Chapter 29
CHAPTER
Azrian
As the gondola drifted through the moss-colored waters of the northern canal, no more than three feet separated Azrian from Miss Almarien on the velvet benches, yet it felt simultaneously vast as an ocean and fragile as spun glass.
Through the latticed window, the city moved past in watercolor blurs, but Azrian’s attention remained consumed by the woman before him, by the way evening light caught in the gold of her hair and made her skin glow.
Her hands rested in her lap, tension in the delicate architecture of her wrists. She’d been quiet since they’d left the tannery.
Braythar House drew steadily closer, its terraced gardens and warm lamplight promising an end to their stolen moment.
Not yet.
Azrian’s hand moved of its own accord, knuckles rapping twice against the cabin’s polished ceiling. The gondolier’s rhythm immediately shifted, oars cutting through water with deliberate leisure.
“We cannot delay much longer.” The rasp in Miss Almarien’s voice traced invisible patterns along his spine. “It’s already past my curfew, and you... must have obligations of your own.”
“I do.” But every obligation felt distant compared to the pull of her presence.
The gondola rocked gently. Neither of them moved. The way she looked at him, as if she could see straight through every carefully constructed wall he’d spent cycles building, made coherent thought difficult.
Yet he had something important to say, so he tried anyway. “We should discuss what comes next.”
“Our strategies, you mean.”
Azrian paused, unsure how to put his scattered thoughts into words. “Among other things.”
They sat closer now, though he couldn’t recall either of them moving. He caught the faint scent of lavender clinging to her skin, saw silver flecks in her blue eyes that made them look as if they held captured starlight.
Through the cabin walls came the distant sound of evening bells, the gentle lap of water against stone, the ordinary symphony of a city settling into night.
They were mere feet from Lady Delarine’s private quay, close enough to see the ornate iron moorings and polished stone steps. The gondolier made subtle adjustments to their course, executing lazy figure-eights with the oar to avoid the inevitable docking.
“The gondolier grows restless,” Miss Almarien observed, though her attention remained fixed on Azrian.
“Let him grow restless.” The words carried a reckless edge that would have alarmed him under different circumstances.
Her breath caught, and her lips curved slightly, the expression sending heat racing through his veins. “How very scandalous of you, my lord.”
“I find myself developing a taste for scandal, Miss Almarien.”
The cabin seemed to contract around them, the dying light painting the interiors in shades of amber. She leaned forward slightly. No more than an inch, but it closed the distance between them enough for Azrian to feel the warmth radiating off her skin.
Stepping onto the dock, the gondolier seemed to make a conscious effort to secure the mooring with deliberate slowness. Very soon, this moment would end, and they would return to their careful choreography of public propriety.
“ Sabine .” Her name escaped him, as if his lips wished to touch it, at least once. “There is something I must ask you.”
Her eyes widened slightly, pupils dilating in the dim light.
Azrian reached into his jacket, his fingers closing around the small velvet box he’d carried with him since leaving the Emperor’s throne room that morning.
“In fourteen days, we shall stand before the High Binder and speak vows written by the Registry, binding ourselves with magic we do not fully understand for purposes that serve the Empire rather than ourselves.”
He drew the box from his pocket and held it between them like an offering.
Sabine’s breath caught.
“What if we refused to let them dictate the terms?”
She swallowed hard, pulse beating in the hollow of her throat, quick as a hummingbird’s wings. “What do you mean?”
With deliberate slowness, he opened the box to reveal the impossible violet-blue hue of the Star of Corven nestled within, cornflower ink caught in a masterwork of Corven filigree motifs.
It’d belonged to his ancestor, the last Queen of Corven. Azrian still didn’t understand why it’d been passed down to him, but in this moment, he was glad it had been. A lesser stone would not have befitted Sabine.
Despite his heart hammering against his ribs, he kept his voice steady. “If we must face this fate, we should face it as partners. Not because the Registry demands it, not because some ancient force marked us, but because we chose it.”
“Azrian.” His name on her lips sounded like salvation and damnation both.
The space between them had contracted to nothing, their knees brushing and breaths mingling.
“I am not offering you romance,” he said, though the words felt too tight. “I am not promising you safety, or comfort, or any of the things a proper suitor might. What I am offering is the one thing the Empire seeks to deny us: choice.”
Her fingers shook as they hovered in the space between them. “You are proposing marriage.”
“Marriage is what the Empire will force upon us regardless. What I offer is partnership, a promise that whatever trials we face, we face them together. That we transform their weapon into our shield.”
The gondola bumped slightly against the dock as the gondolier drew the last knot, but neither of them acknowledged it. The world outside their floating sanctuary might as well have ceased to exist.
She was so close now that a slight movement would bring their lips together, erasing the final line into recklessness. And yet, she didn’t move. She didn’t answer. She was quiet for so long Azrian feared he had miscalculated, that his offer of defiance was not what she needed.
“I should let you consider.” He moved to close the ring box, but her hand shot out to stop him, fingers light against his wrist.
“No.” The word was filled with the same determination she wielded against every obstacle the Season had thrown her way. “You are right. If we must walk into the fire, better to do so together than alone.”
The words struck him with more force than any sonnet. She held out her left hand—a declaration of war against the Empire that sought to control them.
“Miss Sabine Almarien,” he said, pulling the ring from its velvet confines and hovering it at her fingertips. “Will you do me the extraordinary honor of becoming my wife?”
“Yes.” The simple word seemed to rearrange the fundamental order of the universe.
Azrian slipped the ring onto her finger. The violet diamond caught the lamplight of the dock and threw it back in fractals that painted the cabin in dancing stars.
He did not release her hand.
Instead, his fingers laced with hers, her pulse beating against his palm. He found himself memorizing the delicate form of her fingers, the way her skin felt like silk to the touch.
“Sabine,” he said again, as if he said the name often enough, it would feel his. She would feel his .
She looked at their joined hands for several heartbeats. When she lifted her gaze to meet his, the fire in them burned like a star about to collapse.
They leaned toward each other with the inevitability of celestial bodies caught in orbit.
Her breath ghosted against his lips, sweet as honey.
Her free hand rested against his chest, palm flat over his heart.
Her lips parted slightly.
Then footsteps sounded on the dock outside, approaching the gondola with intent. A footman, no doubt.
The spell shattered around them. Sabine pulled back with a sharp intake of air, her cheeks flushing with color.
And still, Azrian did not release her.
“Miss Almarien?” called the footman outside the gondola’s cabin. “Her Grace wonders if you require assistance.”
“I shall be out in a moment,” Sabine called back. Then, turning to Azrian again, “I should—”
“Yes,” he agreed, though the word pained him. “You should.”
With the careful precision of a man disarming a particularly volatile weapon, Azrian untwined their fingers. He helped her from the gondola, fingers lingering on her arm as she stepped onto the dock.
“Until tomorrow,” Azrian said quietly, lifting her hand to brush his lips against her knuckles, thumb swiping over her newly acquired ring.
As she walked to the estate with the footman, her skirts rustling against stone, Azrian remained on the dock watching. In the silence that followed her departure, he felt the echo of her presence like a phantom limb.