Brushing her hair wasn't part of my job at first.
No one in the castle touched it—not the maids, not the attendants, not even her tailors. Her silver locks were sacred, or something close to it. They shimmered like woven moonlight, strands cascading down her back in perfect order, each one smooth as fine thread and sharp enough to gleam in candlelight.
But one night, after a long day of meetings and strategy and discipline, she looked tired. Not angry. Not irritated. Just… weary.
So I stepped behind her.
She didn't move when I picked up the brush.
Didn't flinch when I ran it through her hair.
And when I finished—after I'd gently untangled each section and laid it down like satin on her shoulders—she said it.
"You did well."
Just that. Three words.
But it hit me like a storm.
"Thank you," I said, trying to sound normal, but my throat was tight. I went to bed with a smile on my face. That one sentence stayed with me all night like a song stuck in my head.
The next day, I was still holding onto it.
I moved through my duties like I was walking on clouds. Polished the throne faster than usual. Organized the treasury logs without sighing once. Even made her tea in the exact way she liked—lightly steeped with a twist of drakebark.
She noticed.
She always noticed.
"You seem... energized today," she said, watching me over the rim of her teacup.
I stiffened.
"Just... happy."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Why?"
"I—" I hesitated, then scratched the back of my neck. "I guess I like being praised."
As soon as I said it, I regretted it.
Her face didn't change. But the silence that followed was heavier than iron.
"I mean—" I rushed to explain, "I know it's not my place to expect that from you. You're the queen. And I'm just—"
"What praise?"
I blinked. "Huh?"
"What praise do you think you've received from me?"
I swallowed. "Just… things like… you know, 'good job.' Or 'you did well.' Stuff like that."
She tilted her head, watching me.
"That's it?"
I nodded.
She didn't say anything.
She just stared.
Then: "You're dismissed."
I opened my mouth to say something else, but her tone didn't leave room for argument.
So I bowed.
And I left.
I wasn't angry. I wasn't sad.
But the silence after that conversation… was worse than both.
Evening came, like it always did, with the smell of roasted basilisk tail and the faint crackle of heat from the royal hearth.
I brought her dinner.
Silver tray. Polished goblet. A small portion of spiced flamefruit—her favorite dessert, though she never admitted it.
She sat on the velvet-lined throne beside her private balcony, armored only in silk robes, her wings draped around the sides of the chair like curtains of power.
I approached, as always, with my head low and voice steady.
"Dinner is served, Your Maj—"
She held up a hand.
"No."
I froze. "...No?"
"Stop calling me that."
I blinked. "But… it's your title."
She stood slowly, walking toward me, her eyes unreadable.
"I know what my title is," she said. "But I'm not just your queen. I'm your wife."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Then tried again.
"...My lady?"
"No."
"My mistress?"
Her wings twitched.
"No."
"...Vilo?"
Her eyes narrowed.
"That's what everyone else calls me."
I felt my stomach twist.
"Then what should I call you?"
She didn't answer immediately. She stepped in closer until I could feel the heat from her body. Her hand slid up my chest, resting lightly near my collar.
"Call me something only you would say."
I swallowed hard.
"L-Lovely?"
Her eye twitched.
"No."
"Sweetheart?"
Her expression darkened.
"Try again."
My mind raced.
Then, somehow, the word tumbled out before I could think about it.
"...Dear?"
She froze.
Not angry. Not cold. Just... still.
Then she stepped back. The tension in her shoulders loosened.
"Good," she said quietly. "That will do."
I bowed deeply. "Thank you, Dear—"
"Don't make it formal."
"Thank you… dear."
She turned away, but I caught it—barely—the smallest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
---
Later that evening, I was walking past the royal hall when I heard it—screaming.
I paused in the shadows and peeked through the open archway.
One of her advisors knelt on the cold floor, head bowed, trembling.
"I didn't mean to—! It slipped, Your— Your—!"
"You called me 'Your Majesty,'" Vilo said calmly, circling the man. "I told you not to in private meetings. And yet…"
He sobbed. "Please, I meant no offense—!"
There was a snap, a wet crunch, and then silence.
She turned away from his crumpled, lifeless form, crimson dripping from her claws.
Her face didn't flicker.
Until she noticed me.
She said nothing, just locked eyes with me.
And then walked past—expression softening.
"Evening, dear."
That single word hit harder than any execution.
She really did treat me differently.
I didn't know why. I didn't understand how.
But for some reason, in a world where one wrong word could cost you your life…
She let me call her dear.