Dradge woke her late that morning, with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Lyara?”
Flinching, she sat up, drawing in a deep breath. The room was dark, her lantern long burned out, but sunlight streamed in down the stairs at her back. She shouldn’t have fallen asleep at the table; her arms made for a poor pillow, and she’d left an absolute mess of books and crumbled papers surrounding her. She’d cleaned up her painting and stashed it away, but had apparently nodded off before finishing the rest.
She offered him a sleepy smile and picked up the parchment with her final specifications for their instrument of heresy.
Dradge took it, glancing between the image and her face—should she be flattered or frustrated that she appeared to be more interesting? “Looks like a sword,” he said finally.
She chuckled. “I should think so.”
He returned her drawing to the table, pulling up a chair to sit beside her. He gave a lopsided grin and tried to brush something off her cheek with his thumb. “You’ve got paint on your face.”
Lyara halfheartedly smeared her sleeve across that cheek. She should probably just be grateful she hadn’t snoozed on top of her charcoal drawing and ended up with Gallian’s sigil plastered on her forehead. With a contented sigh, she shut her eyes and leaned forward to press her face against his chest. Only a thin nightshirt separated her from his skin.
This wasn’t particularly comfortable, either, but she could sleep easy here.
Dradge wrapped his arms around her, planting a kiss on her head, but she heard the slide of parchment against the table. He was looking at the drawing again.
“Why don’t you want the crown?” she murmured against his chest.
He laughed, uncomfortable, but tried to pass it as casual. “Can you seriously imagine me as King?”
“Yes.”
His arms around her stiffened, so she sat up to hold his gaze, serious as she’d ever been in her life. He released her and stared back—confused, surprised, and possibly even a little afraid.
“Why can’t you imagine it?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Gods Lyara, that’s a job for, I don’t know, a better man.”
“A better man, or a smarter man?”
“…that too.”
She smiled and took both his hands in hers, enticing him to look her in the eye again. “So who is this man? Seren? Has he got you so thoroughly duped with his superfluous vocabulary and his boorish tendency to dominate every conversation in which he deigns to participate?”
He did meet her gaze, tentatively.
“Does Seren have armies ready to disobey their King for him, at the asking?”
He offered the barest shake of his head.
“Does Seren earn the respect of every man he serves with, just by being who he is?”
Another shake, a bit more willing this time.
She grinned. “Did Seren win the affections of the smartest and most gorgeous woman in Edras?”
He returned the smile easily, then leaned in to kiss her. His lips were soft and warm, his beard prickly against her cheeks, and when he pulled away it wasn’t to go far. “I would certainly hope not.”
She placed her hand on his chest, over his heart. “Don’t you think for a minute that all their education means a thing without this. If they truly are smarter, then you’re wiser. They’ll sit at their desks and die old and grey, never accomplishing a thing, but you would light a fire that’d warm this whole world over if you’d just believe you could.”
That sparked something in his eyes this time, but he still hesitated. “…fires burn, too. Those who start them can’t always control them.”
She grinned, then buried her fingers in his beard, turning his cheek so she could kiss him again. “See, what did I say?” she whispered against his lips. “Wiser.”