5. What the Bird sees beyond Bars

"Have the tea, Cessalie."

She nodded, lifting the porcelain cup with the same careful grace the women around her always did—fingers soft, wrists loose, posture perfect. Like drinking tea was just another performance.

The tea tasted like jasmine. It could’ve been poison, and she wouldn’t have blinked.

Across from her, Davian watched quietly, the faintest smile curving his lips. He was dressed in deep green and gold today, the rich colors draped over him like they belonged there. His white gloves stayed on.

It was only their second meeting. The first had been… unexpected. Careful words, promises of space and choice. She didn’t trust him.

He didn’t speak right away, just sipped his own tea, gaze on her like she was some painting he couldn’t quite figure out.

"You look calmer today," he said finally.

Cessalie shrugged. "I’ve accepted my fate."

His smile deepened, maddeningly gentle. "You’ve accepted the tea. I’ll settle for that today."

She didn’t smile back. But she drank.

Davian set his cup down. "I thought perhaps," he began, voice smooth like silk drawn tight, "you’d like to know more about the duchy. Your future home."

Cessalie’s eyes drifted toward the tall velvet-draped windows. She counted the seconds in her head, the way she always did when she didn’t want to engage.

But he kept speaking, unbothered.

"The palace is older than most estates in the east. Marble halls, a winter garden with crystal-glass roofing, the gallery holds nearly four hundred paintings, some older than Alderwyn itself." He chuckled softly, as if any of that mattered. "The people there are kind and educated. They’ll answer to you."

Cessalie sipped her tea again. "And if I don’t want them to?"

His brows lifted slightly, but there wasn’t surprise in his expression. "Then they won’t," he said simply. "I don’t want a puppet. You’d be the lady of the house, not my shadow."

It was supposed to win her over.

He leaned in, just enough to close the space without invading it. "Whatever you want. A library. A study, tutors, horses, music. It’s yours."

Yours.

The word settled heavy in her chest.

Her eyes dropped to her lap, fingers tightening around the delicate cup. "I’m not interested in palaces," she said finally. "Or silks. Or whatever’s ‘mine.’"

Davian didn’t look disappointed. Just patient. Like he expected this. "Then what are you interested in, Cessalie?"

"Freedom."

A pause.

"I’ll give you as much of it as I can," he promised softly.

And that was the problem. As much as he can. That’s always how it starts. The illusion of choice. The quiet, suffocating kindness that binds tighter than chains.

Cessalie didn’t answer.

She just kept drinking the tea.

Davian didn’t push. He just leaned back with that calm, like he could already map out every thought in her head but was decent enough not to say it out loud. It didn’t win him points. If anything, it made her trust him even less.

Cessalie’s fingers tapped lightly against the rim of her teacup.

"You don’t know anything about me," she pointed out.

"I don’t," Davian agreed, lips pressing together. "But I’d like to. Not as the Duke’s daughter. Not as a Draevin, as Duchess Cessalie Aurelthron. As you."

She scoffed quietly. As me, right. The me that only existed after the title they’d decided to staple to her life. The Duke’s legitimate daughter. The duchess-to-be. Nobody ever cared about her beyond that.

"I don’t want to trap you, Cessalie," Davian said, voice level, never rushing. "I’m not offering you perfection. I’m offering something better than what you’ve been handed so far. And yes, we’re getting married. I agreed to that. But I’m not asking for love. Just… that you feel safe. The rest is yours to decide."

She stared at him for a long moment.

Men didn’t say that.

And when they did, they never meant it.

She looked away first. "Fine," she muttered. "Show me your palace. Your horses. Your books. Whatever."

His smile was faint, almost amused, but there was warmth tucked behind it. "As you wish, Cessalie."

And for once, in a long, long time, sitting in a room with a man didn’t feel like being suffocated.

Didn’t mean she trusted him.

Davian tilted his head slightly, still composed. "So… what do you like, Cessalie? What makes you feel alive?"

Her brows drew together, caught off guard.

People told her what to like. Embroidery, social grace, siilent obedience. No one ever asked, and if they did, it was never a real question.

So she didn’t answer at first. Just watched him, waiting for the mask to slip, for the condescending smirk, the patronizing laugh.

But he just… waited.

So finally, she answered. "Books."

