CONTENT WARNING: Descriptions of nudity

  One particur day a little over two weeks after Damia’s binding proved to be more strenuous and demanding than any day that had come before it. It began with her usual scrying ritual, followed by breakfast with Silvia and Sera, then her meeting with Theonin.

  Samwell had seemed particurly antsy during his daily audience, Damia noticed. As if he had somewhere better to be. That was unusual for him — to neglect to give his people his undivided attention. Whatever was bothering him was apparently not up for discussion, little to her surprise, as he brushed past her without so much as a nod in her direction after the audience concluded.

  The king had hardly looked in Damia’s direction since her binding. Not to ask about her work and progress, nor to offer his assistance, and certainly not to ask after her well-being. Damia supposed his silence meant she was performing suitably in her duties, enough so that he didn’t need to intervene. So that he didn’t have to spend his precious energy on her. It could be reserved for whatever pressing matter he was scrambling off to as soon as he dismissed his court.

  Frankly, the king’s indifference toward his court mage left her bristled with annoyance. Sure, he may be the divine ruler and have a million things on his mind, but ultimately so did Damia. And she still made an effort to colborate to the best of her abilities.

  She was constantly leaning on Sera’s intimate knowledge of the Altrielian infrastructure to get ahead of potential problems. Silvia’s experience as the te court mage’s apprentice provided valuable insight to the potions Damia would need to have prepared to bolster the healing ward’s stocks. Casimir and Rezin used their combined networks of Altrielian citizens to help her decipher some of her more elusive premonitions in her scrying orb.

  Still, there were some visions and impressions that Damia could not, for the life of her, make sense of. There were images that had appeared multiple times, but never two days in a row. The aged version of Samwell and the cave mouth revealed themselves every couple of days each, and a new impression of Sera’s face had joined the rotation.

  While no single image made much sense, Damia was beginning to notice a pattern. She didn’t want to frighten her friend by bringing this to her attention, but she was realizing that Sera may just be in the center of it.

  Damia had seen Sera for breakfast almost every day since beginning her duties, and nothing seemed amiss with the princess that she could discern. She told Damia and Silvia about her days humoring nobles but also tending local farms, helping with repairs, and offering her bor anywhere it was needed in the city outside the pace. She had never imagined serving alongside such an active participant in community service, but Sera had made it clear that being what Damia described as a “typical” royal was never of interest to her.

  “If I’m ever kicked back living the good life while somebody needs me, just go ahead and fire bst me or whatever you mages do,” Sera had jested when Damia teased her about her endless toil.

  Sera did talk about her brother at times, but only ever to reminisce about her memories with him when they were children. Like when they would race each other up and down the steep stairs outside the pace, or when she taught him to shoot a bow and he taught her to wield a sword. They clearly made a great team, and Damia did not miss the mist that clouded her friend’s eyes when she recounted such tales and misadventures.

  Nor did she overlook the desperate attempts at connection Sera extended to Samwell each night at dinner that he failed to entertain.

  And on this particur night, Samwell looked about as exhausted as Damia felt as she plopped beside Silvia for dinner. She noticed he disappeared rather earlier than he usually did, trudging out of the hall before Sera had finished her meal and could even try to converse with him.

  Yawning, Damia knew she would not be her usual pleasant conversationalist tonight either. Casimir and Rezin were too absorbed in each other to notice though, as Casimir drew absentminded swirls down Rezin’s back and shoulders while he whispered pyfully in his ear. As if finally remembering that his little sister was right across from him, Casimir stopped himself just short of nipping Rezin’s earlobe before politely excusing the both of them. They scurried off, leaving both of their meals untouched.

  Silvia noticed none of this, as she was entirely absorbed in a tome Damia had assigned to her about the technical aspects of healing magic. She could see the young girl practicing her weaving hand motions under the table, and a beam of pride shone in her heart.

  Feeling that her conscience would allow her to leave the banquet hall early as well, Damia bid Silvia goodnight and began the journey back to her room.

  The air clung to her with an uncomfortable weight as she made her way to her quarters, and Damia knew she’d never be able to sleep like this. Her schedule today had not allowed a visit to the baths, and she was keenly aware of how dire her need for one was now.

  Resigned to one st task for the night, Damia collected fresh clothes from her newly organized armoir, and set out for the baths.

  She was pleased not to pass a single soul on her way through the corridors, and hoped it was a sign that she’d be allowed a quiet nighttime bath in solitude.

  When she entered, though, it was apparent that such a wish was not in the cards for her tonight. She saw warm, dark brown waves of hair nding just above a set of hard, wide shoulders.

