Damon barely noticed her presence at first.

He was already somewhat lost in thought, walking down the side corridor that led to the mansion’s outer courtyards, when he caught the soft sound of footsteps ahead—firm, calm, without any hurry. The kind of footstep that didn’t need to announce authority because it simply possessed it.

When he looked up, there was Morgana.

She was coming from the opposite direction, passing through the stone arch that led to the front courtyard, dressed in clothes too simple for someone like her, but which, somehow, still seemed excessively elegant. Her dark hair was loose, falling down her back like a living shadow, and her expression was neutral, focused, as if she were resolving something trivial—which, coming from her, was always suspicious.

Damon slowed his pace, more by instinct than by conscious decision.

“Morgana,” he said, in a careful tone.

She turned her face to him, surprised just enough to be polite.

“Damon.”

There was a brief silence. The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, but dense. Laden with unspoken things, memories too recent to ignore.

He cleared his throat slightly.

“Are you going out?”

“Yes,” she replied bluntly. “I’m going to buy clothes.”

He blinked.

“…Clothes.”

“Apparently,” she continued, with a slight ironic inflection in her voice, “the tailoring here is much more advanced than Arven’s.”

That elicited an almost smile from him—almost.

“I imagine,” he replied, nodding. “Arven was never exactly known for keeping up with trends.”

She tilted her head slightly, as if in agreement, and resumed walking past him.

Damon waited exactly two seconds before moving on as well, resuming his path in the opposite direction, already mentally organizing the list of things he needed to do that day. Training. Focus. Safe distance from complicated situations.

He didn’t comment on Lily.

He didn’t comment on the garden.

He didn’t comment on absolutely anything that could turn that simple conversation into an emotional disaster.

It was better that way.

Or it would have been.

“Damon.”

Her voice reached him when he had already taken a few steps past her.

He stopped. He took a deep breath. Slowly, he turned.

“Yes?”

Morgana was standing now, looking at him with that dangerously calm expression, her arms loose at her sides.

“Do you want to go with me?”

The question hung in the air with a weight disproportionate to the words.

Damon blinked once.

Twice.

For a fraction of a second, his brain simply shut down, as if refusing to process that information for self-preservation.

“I—” He began, automatically. “I have to do—”

“Elizabeth gave me authority.”

He froze.

Morgana continued, completely serene:

“Enough authority to boss you around today, as an apology… for making you disappear that time.”

The silence was immediate.

Heavy.

Almost offensive.

Damon stared at her, his eyes narrowing slightly, not in anger, but in recognition. This wasn’t just a casual invitation. It was a trap. Clear as day. Elegant, well-placed, impossible to refuse without consequences.

He ran his tongue over his teeth, thoughtful.

“…Of course it worked,” he murmured.

Morgana watched him intently, like someone studying a rare gem, curious to see how she would react under pressure.

“So,” she said. “Are you coming?”

Damon closed his eyes for a brief second.

Inside his own head, he could already hear Lily’s voice: this is going to go wrong. He could feel the accumulated exhaustion screaming at him to choose the easiest path. He could foresee, with irritating clarity, that this morning wouldn’t end well.

He opened his eyes again and sighed.

“You know this is a trap,” he said, without accusation, merely stating a fact.

Morgana raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting,” she replied. “Even so, you’re still considering it.”

Damon gave a tired half-smile.

“I’m terrible at avoiding trouble.”

She seemed satisfied with the answer.

He ran a hand through his hair and pointed his thumb over his shoulder.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll go.”

Morgana didn’t hide the victory in her eyes.

“But,” he added immediately, raising a finger, “I’ll get a sword.”

She blinked.

“A sword.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Just in case.”

“In case of doubt, against what?”

Damon tilted his head thoughtfully.

“Against you,” he answered honestly. “Against me. Against bad decisions.”

She stared at him for a second too long, then let out a low, almost imperceptible, but genuine laugh.

“You’re curious,” she commented.

“I’ve been told worse.”

He started to walk away, taking a few quick steps toward the mansion’s inner armory, then stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“Wait here,” he said. “Don’t leave without me.”

Morgana crossed her arms slowly, shifting her weight to one leg.

“Don’t worry,” she replied. “I’m in no hurry.”

Damon nodded one last time and continued on his way, feeling the invisible weight of that decision settle on his shoulders.

As he walked, he murmured to himself:

“Just clothes. Just shopping. Just a completely normal outing with a dangerously attractive entity that could ruin my sanity.”

He opened the armory door.

“Perfectly normal.”

Outside, Morgana watched the entrance through which he had disappeared, her lips curved in a slight smile that said, all too clearly, that this day was only just beginning.

The walk to the center of Mirath was made in a curious silence.

Not uncomfortable—at least, not for Damon—but charged with that subtle tension that always arose when two people walked side by side with completely different intentions. He followed a step behind Morgana, posture erect, hand resting near the hilt of the sword fastened to his belt. His attentive eyes scanned every corner, every face, every possible threat. A knight on duty.