His eyes sparked the smallest bit, like it wasn’t the answer he expected, but it pleased him anyway.

"I like reading," she added, glancing away, rubbing her arm. "Not fairy tales or romance trash they shove at girls.I like history, strategy, philosophy, finance....real things. Things with blood in them."

A pause settled between them.

"Interesting," Davian said, like he meant it. "Any favorites?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You actually care, or are you just humoring me?"

"I actually care."

She studied him again, skeptical but curious, then finally tested him.

"There’s this book," she said, keeping her tone casual, "The Tides of Revarim. It’s banned in most duchies. Talks about revolution. About how power rots kings from the inside out. I’ve read it six times."

His brow lifted, clearly impressed.

"You’re bold."

"Or stupid."

"Sometimes they’re the same thing."

A breath escaped her, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief.

"And you?" Cessalie asked suddenly, sharp enough to catch him off guard. "What do you like, Duke Davian? Or do you just collect wives and charm girls into cages?"

A twitch of a smile ghosted across his face.

"I like order," he answered simply. "A well-run city, clean systems, laws that protect people instead of crushing them. Fencing, art—though I can’t paint to save my life."

"Of course," she muttered. "You sound so noble."

He smiled wider, unbothered. "I said I like those things. Didn’t say I was good."

For a second, she had no reply. He wasn’t giving her anything easy to hate. That unsettled her more than anger ever could.

She turned back to her tea, eyes narrowing.

The rest of the conversation faded into mentions of his duchy, trade routes, the winter gardens his late wife loved, the chapel with sapphire glass, a library that stretched across three floors.

He said she’d be its lady soon, free to do as she pleased within those walls.

As if freedom and walls ever belonged in the same breath.

They all dressed it up nice. Yours to command, they said. As if a throne inside a cage was anything but a prison. Cessalie never wanted keys. She wanted a world without locks. But they kept handing her rooms.

Everyone called it freedom when you got to choose which perch you sang from. But real freedom wasn’t velvet curtains and polite choices.

It was sky.

Eventually, Davian stood, smoothing his coat, the green and gold catching in the afternoon light.

"I’ll be away for a few days due to couurt business," he said. "But I’ll return."

Cessalie only nodded, fingers loose around the cooling tea.

He left without another word. Like a ghost fading into quiet.

And then came the summons.

To his office.

The halls felt colder as she walked, guards at her heels, maids trailing behind like she might hurl herself out a window if left unsupervised. The study smelled the same as always—spice, old smoke, and the lingering rot of control.

Her father didn’t look up at first, scribbling something across the papers on his desk. Only when the silence dragged did he speak.

"You’ve met him twice now, haven’t you?"

Cessalie stayed quiet.

His gaze lifted, sharp and amused, that cold, familiar smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

"He likes you," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Imagine that. Even after turning out such an unladylike daughter."

Her jaw tightened.

The smirk sharpened. "Behaving so well because you like him too? Is that it?" His head tilted slightly. "First love, Cessalie?"

She said nothing, because in this house, silence was the only shield left.

His eyes narrowed, just a flicker, enough to signal danger. "I asked you a question."

Her fists clenched at her sides. "No."

He arched a brow. "No, you don’t like him? Or no, you won’t answer?"

Cessalie's voice stayed flat. "I’m behaving. Because you told me to."

The amusement dropped from his face like a mask slipping.

"So it’s obedience. Not affection."

"I don’t even know him," she bit out.

"You’ve spent time with him."

"Twice."

"And love blooms in two meetings."

He stood slowly. She tensed, a step back ready, but he didn’t come closer this time.

"Just don’t embarrass me," he warned, his voice turning to ice. "He’s one of the youngest Dukes on the High Court. He is disciplined and loyal to the Crown. The kind of man you should’ve been, if only you weren’t born a useless little girl with no magic and too much defiance."

He sat back down, like his words weren’t knives.

"You’ll keep seeing him," he ordered. "And you’ll behave."

"And if I don’t?"

His silence was answer enough.

Cessalie turned before he could decide to remind her with bruises.

But the worst part wasn’t the threat.

It was how, even in that room filled with power and smoke and quiet venom, she still couldn’t figure Davian out.

And walking blind into a gilded trap? That scared her more than anything.

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