When Bessa woke the next morning, the first thing she noticed was the noise. The usual quiet of the countryside was gone, replaced by a low, industrious hum of activity that did not belong to the wind or the creak of her cottage settling.
She pulled on her coat and stepped outside, still blinking sleep from her eyes, and stopped dead.
Her land had been professionally raided.
These people clearly had no business being so efficient at what looked like large-scale botanical theft. But at the same time this looked like a small army of gardeners and laborers moved through her garden like ants, their hands gentle but relentless.
They were uprooting everything. Every winter herb, every cold weather resistant vegetable, every stubborn flower that had survived her years of care.
Every single one. Even the soil itself was being packed into large, labeled containers as though it were the most precious cargo in the world.
And at the edge of it all, standing with his back to her, was Damon. The Emperor of Iondora.
Watching the entire operation like a general overseeing a particularly delicate military campaign, his silhouette was sharp against the pale morning light. His coat was dark against the snow, and his posture was as composed as ever.
But there was something about the way he stood there that made him look less like a monarch and more like a man who had woken up unreasonably early to supervise the abduction of a vegetable patch. Even from here, he looked amused.
Bessa didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or start taking notes on root ball preservation.
In the end, she turned back inside, getting dressed properly, then came back out, watching the Emperor of the known world personally ensure that her root vegetables were being treated with the respect they deserved.
The man smiled at her. "Am I too hasty?"
"No. The faster, the better," Bessa answered, and meant it.
The longer she lingered, the harder it would be to leave. Better to tear the bandage off, or, in this case, watch a team of professionals carefully peel her entire garden out of the ground like a living carpet.
They stood side by side, watching the organized chaos unfold. Workers passed them with polite, sheepish bows, clearly not used to gardening under the direct supervision of their Emperor and his future Empress.
Everyone agreed that the whole scene felt like a fever dream brought on by too much tea and existential, imperial dread.
"I heard from my men that the man from yesterday only left quite late at night," Damon said casually, not looking at her.
Bessa flinched. "I-I’m sorry!"
"That’s okay." The Emperor shook his head. "I understand."
"But... others won’t, right?" Bessa whispered.
Being seen with another man after she had already accepted the position of his fiancée, wouldn’t that bring shame to the Emperor?
She should have been more careful. She should have sent Jenggala away the moment the sun set. But she hadn’t. Because she was weak and greedy. Because she had wanted just a few more hours, talking with him about various things.
Bessa didn’t want Jenggala to misunderstand.
Even though she never told him about her feelings, and even though it was impossible in the first place, to be a dragon’s mate, she still needed him to know that she was doing this not for herself.
Not for love. Not for money—
Bessa wanted Jenggala to know that it was for a dream. And a beautiful one at that.
"I’ll make others understand too," Damon said. "No matter how many handsome men tail behind you, I’ll make people think twice before doing a double take."
Actually, Damon mentioned it not to rebuke her. He was just worried. Was she okay? She looked... okay. But not that okay at the same time.
Leaving one wonderful dream to adopt an even grander, ambitious dream was one thing. But leaving love too?
Bessa was still worried.
"That man..." she whispered.
"I know." Damon calmly said. "It’s actually a bit hard finding men more handsome than me in this world. So far, I only know three of them. Four, including the man you’re crushing on."
Bessa smiled. So he already knew Jenggala was the one she liked. He guessed right. Well, perhaps the moment the man arrived at her doorstep, it was never a hard guess to begin with.
"Who are these three?" she asked.
"The first is a good colleague of mine, the Golden Lion King," Damon said. "The second is someone deeply infuriating to me, the Black Wolf King."
Bessa blinked. Those men...
"The third is... Princess Ivy’s fiancé, Young Lord of the Karas Tribe, Magnus Karas." Damon scowled as he hissed the name, his expression souring like milk left out in the sun.
Bessa studied him for a moment, then tilted her head. "I think at least the ugliest one of those three is comparable to you, if you didn’t have those dark eyebags and that tired look."
"—?!—Ah—AHAHAHAH!" Damon flinched, then burst into laughter. It was a real laugh, startled out of him, bright and unguarded.
Bessa laughed with him, covering her wide smile with her hand.
"The ugliest one of them is actually much more handsome than me. Having healthy and evenly colored skin won’t help me that much," Damon said, still grinning.
"No way," Bessa shook her head. "Human men have their own charm! Those three you mentioned are all beasts. They’re shapeshifters! How do we know those faces are their real faces?"
"You know that’s not how humanoid forms work, right?"
"I don’t care."
Damon laughed again, and Bessa laughed too, the two of them standing in the middle of her uprooted garden, surrounded by crates of soil, and for a moment the weight of the dream didn’t feel so heavy.
This was exactly what Damon liked about this kind of relationship. No fire... no chaos...
Just two people standing in the wreckage of an uprooted garden, trading dry jokes about beautiful men and dark circles. It was easy. Steady, so to speak. It was, he thought, the only kind of partnership that made sense for someone like him.
As of right now, Bessa truly was the most perfect Empress candidate the world could ever conjure for him. She understood the assignment without needing it explained. She didn’t cling. She didn’t demand...
She simply stood there in the cold with soil under her feet and matched his mood with an ease that felt almost dangerous. She didn’t even seem like she was trying to. No, she truly wasn’t. This was just genuinely Bessa the farmer.
But that wasn’t the only reason he had brought up the man.
"My Lady," Damon turned to her, and his smile was the gentlest his smile ever was. "It’s not too late to change your mind. Even now."
Bessa looked up at him, her eyes faltering.
Not too late? Even... now? After the adoption? After the plans and the agreements and the dream—?
After the army of gardeners currently making off with her vegetables?
"That man from yesterday," Damon continued, and his smile turned lopsided, almost mischievous, "he seems to be fond of you too."
...
...
...Huh?
Bessa’s brain short-circuited.
The words bounced around inside her skull like a confused bird trapped in a chapel.
Fond? Of her? Jenggala? The Dragon? The Green Dragon of Earth?
"Y-you mean... Lord Jenggala?" she stammered, her voice several octaves higher than she intended.
Damon’s smile widened, and he looked entirely too pleased with himself. "That man looked at me as though he was mentally setting fire to my carriage. Why do you think so?"
No.
No way.
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