  Damia’s cheeks fmed, and her fingers buzzed and sparked their silver currents. Of course, the king had to bathe sometimes. She just never expected it to be when she also needed to bathe. And she really, really needed to bathe. There was no turning back. She had as much a right to that bathing pool as anyone else, including the king.

  She stripped out of her cap sleeve white gown of the day. Before approaching the pool, she wrapped a towel around herself to at least conceal her breasts before submerging herself in the water.

  “Are you going to get in or do you pn to stand there all evening?” Samwell rasped, still not turning his head to look at her. Damia was grateful for that small courtesy, at least.

  “I’m… working up to it. Communal baths are still new to me, you know,” Damia retorted, unable to keep the annoyance from her tone.

  She was too tired for games, even if this was Samwell’s first real conversation with her. She didn’t count the binding ceremony, nor her first night in the company of “Sam.”

  “Nudity doesn’t have to be sexual, if that’s what’s keeping you. Just clean yourself. It’s not a big deal,” he scoffed.

  Damia felt herself redden from the tops of her ears to her colr bones. Not a big deal, he says? Fine, she thought, dropping the towel so it pooled at her feet. The crisp air clung to her breasts, stomach, thighs, and she tried not to make it obvious when she darted to the water both to conceal her body and to warm it.

  Samwell didn’t look over at her. She was confident he hadn’t seen anything… sensitive. Probably.

  He sat motionless in the clear pool, his arms resting on the edge outside the water. Steam rose around his face, causing his hair to curl and coil around his forehead. The expression on his face was neutral, and his eyes were closed.

  Damia realized that as much as she was afraid of him looking at her, she was doing an awful lot of looking at him. She couldn’t make out much below his chest under the water, which was probably for the best. She forced herself to tear her gaze from the man’s broad, rugged chest, and busied herself with the cleaning she had come to do.

  “Why did you stay?” came Samwell’s voice after some time.

  “Because you said nudity wasn’t sexual and I needed a bath,” Damia responded curtly.

  Samwell chuckled low, rippling the water around him ever so slightly.

  “Not what I meant. Why did you stay in my kingdom?” he crified.

  “Why did you ask me here in the first pce?” she retorted.

  That brought a genuine ugh from deep in Samwell’s chest, and the sound wrapped itself around Damia’s traitorous heart. She was just infatuated and fascinated with the man after being ignored for two weeks, that’s all, she told herself. She was curious about him. There couldn’t be anything wrong with that.

  “I’ve seen the work you’ve done here. The citizens already rgely recognize you. The healing ward has been more ahead in treating and preventing ailments than I’ve ever seen it before. Your pupils look at you like a hero,” Samwell listed. “Yet you never wanted to be here, did you? Well, to be honest with you, Damia, I never wanted you here either,” he admitted.

  That was the first time he had said her name since the binding ceremony. It sounded different on his tongue here, where no one else could hear it but her. Decadent.

  “Yes, well, you’ve made that abundantly clear, your majesty,” Damia scoffed.

  Samwell rolled his eyes. “I knew you’d take it personally. But this isn’t about you. I didn’t have a choice. Dad died, then Veda died, then suddenly I was king and the Academy was sending their best and brightest,” he recounted bitterly.

  Best and brightest? Damia beamed inwardly with pride for a brief moment before reeling her ego back in. Not the time.

  “Every monarch is served by their mage,” Damia recited, again thinking back to the words of Lady Vessimir.

  “Right. So I thought I could just avoid meeting you for the foreseeable future. Let you serve from wherever I wasn’t. Then Theonin tells me we have to get your binding over with. Which is exactly what I wanted to avoid,” he expined. “There was no going back after the binding,” he uttered, his voice almost quivering.

  Though Damia hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on it, she knew Samwell was right. The binding ceremony had locked her into this pce, had tied her to these people for the rest of her days.

  “Does it bother you that I’m bound… to you?” she asked quietly.

  Samwell said nothing. After what felt like an eternity, she heard him hoist himself out of the pool. She resisted the urge to look at his naked form, fixing her eyes on the rippling water around her.

  “You won’t be meeting with Theonin anymore. I have some, ah, special tasks I need you to take care of. Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning,” he expined as he tugged his clothes on over what had to be his still dripping body, seeing as Damia hadn’t heard him collect a towel at any point.

  Before she could say anything in response, he was shutting the door behind him, leaving her with the solitude she had so badly wanted upon her arrival.

  How, after the king’s departure, had that solitude so thoroughly lost its sweetness?