It had started out entirely innocently. At least, that was what he told himself.

It being the fourth hour, tea was taken as they sat down to discuss the latest issues of note within the coven, as was their custom. On this occasion there had been little to consider, as plans for the upcoming events had stalled and - much to his pleasure - none of the Shadowbound had been causing issue of late. Though he considered himself to be fundamentally equal to the woman who sat across from him, elegant hands clasping an ebon saucer and teacup, it was nonetheless satisfying to find that in their professions the playing field was as level as it was in their society.

He examined the figure before him, resplendent in midnight robes, with a discerning eye. Like he, she had bathed in the beauty of the wyrd long enough to be without the constraints of age, her alabaster skin shining in the dim lamplight. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and the Prince realised that she had at length noticed his study of her.

'I am curious,' said she, 'as to what it is about my appearance that could have you so deep in thought, High Magnate.'

His face devoid of expression, the Prince raised his teacup to his lips and made a show of inhaling its scent before taking a sip. 'I was merely pondering,' he explained, 'on the differences being the same height as one's companion makes whilst conversing. I have noticed of late, since my shifting to this form, that it is quite different.'

The Queen raised one imperious eyebrow. 'I see - I imagine, of course, it is most different to not look down upon one's counterparts.'

'Quite,' he replied, allowing a cool smile to cross his countenance. 'I find it...refreshing. Though the furniture is now a little large for my liking.'

A tinkling laugh burst forth from the Queen's lips, bouncing around the office and settling amongst the bookshelves. 'My dear prince,' she said once the mirth had abandoned her, 'I have often thought the same. Though, I imagine your husband would find it most difficult to share the furniture with you if it were more appropriate to your size...'

The smile remained fixed on the Prince's lips. It was not often that the Queen bought mention of his spouse to the office, and on this occasion it caused a warning tingle at the base of his neck. 'I am certain that my husband would be most accommodating, as he always is. I do in fact believe,' he continued, placing his saucer to one side, 'that I am due to meet him. We are done here, I think?'

The Queen nodded, regarding him with an odd expression. 'We are,' she replied curtly. 'Allow me to see you out.'

Wings spread in a glittering shadow, the royal fae made their way to the door, where as was their custom they took one another's hands to shake.

'It is a pleasure working with you, as always,' he stated in a voice devoid of warmth.

Her only reply was to smile, a broad revelation of teeth that left him in no doubt as to who was in command within that room. Next time, he decided, they would meet in his office. There was too much at stake to leave the playing field so dangerously open.

--

The Queen of the Night often found herself replaying conversations multiple times and for several days after they had taken place, intending to extract further information from the exchange or on occasion analyse the conduct of her contemporaries. It was an exceptionally rare circumstance that she found herself pondering her own words, yet for some weeks she had been doing precisely that.

It had been all too comfortable in that room, she surmised, and that was the rub of it. A well-made cup of oolong, the roar of a fire and the enveloping pleasure of a job well done - a Coven in order. In essence that was the failing of it, that she had allowed herself to feel so at ease and comfortable with the opposition. For despite all of his cool demeanour, she knew the Prince better than most; it had taken time but she had learnt to discern his false gazes from true, and to hear the difference between frost and ice in his tone.

She was without doubt, therefore, that she had unnerved him in some manner that day; and as such had taken to analysis, determined to discern the words spoken or look given that had served to rattle her Prince so. For such information would surely be precious, priceless even; her Dynasty required leverage to counter the power of his Court; that was certain. Gain a hold over he, and she would surely have domain over them all. There was no shame or guilt to be felt in these things, for the Queen was quite certain that he would do the same in her place.

It was with some surprise therefore that she, upon revisiting their discussion for the umpteenth time, stumbled upon the realisation that it was mention of the Prince's husband that had been cause to unnerve him so. From all that she had seen of them, they were an inseparable and unified force (much like she was with her own wife). It came as considerable shock to her that the one point of weakness could possibly be within their relationship. She determined that a single moment of unease could not be cause to believe this entirely true, and after some consideration decided that there was nothing for it but an experiment.

She had only ever intended it to be such; at least, that was what she told herself after the fact.

They met as always at the fourth hour for tea, this time in his office. He had insisted, citing a new painting that he had commissioned that she simply must come and see. Although she knew that he had hung the painting some months ago in truth, the Queen willingly took the bait and made her way moments before the fourth hour through the corridors to the Prince's office. A swift rapping upon the door preceded her summoning, and she entered with her wings outstretched and a warm smile prepared upon her lips.

'My Prince,' she said by way of greeting, placing her slender hands in his cool palms. 'It has been too long, and I am all anticipation about your new artwork. I understand it took the artists several years to create.'

