The hallway fell silent once more. All eyes shifted to Zalthor.
Yeara's expression remained graceful and controlled, her warm yet elegant demeanor— for some unknown reason, perfectly complementing Zalthor's detached, domineering aura.
Raymond, whose head had been bowed forward, forced himself not to turn and look at Yeara. The surprise in his gaze was unlike that of the elders; it was something closer to pride.
He had not expected this, and for reasons he could not quite explain, he liked it. The way she had spoken made it clear to him that no one else could fit this position better than she could.
Now he longed to look at her properly—to truly see the courageous woman the King had brought before them… but of course, he did not dare.
The things he had witnessed today at the hands of His Majesty were more than enough warning. If he so much as glanced at the Queen now and the King noticed, he was certain his punishment would be far worse than any he had received before.
Eyes remained fixed on Zalthor, as if waiting for him to deliver his final judgment. Not that they would dare keep staring if the King were to lift his head—Afterall, the fear of him was so great that most could not even recall the color of his eyes. Yet Zalthor appeared completely unbothered.
The sharp scrape of the ink pen gliding across the pages echoed through the unnervingly silent room, a subtle testament to the King's effortless composure.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds….
Zalthor finally stood, his eyes resting on the elders. They all held their breath, waiting for a word—anything at all.
"Meeting dismissed."
Their lips parted in astonishment as Zalthor brought out his hand. Yeara stood with a small smile, her hand moving to his, and with that, they walked out of the hall.
The door clicked shut. They could not tell whether it was the King's way of approving the Queen as Prime Minister…or merely his silent refusal.
On the bright side, they had shown proper respect to the Queen, fully aware that had they said anything to displease the King, their heads might not have lasted until sunrise.
"There will be another meeting. If the King changes his mind, then letters will be sent about the King's final decision on this matter," Raymond concluded.
….
Yeara entered the room and made her way to the stool, sitting to face the mirror. Zalthor moved toward the bed, standing as he began to remove his robe. Since leaving the meeting, not a single word had passed between them.
Yeara's hands moved to her hair, slowly brushing the strands to loosen her bun. Her lips were slightly pursed as the silence began to gnaw at her. Had what she said perhaps displeased the King? she wondered.
"I had no idea my wife was interested in being a Royal Minister," Zalthor said, his voice tinged with intrigue.
Yeara, still staring at herself in the mirror, shifted her gaze to watch him through the reflection. His back was to her at the bedside, fingers deftly unbuttoning his royal shirt.
Her hands combed through the waviness of her hair as she removed the band she had used. Picking up her hairbrush, she examined it for a moment before smiling and speaking.
"Well, I wouldn't exactly say I'm interested," she admitted, her eyes still fixed on his back, watching his hands push his hair backward. "But I do find the role… appealing. Perhaps that way I can enlighten some of the older ministers—show them that the archaic mentality they hold about women could affect the state of Kingdom Gatrem."
A low chuckle left Zalthor's lips.
Before Yeara could tear her gaze from him and return to brushing her hair, Zalthor's head turned, his eyes locking onto hers through the mirror. The brush in her hands slipped slightly.
Still standing where he was, his gaze held hers unwaveringly. A shiver ran through Yeara, tingling along her arms and up her neck. She drew in a sharp breath and rose to her feet immediately.
"Let me help you with your hair," she blurted out.
Zalthor raised an eyebrow. Without a word, he stepped toward her. Yeara's heart pounded in her chest, her hands tightening around the poor wooden brush as if it could save her. She had been caught staring, and those words were the only way she could salvage herself.
Zalthor stopped directly in front of her.
Yeara waited, expecting him to speak or move, but he remained still, his intimidating presence amplified now that he was so close.
Slowly, she lifted her head.
Her eyes met his, noticing the questioning look on his face.
"Huh?" she whispered, the single word barely leaving her lips.
"You are in my way," he said calmly.
Yeara's face flamed as she realized she was still standing in front of the stool. She nodded frantically and stepped aside gently. Zalthor sat, facing the mirror.
Yeara bit her lip hard, embarrassment washing over her. The fact that he had said nothing, allowing her to make a fool of herself… Oh heavens.
"Oh my, Yeara, how could you…"
A slight curl moved through Zalthor's lips. He was now wearing a black singlet, his muscles perfectly outlined. His long red hair fell to his shoulders.
Yeara finally snapped out of it, slowly gulping as she realized what she had gotten herself into. Her eyes stared at him through the mirror, but his eyes were already on her. She immediately shifted her gaze.
Heavens… they had not said anything, yet it was like through this silence they had said more than a thousand words.
Yeara's hands moved to his hair, and just how she usually did hers, her fingers moved, massaging his scalp ever so slowly. His hair was so soft and smooth.
Zalthor's pupils flashed darkish grey momentarily as he did not expect how good this was feeling.
"Should I braid it or brush it?" Yeara softly asked, her hands halting midway before she could brush it. She just wanted to know what he would want more.
"Whatever you wish, wife." His slow, deep words sounded more seductive than ever; her insides bubbled sweetly.
"Then I will brush it… h-husband."
Zalthor's body stiffened, his dark, calm eyes fixing on her through the mirror with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. The way those words had slipped from her lips…so silky, so sweet~like thick honey stirred into perfect tea.
Yeara's face flushed as she moved the brush through his hair, brushing faster than usual, as if the motion could distract her from his gaze. A small, uncertain smile tugged at her lips.
For some unknown reason, saying those words felt strange… yet oddly good. She had never imagined that one day she would actually speak like that.
The soft sound of the brush on Zalthor's hair echoed soothingly between them. Yeara handed him the brush as he placed it atop the table. Her hands moved, packing the hair up.
As she did that, her eyes landed on his neck.
The tattoo.
Her lips opened and closed. The last time she checked, the flower was one burning flower. She was sure it was one burning flower. But now, as her eyes looked at the tattoo, her confusion deepened. She could not be mistaken, but now what rested on his neck was…
Two burning flowers.