Morgana realized this even before they crossed the second block.

She deliberately slowed her pace. Damon, automatically, adjusted his rhythm to maintain his position.

Her jaw clenched.

“You intend to walk behind me all morning?” she asked, without looking at him.

“Yes,” Damon replied naturally. “It’s the safest position.”

She stopped walking.

He almost bumped into her.

Morgana turned slowly, her dark eyes assessing him from head to toe—light armor, sword, an expression too serious for someone going to buy clothes.

“Damon,” she said, with a dangerously forced calm. “We’re going to the center of Mirath. Not to a battlefield.”

“Mirath is full of disguised battlefields,” he replied. “Especially when political figures are around.”

She sighed, long and deeply.

“You don’t need to act like my bodyguard.”

“Yes, I do,” he retorted, shrugging. “Elizabeth made it clear. That’s an indirect order.”

Morgana frowned.

“I asked you to come with me,” she corrected. “Not to watch over me.”

“You invoked authority,” he countered, with a half-smile. “Authority means work.”

She made an irritated sound, somewhere between a snort and a grumble.

“So you’re going to pretend we’re not… people?”

Damon tilted his head.

“We’re pretending this?”

She stared at him for a few seconds, then turned back and resumed walking, now with heavier steps.

“You’re unbearable when you decide to be professional.”

He laughed, finally relaxing a little.

“And you clearly get annoyed when someone doesn’t react exactly as you expect.”

“Perhaps,” she replied curtly. “But today, you are not my knight.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“No?”

“No,” she confirmed. “Today you are my friend.”

Damon let out a short laugh.

“Oh, no. You can’t just change the rules after using Elizabeth’s name.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t.”

She stopped again, turned to face him, and crossed her arms.

“Damon.”

“Hmm?”

“If you keep walking like you’re escorting me to a public execution, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

He studied her for a moment. Then he sighed dramatically.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll try… to be less of a knight.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Try?”

“It’s the best I can offer.”

They continued walking, now side by side. Damon relaxed his shoulders slightly, lowered his hand from his sword, though his eyes remained alert. Mirath pulsed around them: vendors calling out to customers, the metallic sound of blacksmith shops, the smell of fresh bread mixed with spices. People passed by, some recognizing Morgana, others merely curious.

She noticed the stares.

He did too.

“You’re looking,” she commented, with a slight, sideways smile.

“They’re looking,” Damon corrected. “I’m calculating escape routes.”

“Gods,” she murmured. “You really don’t know how to switch off.”

“I wasn’t trained for this.”

She stopped in front of a shop window.

“Then today you’re going to learn.”

Damon followed her gaze to the shop’s facade.

The name was… too discreet. Gold lettering, burgundy velvet curtains, windows with mannequins partially covered in delicate fabrics. For a split second, his brain registered only clothes.

Then it registered better.

Lace.

Silk.

Cuts that definitely weren’t meant to be seen in public.

He froze.

“…Morgana.”

“Yes?” She asked, completely innocent.

“This shop—”

“It’s a specialized tailor shop,” she said, already pushing open the door.

The bell rang.

Damon took two steps inside… and froze.

The walls were covered in fine fabrics. Mannequins displayed pieces that left very little to the imagination. Corsets, slips, delicate pieces that seemed made more to provoke than to wear.

It was a lingerie shop.

He blinked.

He blinked again.

“—It’s not a normal tailor shop,” he concluded, too late.

Morgana turned slowly to him, her smile now fully satisfied.

“You figured it out quickly.”

Damon ran a hand over his face.

“You did that on purpose.”

“Maybe,” she replied, walking deeper into the shop, distractedly touching some fabrics. “You said you were working.”

“I—”

“Then,” she continued, without turning around, “go to work.”

He stood near the door, rigid as a poorly positioned statue.

“My job doesn’t include… that.”

She laughed softly.

“Doesn’t it?” She picked up a random piece—dark lace, too delicate—and held it up between her fingers. “Elizabeth didn’t say anything about restrictions.” “She didn’t say I’d have to keep my sanity at risk either,” he retorted.

Morgana gave him an amused look.

“You seem tense.”

“I’m in hostile territory.”

“It’s just fabric,” she teased.

“It’s very little fabric.”

She moved closer to him, stopping too close for his comfort, holding the garment between them.

“You’re not going to faint, are you?”

“Depends,” he replied, looking away. “Do you intend to keep doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Existing… like this.”

She smiled, clearly pleased.

“Then it’s working.”

Damon let out a humorless laugh.

“You said I’d feel it.”

“And you will,” she confirmed. “Until I learn to just be… Damon.”

He finally looked at her, his eyes meeting hers.

“…You’re cruel.”

“I prefer strategic.”

She turned and headed toward the fitting rooms, leaving him there, surrounded by lace, silk, and bad decisions.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep