simply belonged between them.
The countryside gradually transformed into the outer districts of the capital. Farmland surrendered to clustered homes, workshops, and roadside inns, while the quiet road widened to accommodate merchant carts, riders, and public carriages. Voices grew louder beyond the windows, accompanied by the ring of metal from smithies, the cries of street vendors, and distant bells marking the morning hour. Valdor’s attention shifted toward the unfamiliar density of buildings. Amor noticed immediately.
"We are approaching the western gate..."
He explained.
"The coachman will avoid the main commercial road because it becomes insufferably crowded after sunrise."
Valdor looked through the window.
"There are many people."
"This is still the outer district."
"More people than a Blackstone settlement."
"There are more pigeons than a Blackstone settlement."
Valdor watched a flock scatter from the road.
"You do not eat them?"
"Not generally."
"Wasteful."
Amor smiled.
"Please do not hunt capital pigeons during our first outing."
"I was not planning to."
"The hesitation concerned me...."
The carriage passed through the gate after the guards recognized House Moons’s crest and waved them forward without inspection. Beyond it, the capital opened in layers of pale stone, colored awnings, towered roofs, and crowded streets rising toward the royal district in the distance. Valdor’s gaze moved constantly, absorbing architecture, traffic, and people with the same attention he gave tracks in the forest. Amor watched him rather than the city.
He had seen the capital often enough that its beauty no longer startled him, but seeing it reflected in Valdor’s alert expression made the familiar streets interesting again. The warrior did not react with obvious awe, yet his eyes paused upon every new sight:
Fountains flowing from carved beasts, merchants displaying glasswork in open windows, and bridges built between upper stories so nobles could cross streets without touching the crowds below. Amor began silently revising the tour to include whatever captured his attention longest.
The carriage turned away from the busiest avenue and entered a quieter commercial square favored by wealthy patrons.
Several shops Amor visited regularly occupied the surrounding street, including a tailor, jeweler, book dealer, and confectioner whose display windows alone could consume half an hour. The coachman selected a broad stopping area near a shaded row of trees, close enough to the shops for convenience but removed from the thickest pedestrian traffic. The carriage slowed.
Amor felt the loss of time before the wheels stopped. They had spoken for what should have been a long journey, yet the city’s arrival seemed premature. He still wanted to ask about Valdor’s younger siblings, his training, his travels, and whether Blackstone courtship or customs truly involved cooking threatened animals. The private carriage had created a small world in which every question could be asked without fathers, servants, or strangers watching.
Valdor appeared to feel the same. His gaze moved toward the door only after the carriage fully stopped, and a faint reluctance entered the hand holding Amor’s. Outside, one footman descended and approached to open the door. The enclosed warmth between them was about to be surrendered to the capital.
"We arrived quickly."
Valdor said.
"The journey was nearly an hour."
"It did not feel long."
Amor looked at him.
"No..."
He agreed.
"It did not."
The door opened.
Morning light poured into the carriage, accompanied by the sounds of the square and the curious gaze of the footman waiting outside. Amor released Valdor’s hand reluctantly, though he told himself the separation was necessary for movement rather than disappointing. The sudden coolness across his palm suggested otherwise.
Valdor unfolded himself first. He ducked beneath the doorframe and stepped directly onto the street, ignoring the carriage stairs entirely. His height and breadth became even more striking once he stood among ordinary pedestrians, forcing several nearby people to slow in open surprise. The footman moved aside quickly.
Valdor turned back and offered his hand. Amor accepted without looking toward the servant this time.
He descended gracefully, placing one boot upon the upper stair while Valdor steadied him from below. The position brought Amor almost level with the warrior for a moment, their faces close enough that Valdor’s gaze settled upon his before he continued downward. Once Amor reached the street, Valdor kept his hand until he was balanced.
Then he released it.
The capital noticed them immediately. Conversations faltered along the nearest storefronts as merchants, attendants, and well-dressed patrons turned toward the newly arrived pair. Amor was already familiar to many of them, his lavender hair and unmistakable beauty making anonymity impossible even without the Moon carriage behind him. Valdor, however, was unlike anyone most had seen outside military paintings or exaggerated stories about the north.
