A knock came at the door.
Not the thunderous, urgent kind that meant bad news or another royal summons, but the familiar three-tap rhythm of the demon servant who always brought him his breakfast and clothes for the day. Predictable routine. Usually something Cassian met with a groan and a pillow flung over his head.
But not today.
Today, Cassian sat up—still blushing, still internally combusting, still very much a disaster wrapped in rumpled sheets, but a small smile was plastered on his face, even if he had not noticed.
He cleared his throat and called out, "Come in!" in a voice that didn't quite hide the crack of sleep or the lingering tremble of last night's dream.
The servant entered with practiced grace, bowing low as always. A silver tray with toast, honeyed fruit, and dark tea was placed gently on the small table near the window. A neatly folded outfit—polished, tailored, and appropriate for today's etiquette class—was set on the velvet bench by the foot of the bed.