With a small dip of his head in recognition, the Prince retracted his hands and gestured to where the painting was hung. It was without doubt one of the finest creations the Queen had laid her eyes upon, worked with oil and pastel to depict a scene that she remembered fondly from her relative's history. Their forms enshrouded in shadows, a fog coiling around their bare feet, the painting showed the leaders of old Glomdoring entwined in a heated embrace. His body not yet given over to the eternity of undeath, the towering figure of Brennan Stormcrow held strong arms around the slender waist of Rowena Nightshade, whose hands were claws that grasped at the flesh of his face and neck. Although their lips did not meet, it was clear that their bodies were drawn that way from the arch of her back towards his chest. Rowena's lips glistened blood-red, and Brennan's eyes were dark with lust as they locked with hers.

'It is a masterpiece,' breathed the Queen, her eyes alight with rapture for the lifelike representation of the figures before her. 'A travesty that you have kept it hidden all this time.'

His face was cool, a small smile playing at his lips when she turned to look at him. 'I am glad you approve,' he stated, and she could not read the expression that flashed across his face when his eyes locked with hers.

Although they returned to their usual accounts of the past months, the painting that hovered between them served as fitting metaphor for the tension that permeated the air within the office. It hovered in the back of the Queen's mind like a lingering smell, drawing fingers over her spine to stand the hairs on the back of her neck.

When she left, the Prince's handshake felt like a jolt of electricity running through her body, and it was all she could do to disconcert him with her most beaming smile and walk away.

--

The next time they met, they were not within the sanctity of their offices, and there was no social etiquette and professional integrity to shield them from the unspoken and undone. More than her desire to gain power over him, and more than his desire to prove his strength over her, was the freedom of shadow their undoing.

Darkness enveloped them as they stood beneath the Master Ravenwood, the glory and power of the wyrd pulsing through their every vein; such was the intensity of its presence. They stood there by chance, and nodded to one another in respect. The Prince's brow was lightly glowing with sweat, and in his hand he held a shield bearing an image of the Drums of the Dead. Blood had soaked into the intricate interlacing webs on his robes, and a satisfied smile rested on his face.

'A good hunt, my Prince?' asked the Queen, placing the palm of her hand against the Ravenwood to draw its power into her. She neglected to wonder when, precisely, he had become her Prince.

He seemed then to fully notice her, as if he had not before, and drew himself up to his full height as he too placed his palm upon the exposed bark of the tree. 'Indeed,' he answered imperiously, eyes narrowing in cold calculation. 'I hope you shall therefore pardon my appearance. It is not my custom to appear before others so daubed with the sanguine.'

In the darkness, the Queen hovered besides him, the hum of her wings drowned out by the thrumming of the Ravenwood as its power channelled into the two of them. One small spider corpse landed on her shoulder as she regarded their surroundings, and the Prince reached to brush it off. She shivered as his fingertips brushed along the sensitive skin of her neck.

'I assure you,' she replied in a voice that was considerably huskier than she intended, 'that I shall never be dissuaded by the presence of blood.'

His storm-coloured eyes regarded her intently, and somehow the darkness served to disguise how close they hovered. 'Dissuaded from what, my Queen?'

She reached out to hold onto the nexus then, unable to keep her wings beating now that her heart and the wyrden power around them was throbbing quite so intently in her ears and throat. Somehow emboldened by the shadows that caressed them, she found herself whispering a reply that would never have left her lips in the safety and sanctity of their offices. 'I am not sure. What, precisely, is this dance we are leading?'

As they caressed her cheek, the backs of his fingers were far colder than she would have anticipated. Instead of answering her question, he leant into her until she could feel his slender body flush with hers, and her wings were almost crushed against the giant tree behind them.

'The love I feel for my husband runs thicker than blood, deeper than any water and is more than words could ever express,' he asserted, in a voice devoid of all emotion, though somehow the detachment he felt from his statement only made it ring truer. 'Are you aware of that, my Queen?'

Her body shuddered, and the Queen almost cursed their proximity for robbing her of all ability to hide the reaction she felt as his breath caressed her skin. 'As do I my wife,' she replied, privately relieved when her voice carried the strength and conviction that a woman of her standing ought to.

'I merely wish to ensure,' stated the Prince, as he cast his shield and athame to the side in favour of wrapping his fingers around her slender waist, 'that you fully comprehend...this...to be a purely logical consequence to the manner of our association, and nothing more.'

'You are remiss, my Prince,' the Queen hazarded boldly, lifting her arms to place them around his neck, her fingertips twining in the soft auburn hair there. 'How am I to comprehend if you do not fully explain to me precisely what...this...is?'

In the darkness, all she could see was the glinting of his fangs as he smiled. 'I intend to, your majesty,' he hissed into her ear, chuckling under his breath as she tensed. 'Oh, do I ever intend to.'

Shadows enveloped them and shrouded their forms as they slipped to the base of the tree, where their tryst could be hidden amongst the roots of the Ravenwood where no one would ever discover it. In the dim light of their alcove, the Prince saw only the pure white of the Queen's skin, and she the cool intensity of his eyes as they glowed with victory. The power of the Master Ravenwood pulsed as the beat of a drum through their bodies, and the glory of Glomdoring filled them anew.

Her screams echoed through the trees, cut short only by his claiming of her lips.