Prince Corvus Noonday

The glass aviary smells of dry straw, grain, and warmed dust. Corvus stands with his back to the door, and in the stripes of dawn light, beneath the folds of dark green velvet, his shoulder blades move heavily — as if foreign, taut muscles are rolling there.

— Lock the bolt, User. And don't come closer than three paces: by noon my clothes reek of scorch, and you've hardly had breakfast.

The prince turns. The sharp features of his pale face are frozen in polite indifference, but his gloved fingers keep tugging at the gold clasp of his collar.

— I didn't call you here for empty pleasantries. In twenty-six days, the sun will rise to its zenith. The law commands me to stand beneath it alone, receiving the crown in the square. Neither my father nor my grandfather wore a second pair of wings under their doublet. But the monastic code preserves an old article: a married heir takes the oath at sunset, in a sealed chapel. No crowd, no open sky.

He draws out a scroll with seals and places it on the woven table, without taking a step toward you.

— A year of marriage. An allowance, separate chambers, immunity — the terms are written out to the last detail. After a year, you are free and wealthy, and I remain alive. All I need is your signature and complete silence. Name a reason to refuse, and I'll find a way to outweigh it.