The afternoon sun had begun its slow descent by the time they finally parted ways—She'd been called away for some matter of dragon etiquette—something about a visiting elder who required formal greeting—and he'd pleaded exhaustion from the council session.
Ash wandering back toward the palace proper with the particular gait of a man who needed to look purposeful while having absolutely no purpose.
He took the long route.
Specifically, the route that passed through the east corridor of the administrative wing, where he happened to know Ignis conducted private meetings on council days. He wasn't lingering. He was simply taking in the architecture, which was genuinely impressive and had nothing to do with the faint possibility of running into a certain Dragon Lord.
He almost made it past the door before it opened.
Ignis filled the frame the way he always did—like the doorway had been built specifically to accommodate him and nothing larger would be permitted. He was still in his council robes, the silver threading catching the late afternoon light. His golden eyes fell on Ash with the perfect neutrality of a man who had spent centuries practicing exactly that expression.
"Prince Asher."
"Lord Ignis."
A beat. The corridor was empty, the nearest guard station thirty paces back around a corner.
Ash kept his expression pleasant. Ignis kept his expression impenetrable. Neither of them moved.
"You seem to have recovered," Ignis said finally. "From your stargazing incident."
Ash blinked. "News travels fast."
"My staff is attentive." A pause so thin you could slip a blade through it. "The serpent hedge will require six weeks of remediation."
"I'll send a formal apology to the groundskeeping department."
"See that you do."
Another silence. This one had texture—weight and heat underneath its surface, like stone left too long in the sun. Ash watched Ignis's jaw work slightly, as though he was choosing and discarding words in rapid succession behind that composed face.
"Last night—" Ignis began.
"Was the incense," Ash said quietly. Not to dismiss it. To give Ignis the door, if he needed it.
Something moved through those golden eyes. Too fast to name.
"Yes," Ignis said. "The incense."
"Of course."
"What happened was—a consequence of circumstances. Not—" He stopped. "Not indicative of anything."
"Naturally."
Ignis looked at him sharply, as though searching for sarcasm. Ash kept his face open, neutral, and absolutely did not let any of what he was actually feeling surface in his expression. He'd learned that much, at least, in three weeks of dragon court. Show them what they can handle.
"You understand," Ignis continued, and now there was something slightly too careful in his tone, "that this cannot affect the negotiations. The alliance serves both our peoples. Whatever... confusion arose last night is irrelevant to that."
"I agree completely," Ash said.
Another sharp look. "You agree."
"Yes. The alliance is what matters. I'm committed to seeing it through." He paused, then added, with the precise timing of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, "I had a very good conversation with Seraphina this morning, actually. She's extraordinary."
The word landed.
Ignis went very still in the way that large, dangerous things go still when they've decided something. The tip of his tail, just visible at the edge of his robes, twitched once.
"Yes," he said. "She is."
"You've raised her well. She's—genuine. Warm. Most nobles aren't like that. It's remarkable." Ash let the sincerity come through, because it was sincere—complicated and weaponized, yes, but real.
"She deserves someone who sees that."
A muscle in Ignis's jaw shifted. "She does."
"I intend to." Ash met his eyes steadily. "You have my word on that."
The silence that followed was a different creature than the ones before it. It had an edge. A texture like the moment before lightning.
"Your word," Ignis repeated. Soft. Too soft.
"My word," Ash confirmed.
Ignis held his gaze for three full seconds—which, from a dragon who could hold anything for as long as he wanted, meant something Ash couldn't quite decode.
Then he stepped back.
"The third session of negotiations begins at sundown," he said, his voice returned to its council cadence, smooth and perfectly controlled. "I expect the human delegation to have reviewed the revised tariff proposals."
"We'll be prepared."
"See that you are." Ignis turned away. Then, almost as an afterthought, not turning back: "And, Prince Asher."
Ash waited.
"My groundskeepers take considerable pride in their work." A beat. "Do attempt to stay out of the hedgerow."
He walked away before Ash could respond.
Ash stood in the empty corridor for a moment, staring at the space where Ignis had been.
Then he let out a breath that was not—absolutely was not—a shaky one.
Right, he thought. Fine. Good. This is manageable.
He turned and walked the other direction, jaw set, hands loose at his sides, every nerve in his body conducting a very lively internal argument about the exact meaning of those three seconds of eye contact and the losing odds of a human heart against a dragon who looked like that when the afternoon light caught his horns.
The serpent hedge, he decided, had gotten off easy.
***
The third negotiation session ran two hours past sundown.
Ash sat through every minute of it with his attention divided equally between the trade proposals in front of him and the impossible task of not being aware of exactly where Ignis was in the room at all times.
It was involuntary. Irritating. Like trying not to track a fire source when you'd been cold for a long time.
Ignis, for his part, was a masterclass in absolute indifference. He participated in the session with precise, devastating competence—cutting through ambiguity in trade clauses with a few words, redirecting circular arguments before they could waste his time, occasionally silencing an entire side of the table with nothing more than a look. He ran his council the way Ash imagined he ran his hoard: with total awareness of every piece, and zero tolerance for disorder.
He addressed Ash twice. Both times with the measured courtesy owed to a foreign dignitary. Both times without a single crack in the surface.
It was, Ash reflected, extremely impressive and deeply annoying.
By the time the session concluded and the hall began emptying in clusters of murmured conversation, Ash had made himself a quiet promise: he would not be the one to make the next move. He'd laid his cards on the table last night with all the subtlety of a man on fire. The next step—if there was a next step—was Ignis's to take or refuse.
And if he refused it?
Then Ash would focus on Seraphina. On the alliance. On the future he'd come here to build.
He was very nearly convincing himself of this as he gathered his papers and turned toward the exit.
And found Ignis standing between him and the door.