Cassian sat before a plate of cold, untouched food. His eyes were set on the wall at the other end of the room, his face a little more severe than usual.

He was grappling with his reality. The one he thought he had known and understood but had been unraveled in the last 24 hours. Not only was his faith in individuals shaken, but his confidence in his military was, too. And there was so much to do. Worrying about Cambria and Coheed’s assimilation was supposed to be the brunt of it, after of course the attack on Dresmond…but how could Cassian look outside of Nevermere when it was crumbling within?

The guard that stepped in got the king’s dark gaze. He gave a curt nod at the announcement, and Regan would be allowed in.

Cassian didn’t stand. Didn’t smile. Didn’t greet her. She’d likely feel the wrath roiling off of him in a different way than an average human might.

Regan stepped inside, finally tucking her hair behind her ears so her face could be seen, burning with her own ire (one based on far more simple things). She was prepared to let words spring from her tongue and immediately launch into whatever it was she’d been stewing on, but the sight of Cassian sitting before his untouched plate stopped her.

Cassian’s fury prickled beneath her skin, set her wolf growling—desperate to be released. Regan breathed for a moment, counting, just looking at Cassian with firey eyes until she could make her tongue move.

“Your majesty.” Even now, there was an order to be maintained. Regan would wait for the king.

Cassian hadn’t expected that. Regan was usually all fire and whip to the horse’s flanks. He’d expected her to speak, to smile, to launch. But she hesitated. She fell back. He could tell she was as agitated as he was, yet she regarded him with respect and…discipline. He was surprised enough to be shaken from his dark thoughts.

Cassian’s head nodded, an ever so slight motion that released her from attention and invited her closer. She could sit. She could stand. She could talk freely. She could keep the silence. It was up to her.

Regan relaxed—though in this case, relaxing meant visible agitation. Running her hand hair through her hair as she tried not to pick at the scar on her chest hidden beneath the tunic as she approached Cassian. She would continue to stand.

“Alys tried to stop me from taking the Dresmondi. I grabbed him, Octavius—the soldier—tried to intervene on my behalf, and that’s when he was turned,” Regan gripped the back of a chair. 1…2…3.

“Do we know who did it?"

Cassian’s eyes trailed over Regan as she drew nearer, assessing the state of her health. They didn’t linger on her face, on those scars that marred the beauty that had just begun to blossom. That is, that he had just begun to notice.

Her words drew his attention to her eyes. There was no indication that what she was saying was news to him.

“Bex Brekker.” Cassian said simply. “She’s dead.” That issue was closed, as far as he was concerned. He could tell Regan had more to say.

Regan had been ready to cast blame as part of her own witch hunt. But the witch Cassian revealed was not the one she’d been prepared to point her finger at. And more than that—she was already dead. She’d missed it and would be lying if she said she wasn’t disappointed.

“Good,” She said with a bitter grimace. Even though that matter was resolved, at this point, Regan’s anger would not be contained and her warpath kept rolling. She pulled out a chair and slouched into it, running a hand through her hair before letting it fall back in her face. She was quiet for a moment, staring at the table, chewing on the inside of her cheek with a sour expression on her face.

"I want to talk about Alys," Regan looked up from where she'd been staring, directing her gaze firmly at Cassian.

If this wasn’t the time, she’d accept that. But Regan didn’t want to wait—not with the full moon so close.

Cassian watched his Huntsman. A series of strange events had brought them together, yet here they were now. She sat, and he reached a slow hand up from where it rest in his lap under the table and used two fingertips to push his plate towards her. An unspoken offering that she could very easily deny.

At the mention of Alys, hairs on the back of Cassian’s neck rose. He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, inviting her to continue.

Regan had never been one to deny food. She reached for the plate, pulling it towards her and snagging the roll on it. Regan tore it with unnecessary ferocity as if it were to blame for her current predicament, before popping a piece in her mouth. She plotted her next words as she chewed with a scowl and a furrowed brow. Once she swallowed, she returned her gaze to Cassian, putting the other piece of the roll back on the plate.

“Alys doesn’t want me here. Not as part of the pack, not near you. Which is fine—I don’t serve her, I serve you. She doesn’t have to like it. But—” Regan didn’t notice she was picking at the table, leaving tiny scratches from where a hint of a claw started to poke through her fingertips, “If she lets that get in the way of me carrying out your orders, I have a problem. We have a problem. This time it was the Dresmondi, but next time…” Regan’s nails were now sticking into the table.

“If people are in danger, if something like the ball happens again, I can’t be looking over my shoulder to wonder if she’s got my back. She…” Regan swallowed, cheeks starting to turn a little pink, “She said she loves you. That she wouldn’t let me shove my way between you, that she’d fight to keep her place. I don’t want a fight, but if she plans on keeping this up, I’ll give her one.”

And it was clear that Regan meant it.

Cassian’s hand reached out, slowly, and would seek to take Regan’s…out of the table. Her control was still a tenuous thing, wasn’t it? He’d hold the back of the hand for a silent beat before releasing it and returning his own to his lap. Someone was going to have to waste precious time sanding, staining, and resealing that table now. Come on, Regan.

The Huntsman’s words were chaotic and disjointed, full of raw emotion. Cassian both loathed and valued that in the woman before him. He didn’t like when it stole her reasonableness, but the humanity of it was refreshing. She was a blazing flame, and in contrast he was a cold stone. When he was close to her like this he felt himself warming.

There was an unspoken message in her final words that Cassian heard clearly. The king softened, whether that was visible to Regan or not would depend on how acutely she was studying his face.

He might have had something to say, but for now he kept quiet, simply looking on at the woman at his side.

When he moved her hand, Regan had to resist the urge to reach for him. Not in affection, but in desperation. She wanted to shake him. To force something out of him other than calm and control. Her fingers curled into her palm to pierce into the flesh there instead.

Regan waited. For something, anything. But Cassian stayed silent. Her chest continued to rise and fall in rapid breaths. Her jaw tightened, brow screwed up. She wanted him to be angry and contradict her, or agree with equal ferocity, or even reach out and smack her for her insolence.

But he didn’t.

Regan faltered for a moment. Her eyes flickering to reveal something else. Grief mingled with her frustration like cold rain in a windstorm.

“We’re supposed to be better than this. Witches. All of us,” she said bitterly in quiet, almost childish plea, “War is coming and we’re killing our own.”

He didn’t.

Cassian wasn’t one to speak without thought, and he didn’t think we’ll when in a slough of emotion.

Regan’s tone took a shift and she said something very true, very right, and very relatable. Was this even about Alys?

“War will be delayed.” Cassian said it as quietly as she had, only where her word were a plea his were a vote of confidence. “Everything,” and his tone encompassed her earlier concerns, “will be set right…or, if it can’t be salvaged, then it will be removed.”

Regan listened, as when he’d finished the tension in her shoulders had started to release. A delay. That brought some relief, but admittedly not as much as his next statement. Regan’s face softened—or as much as was possible with the criss cross of purple scars. Her dark eyes gazed at Cassian with the puppy-like devotion she failed so miserably at hiding. She scanned his face, looking for the softness there until she found it.

“I’d like to stay,” Regan asked in a characteristically awkward mumble, “I can be quiet, you don’t have to, you know, say anything, I just…I’d like to stay. For a little. Or however long.”

He wasn’t sure which part got her, but she seemed satisfied. Good. That was all Cassian had for her right now.

Regan’s request to stay was met with a glance towards the door.

“I was about to depart.” He admitted. He looked her over once, a silence punctuating the statement, before adding, “But you can attend me.”