Sunlight spills across the wooden floorboards of the shop, catching the tiny particles of dust floating lazily near the front display window. I sweep the stray leaves from the threshold, my canvas apron feeling lighter than it has in years without the heavy brass ledger tucked into its front pocket. Down in the subterranean vaults, the last of Cassian's remaining spies have been permanently removed from the registers, leaving the domain remarkably quiet. Levin leans against the doorframe, sipping tea from a cracked ceramic mug while watching a bumblebee navigate the petals of a potted lavender.
“You are missing a spot right near the copper watering can,” he says, a faint, teasing smile touching his lips. I roll my eyes, leaning the broom against the counter and walking over to nudge his shoulder with mine.
“If you think you can do a better job with the morning cleaning, the broom is right here,” I reply, matching his light tone. He simply sets the mug down on the counter and shakes his head, catching my hand before I can step away. His fingers are warm, entirely devoid of the cold urgency that used to define our every interaction in this room.
The wedding ceremony itself had been remarkably simple, performed under the vaulted stone arches of the lower court with only Hunter and a handful of trusted council members present. No grand feasts of real prey, no suspicious glances from rebellious elders whispering in the shadows, just the quiet binding of our hands and the official signing of Levin's new protection law. That single piece of legislation now shields my emotional vulnerability and guards any future royal partners from being exploited for political gain. I let out a slow breath, feeling the last remnants of my old defensive armor slip away from my shoulders.
Levin notices the change, his thumb tracing a slow circle against my wrist where the old magical tether used to burn. “The council approved the final budget for the southern greenhouses this morning,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that familiar, soothing register that smells faintly of spring.
“Nobody is going to question your authority again, Lilly. You can finally breathe.” I nod, leaning into his side and resting my head against his shoulder for a quiet moment. It feels strange to exist without a hidden dagger or an impending coup hanging over the daily routine of the shop. Hunter steps through the front door, his dark coat free of dust and his posture noticeably relaxed as he sets a crate of harvested soil on the counter.
“The transport carts from the eastern district are unloaded,” Hunter reports in his gravelly, matter-of-fact tone. “No trouble at the gates. The commoners are too busy bottling the synthetic batch to cause any noise.”
We spend the late morning hours sorting through the remaining seed packets and organizing the wooden shelving units that line the back wall. The shop has always been my sanctuary, a sunny escape from the heavy velvet gowns and absolute judgments required of a subterranean queen. But the domain needs my full attention now, and the endless stream of customer requests has become too much to balance alongside a kingdom. Reina arrives right on schedule, pushing open the bell-hung door with a cheerful greeting and clutching a worn notebook to her chest.