It was late, the castle swallowed by the silence of night. The only sounds were her own shallow breaths and the distant clatter of armor.
Her hand hesitated for a moment before she forced it to work.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound echoed down the corridor, too loud for such an intimate hour. She waited, tension gathering in her chest, her heart pounding so wildly that she could hear it.
No answer.
She knocked again—harder, angrier, and more desperate. And then, she heard a faint sound: the rustle of cloth, footsteps.
The door creaked open slowly, and there he was.
Julian.
He stood before her, casually leaning against the frame, his nightgown open and revealing a glimpse of his bare chest. His deep blue eyes glinted in the dim light, his smirk already widening as he took her in—her green nightgown clinging to her figure, the fabric teasingly revealing her cleavage and stopping just above her knees.
He didn't say anything at first, just tilted his head, his posture lazy but predatory, like he had been expecting her all along.
"Well, well," he finally broke the silence, his voice low but laced with subtle mockery. "It's a surprise to see you here, Your Majesty."
He straightened slightly, crossing his arms over his chest, and the motion revealed more of his toned frame. "And at this hour, no less—dressed like that? What would the court say?"
His smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with mischief as he stepped forward, forcing her to feel his presence. "I thought queens didn't make house calls—especially not to their lowly archduke. Or am I not so lowly anymore, hmm?"
He chuckled softly, the sound like a taunt, and ran a hand through his hair. "Tell me," he continued, his voice dipping lower, teasing out each word, "did the King's snores drive you out, or did Hallie's whining finally push you over the edge? No, no—wait."
He snapped his fingers, grinning now. "It's me, isn't it? Couldn't resist a late-night chat with your favorite grandson—unacknowledged, of course, but who's counting?"
He leaned closer, his eyes locked on hers, daring her to flinch, to explain herself, to give him the satisfaction of her surrender.
The Queen stood there, her breath shallow, the flush on her face deepening under his presence. The corridor remained empty behind her, the guard's whisper distant, but here, in this moment, it was just them—her in her flimsy nightgown, him in his smug triumph.
She met his gaze, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Will you not invite me in?"
Julian's smirk twitched, a flicker of amusement flashing in his eyes. "Oh, sorry, Your Majesty," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he dipped into an exaggerated bow, sweeping his arm wide. "Please, do come into my humble abode—I wouldn't dream of leaving royalty on the doorstep."
He stepped aside, letting her pass.
She stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over the mess of the place—spilled ale pooling on the table, scattered mugs, crumbs of bread across the floor.
The stench of booze and sweat still lingered in the air, and her face twisted in disgust.
Julian caught it instantly, his smile widening as he observed her discomfort.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "I just got promoted, you see—Archduke and all that. The boys and I celebrated a bit. Hope it doesn't offend your refined tastes."
She rolled her eyes, catching the taunt but refusing to fully indulge him. She wasn't a fool—not tonight.
"Well, congratulations to you, Julian," she said flatly, her tone edged with bitterness, though her words were controlled. She crossed her arms, the nightgown pulling tighter across her chest, her red hair catching the candlelight.
Julian chuckled, bending to grab a mug from the floor before brushing off the dust. He then grabbed a half-filled jar of ale and poured it in, all while never leaving his eyes from hers.
"I never thought I would get congratulations from you, Grandmother," he said. "Thought you would rather choke on it than say it. Guess miracles do happen—cheers to that."
He raised the mug, the smirk never leaving his face as he took a long sip.
Her eyes stayed locked on him, tracing the smug expression that had become so familiar that it barely stung anymore. That smirk, those deep blue eyes—she was used to it now, to the way he carried himself like the center of the universe.
But as she examined him, standing there in his loose robe, hair disheveled, she had to admit that he was damn handsome. The sharp jaw, the easy confidence, the way he owned the room—it gnawed at her, a flicker of something she didn't want to name stirring beneath her resolve.
She straightened, pushing the feeling down, locking it away in the deepest corners of her mind. "Will you not serve me?" she said, a faint challenge etched into the words.
Julian chuckled and tilted the mug in his hand toward her. "Here," he said, his voice light but edged with mischief, offering it like a king tossing scraps to a beggar. He watched her closely, daring her to take it.
She hesitated, her fingers hovering near the mug, but the pull that had driven her here, the desire she couldn't quite name, won out in the end.
Then, with tight lips, she took the mug from him, her hand brushing his briefly. The contact sent a strange shiver through her, but she ignored it, lifting the mug to her lips.
The ale was warm and bitter, sliding down her throat as she took a slow sip, her gaze never leaving his.
Julian's eyes gleamed, his smirk stretching wider as he watched her drink, savoring the sight—his grandmother, the Queen, sipping from his mug in her flimsy nightgown.
"Sit, Grandma," he said, the word "Grandma" dripping with mockery, a deliberate jab at her pride, as he gestured lazily to a chair nearby.
He flopped into his own seat, the robe shifting to reveal more of his chest, and she followed his movement, lowering herself into the chair opposite him.