He towered above the crowd. The longer furs softened none of his intimidating presence, and the black tribal markings across his exposed skin drew every eye that might otherwise have avoided his size. His dark hair, bone ornaments, monster teeth, and scarred body marked him unmistakably as Blackstone, while the absence of a visible sword did little to make him seem less dangerous. People moved instinctively aside.
Amor stepped close to his arm. The gesture changed the atmosphere.
The same warrior who appeared capable of scattering the street with one glare immediately lowered his attention toward Amor, adjusting his position so the smaller man remained protected from passing carts without blocking his view. When Amor indicated a shop across the square, Valdor bent slightly to hear him better. His quiet deference contrasted so sharply with his threatening appearance that nearby observers began watching with even greater interest. Whispers followed.
"That is Lord Amor Moons!"
"The man beside him must be one of the Blackstone envoys."
"Must be that time of year again."
"He is enormous!"
"Why is Lord Amor holding his arm?"
"Did you hear about the duke?"
Amor heard fragments and dismissed them. Public attention had always accompanied him, whether inspired by beauty, wealth, scandal, or the reputation of the original Amor. He had no intention of allowing strangers to dictate how close he stood to Valdor or whether the warrior’s appearance belonged within the capital. If anything, Amor’s chin lifted with greater confidence.
Valdor noticed every whisper. At first, he treated them as background noise. Blackstone warriors were accustomed to being watched within kingdom cities, usually with fear, fascination, or disgust. Valdor had endured House Merrow’s servants staring at his food, clothing, and sleeping habits for an entire month without caring enough to alter himself. The opinions of strangers had never possessed weight. Then he saw Amor beside them.
Amor belonged here.
The city seemed shaped around people like him—pale stone matching his elegance, shop windows filled with fabrics suited to his delicate body, and attendants bowing the moment they recognized his face. His clothing moved perfectly within the refined surroundings, his moonstones reflecting the same polished wealth displayed along the street. Even the carriage behind him looked designed as an extension of his beauty.
Valdor looked down at himself.
His furs were clean and longer than yesterday’s, yet their uneven edges remained visibly animalistic rather than tailored cloth. Scars crossed his exposed skin, and the black markings nobles called barbaric could not be hidden without covering nearly his entire body. The bone beads in his hair were carved by children, not purchased from jewelers.
For the first time in his life, Valdor wondered how he appeared beside someone else. The feeling was unpleasant and unfamiliar.
He had never felt shame in his body, culture, clothing, or work, because every mark upon him carried earned meaning. Blackstone people measured worth through strength, contribution, loyalty, and promises kept, none of which required silk or polished metal. Yet the capital’s attention made the difference between himself and Amor impossible to ignore. They looked mismatched.
Amor resembled moonlight shaped into a nobleman.
Valdor resembled the mountain that swallowed moonlight whole.
A group of elegantly dressed men emerged from a nearby tailor’s shop, their laughter fading when they noticed the pair. One looked over Valdor’s furs with poorly concealed disdain before glancing toward Amor as though questioning why House Moons’s heir had chosen such company. Valdor understood the judgment despite hearing no words. His shoulders tightened.
Amor felt it through their linked arms. He turned his head slightly.
"What’s wrong?"
"Nothing."
The answer was too immediate. Amor studied him more carefully.
Valdor’s expression remained stern, but his gaze had shifted from the shops and streets toward the people watching them. He seemed alert in a different way than before, not tracking danger but evaluating his own place within the scene. Amor recognized discomfort because he had spent much of his previous life surviving it.
"Do you dislike the crowd?"
He asked.
"No."
"The staring?"
"I have been stared at before."
"Then what?"
Valdor remained silent. Amor slowed near the edge of the square, guiding them away from the carriage traffic until they stood beside a planter overflowing with white flowers. He did not release Valdor’s arm. Instead, he turned enough to face him directly, forcing the warrior’s attention away from the crowd.
