Chapter 14: Reflections

The solar of the high wing was bathed in the amber glow of the afternoon sun, a stark contrast to the cold, grey stone of the fortress's exterior. It was a room that felt lived-in, smelling of old parchment, linseed oil, and the faint, lingering scent of Zion’s woodsmoke cologne.

He was standing by a massive window, his silhouette dark against the light. As I entered, the silk of my ocean-colored gown rustling with every step, he turned. The predatory intensity of his gaze hadn't dimmed since breakfast, but there was a new glint there—something lighter, yet no less dangerous.

"You’re late, Diana," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very floorboards. "Angela tells me you were... preoccupied with your reflection."

"A girl has to ensure her mask is straight before facing a King," I countered, my voice steady despite the frantic thudding of my heart. I kept my eyes on him, refusing to look at the easels draped in heavy linen that stood scattered around the room.

Zion chuckled, a sound like grinding stones softened by velvet. "A mask, is it? And here I thought you were beginning to show me the face beneath."

He stepped toward me, the sheer scale of him making the room feel smaller, more intimate. He stopped just inches away, the heat from his body radiating through the thin silk of my sleeves. He reached out, his leather-gloved hand hovering near my jaw before he pulled back, gesturing instead to the room at large.

"I promised you something educational," he said. "Most people think Fortundra is a land of steel and ice. They see the fortress, the knights, the 'Prince of Shadows.' They forget that even shadows need light to exist."

He walked to the first easel and gripped the linen cloth. With a sharp, fluid motion, he pulled it away.

I gasped, the sound catching in my throat. It wasn't a map, nor was it a tactical drawing of Silvermere’s defenses. It was a landscape, painted with such raw, violent emotion that it felt like it was breathing. Deep indigos and jagged blacks formed a mountain range, but the sky above was a bleeding riot of magentas and golds—the very colors of Fortundra’s "fever dream" sunsets.

"Did you paint this?" I whispered, stepping closer until I could see the thick, textured ridges of the oil pain

"I find that words often fail to capture the truth of a place," Zion said, moving to stand behind me. "Art doesn't lie. It can't. Even if the artist tries to hide, the brush betrays them."

I felt his breath against the back of my neck, a warm ghost of a sensation that made my skin prickle. "And what does this betray about you, Zion?"

"That I see beauty in the jagged edges," he murmured. "That I prefer the storm to the calm."

He moved to the next easel, and this time, he didn't wait for me to look. He unveiled a portrait. My breath hitched. It was a man, middle-aged but weathered by a lifetime of hard choices. His eyes were deep-set and weary, looking out from the canvas with a haunting familiarity.

"My father," Zion said, his voice losing its playful edge. "He built this fortress. He taught me that a King’s first duty is to be a wall. To be unyielding. To be stone."

"Is that why you’re so hard to read?" I asked, turning to face him. "Because you’re trying to be a wall?"

Zion’s ink-dark eyes searched mine, his expression shifting into something uncomfortably soft. "Perhaps. But even walls have cracks, Diana. If you look closely enough."

The sexual tension in the room was thick enough to taste—a heavy, sweet weight that pulled at my senses. I could feel the magnetic tug of him, the urge to reach out and see if his skin was as hot as his gaze. I was supposed to be mapping the hallways, looking for the armory, but here I was, trapped in a solar with a man who was systematically dismantling every defense I had.

He moved to the final easel, the one tucked furthest into the shadows. He paused, his hand resting on the fabric.

"This one," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, "is unfinished. I started it last night, after our dinner."

He pulled the cloth away.

I froze. It was me.