Vhalla blushed.

“Are you hungry?” He stared at the stained glass a moment before pulling his watch from his pocket. Time had crept up on him as well.

“A little.”

“What would you like? I will get you anything you desire.” Aldrik grabbed the coat he’d discarded on the floor at some point in the afternoon and shrugged himself into it.

“Anything?” she asked.

“I am the crown prince,” he smirked.

“Such an abuse of power,” she scolded teasingly.

Aldrik straightened, finishing the buttons at his neck. “The things we do for love.” He shrugged, running his hands over his hair.

Vhalla’s eyes widened. She stared at him as he turned back to face her, struggling with the meaning of those words. “Aldrik,” she whispered.

He paused, his hands dropping to his sides. “Food?”

“Surprise me.” Food had become the farthest thing from her mind.

He nodded and strode briskly out of the room.

Vhalla stared at the door dumbly before turning to one of the candles on the table. She watched the flame, losing herself to her thoughts. It seemed to radiate his essence, echoing Aldrik’s words in every flicker. Vhalla reached out a hand, running it over the top of the fire absentmindedly.

Aldrik returned faster than expected. “It will be up—” His words faltered. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, something that children dare each other to do. Well, children who aren’t Firebearers.” Vhalla laughed, quickly stopping when Aldrik’s intent expression hadn’t changed. “It doesn’t hurt,” she explained, thinking he may have no idea what non-Firebearers could manage when it came to fire.

“Are you certain?” His eyes flicked to her hand.

Vhalla returned her attention to the appendage in question and stared in shock. Her fingers had been directly atop the flame the whole conversation, frozen from the moment he’d caught her. She stared dumbly, watching the fire flicker over her skin as nothing more than heat.

“What ...” she whispered in confusion, pulling her hand from the candle. Vhalla stared at her fingers; they weren’t even red. Aldrik crossed the room, inspecting as well. “Why am I not burned?”

“Likely the Bond,” he whispered, suddenly fishing for a blank piece of parchment to scribble across. “You have some of my magic in you, and I have some of yours in me, maybe more than some with the Joining. I cannot burn myself with my own flames so it stands to reason that such protection could extend to you.”

“My wind has never affected you like it does others.” He considered her thoughtfully and Vhalla used his paused expression as an invitation to continue. “The twister on the Night of Fire and Wind.”

It surprised her the ease to which the infamous event could roll off her tongue. It still left a lingering sour taste in Vhalla’s mouth, the reminder of something foul. But it no longer repulsed her.

“Let’s test it?” she suggested. “Your fire is easier than my wind.”

Aldrik held out a fist, opening it for a dim spark, mostly red with a hint of orange. She knew he could make the flame surround her hand just as easily but instead it remained in his palm. He looked to her uncertainly and Vhalla realized he was waiting for her.

She wanted to laugh. Wasn’t that how it always was between them? He held out knowledge, power, desire, in his palm just before her. But he never took the step forward, he never forced it upon her. Their whole relationship he stood waiting. Every time, she met him.

Vhalla sunk her fingers bravely into the inviting warmth. It wasn’t quite like the wind, but something tingled on the edge of her senses that she could only describe as the essence of fire. She smiled in awe.

Aldrik’s hand closed suddenly around hers. Tongues of flame slithered between their fingers, eagerly tickling up her arm and singing her tunic. At such close proximity they cast a breathtaking array of reds, oranges, and yellows over the angular visage of the crown prince. He raised his other palm to her cheek, fire glittering under his thumb as he ran it over her flesh.

Vhalla’s eyes fluttered closed, his magic rubbing against hers like a whispering invitation. It was a foreign and savory sensation that quickly enthralled and commanded her. She obliged his light tugs on her chin, guiding her forward and upward. Aldrik’s lips ghosted across hers and Vhalla inhaled sharply, breathing fire imbued with his raw essence.

A knock on the door startled the two apart. The flames vanished quickly. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I am always a private person so that no one questions when I have a reason to be.” The prince wore a conspiratorial grin. “Leave it,” he called through the door.

Vhalla ran her fingers over her lips. Food was the last thing on her mind. She’d found a different sort of sustenance.

Aldrik pushed in a rolling tray with a veritable feast, quickly motioning to it when he caught her hungry look. Vhalla witnessed the instant flush on his cheeks, his shorter breaths. She knew if she were to put a palm on his chest his heart would be racing, racing at the same speed as hers.

“We’re going to waste so much food.” With a light laugh, she eased away from the heated moment.

They ended up pushing together the two chaises, making a platform upon which they dined. Aldrik sat in one corner of the half square the backs made when put together and Vhalla occupied the other. He told her the different foods that surrounded them with expert precision, offering insights onto their origins or the best way to enjoy them. They spoke about dining etiquette and differences in cultures.

“Do you like the West or the South more?” she asked between bites.

“For what? Food?” He spooned a bit of rice.

“Everything,” she specified.

“That is a hard choice. Sorcerers are undoubtedly treated better in the West; I’m generally more loved here as a result. But I grew up in the South; my ties here are only through visiting. The palace is my home.” Aldrik turned the question to her. “And you? East or South?”

Vhalla chewed on her food a moment to give herself time to think. “It’s not too difficult really ... I come from very little in the East.” Vhalla looked down at the food; she hated the reminders of who she really was at times like this. They shattered her fantasies. “The palace is home for me also in most ways.”

“What is your childhood home like?” Aldrik stretched to reach a platter.

The idea of home held a bittersweet sort of beauty. “My home, it’s a small place. It’s stone, a roof that was badly in need of replacement the last time I was there. We’ve a wooden barn to keep a horse for plow.”

“I would like to see it,” he said casually. Vhalla couldn’t stop herself from laughing, and he frowned at her. “I would.”

“The crown prince? In Leoul? In my home?” Vhalla’s laughter rang out again. “My father may disown me for letting someone like you inside.”

The rest of the conversation was relaxed and easy between them. They spoke, lounged with food about them on the chaises and table, and talked well into the evening about everything and nothing. When it was clear they’d both had their fill, he got up to clean the plates and Vhalla helped. Old habits died hard; it felt strange to see the prince of the realm cleaning his own food when she was there. He insisted he could do it himself—she insisted she would help him.