Valdor looked down. Amor’s pink eyes were sharp despite the softness surrounding them.
"You are thinking something foolish."
Amor said. Valdor’s brows lowered.
"You do not know that."
"I know that expression."
"You have known me two days."
"And I can already recognize when you are withholding an unnecessarily serious thought!"
Valdor glanced toward the nearby shoppers. Amor followed the movement and understood.
He saw the looks then—not the ordinary curiosity surrounding a Blackstone envoy, but the comparison occurring whenever eyes moved from Valdor’s rugged body to Amor’s refined appearance. Some observers appeared fascinated, others amused, and a few openly disapproving. Their judgments sharpened Amor’s irritation.
"You believe they think you don’t belong beside me?"
He said. Valdor did not answer. The silence confirmed it.
Amor stared at him, astonished that a man capable of wrestling monsters and challenging noble etiquette without fear had become uncertain because strangers considered their clothing incompatible. The realization softened his anger toward Valdor while intensifying it toward the crowd. He moved closer.
"Look at me..."
Amor said. Valdor obeyed.
"Do you believe I selected you accidentally?"
"No."
"Do you believe I lacked other escorts?"
"No."
"Do you believe anyone in this square possesses enough authority to decide who belongs beside me?"
Valdor’s eyes darkened.
"No."
"Then why are you granting their opinions greater importance than mine?"
The question struck cleanly. Valdor looked toward their linked arms. Amor tightened his hold.
"I invited you..."
He continued.
"I dressed beautifully because I wanted you to see me, planned this day because I wanted your company, and chose your hand over a servant’s before half my household. If someone believes you are unworthy to stand beside me, that person has misunderstood which of us should be honored by the arrangement."
Valdor’s gaze lifted sharply. Amor realized what he had implied. Heat touched his cheeks, but he refused to retreat now that the warrior’s self-consciousness had finally broken through.
"Do not become unbearable. I am merely saying that your presence does not diminish mine."
"It increases it?"
Valdor asked.
"You learn confidence at alarming speed."
The faint curve of his mouth returned. Amor felt the tension beneath his hand ease.
Valdor looked around the square again, but the watching faces no longer carried the same weight. Their worlds were different, and no amount of reassurance could erase the practical questions raised by that difference. Yet Amor had chosen to stand beside him here, in full view of the city, and Valdor trusted choices made freely. He touched Amor’s hand upon his arm.
"You are beautiful here."
He said. Amor lifted one brow.
"Only here?"
"Everywhere..."
The answer restored his smile. Valdor’s gaze moved over the shopfronts before returning to Amor.
"I do not know this place."
"That is why you have me..."
The words came easily. Valdor held them carefully. Amor turned toward the nearest row of shops, his confidence returning with every step.
"Come. We will begin with the confectioner before the morning crowd empties the best display, and then I intend to find something appropriate for you to wear inside the finer establishments."
Valdor looked down at his furs.
"You dislike them?"
"I like them excessively!"
His honesty produced another flicker of warmth in Valdor’s eyes. Amor continued before embarrassment could catch him.
"But I also wish to see what the finest tailor in the capital does when confronted with shoulders wider than his cutting table."
Valdor allowed himself to be guided forward.
The crowd parted again, though this time he did not interpret the movement as rejection. Amor remained close, his flowing sleeve brushing Valdor’s marked arm while their steps found an easy shared pace. Whatever the capital thought of them, the delicate heir of House Moons walked as though the enormous Blackstone warrior belonged precisely where he stood.
Valdor looked down at Amor.
Perhaps they were different enough to become a joke.
Perhaps nobles would call him a fool for imagining a future beside someone raised within such refinement. Yet Amor’s hand remained upon his arm, warm and deliberate, and the memory of their joined fingers filled the space between them even after the carriage ride ended.
For now, that was enough.
They entered the capital together, followed by whispers, curious stares, and the first rumors of a pairing neither man was yet prepared to name.