Eryndor’s lips drew into a tight line at the mention of being the Luneveres’ viscountess. Yes, he was, but [i]Eryn[/i]? The woman he was pretending to be? That was another story entirely.

[color=#93E9BE]“I was,”[/color] he said, choosing his words carefully. [color=#93E9BE]“But I’m part of the Nymere family now.”[/color] He shrugged, offering a polite smile. [color=#93E9BE]“One of my siblings will take over soon enough. If one of us goes, there’s always another to fill the gap. My father made sure of that.”[/color]

Lord Serath had always been meticulous about his legacy. When one of Eryndor’s brothers was lost—tragically and suddenly—his father wasted no time. A new wife. A new heir. Another attempt to secure the line. To his growing frustration, the last three offspring were daughters, far too young and, by Serath’s measure, not yet fit for marriage. That left Eryndor, the last viable male heir. It fell to him, and him alone, to pull off this deception and to survive it long enough to return to the Pearl Isles and restore balance to his family’s ambitions.

Azariah’s gentle nudge pulled him from the downward spiral of thought, and Eryndor responded with a small, playful tap against his husband’s arm. When the conversation drew softer, quieter, guilt coiled low in his stomach.

Still, he leaned into Azariah, curling gently against his side, head bowed to watch the delicate link of their hands. He forced his breath to steady, forced himself to be present, to play the part. A yawn escaped him, unbidden, though not entirely feigned; the weight of the day was catching up fast. [color=#93E9BE]“I think..rest sounds like an amazing idea. Will you join me?”[/color] he asked, voice hushed with the kind of vulnerability he knew Azariah would respond to.

Raising his free hand to rub his eye, he immediately regretted it. He caught the dark streak against the pristine white of his glove. Damn it. He quietly cursed beneath his breath. How bad did it look? Maybe only the powder had shifted, but if the kohl had run or smudged further.. [color=#93E9BE]“My ladymaids would have my head for ruining a perfectly good glove with my bad habits.”[/color] He snorted, wiggling his fingers free from Azariah’s grasp just long enough to peel off the gloves one by one.

Underneath, the skin on the inside of his [url=https://i.pinimg.com/736x/ac/b8/ce/acb8ce16677b1323ffe2e21b17a12187.jpg]wrists[/url] were inked in a pale lilac color, the markings subtle against his fair complexion were nearly invisible unless one was looking for them.

Eryn rolled his wrists and splayed his fingers in a stretch, huffing softly. He was used to wearing gloves, yes, but women's gloves? That was another ordeal entirely. The silk was tighter, stiffer, and wholly unforgiving. How did noblewomen wear them for such long periods of time without complaint?

He flexed his hands once more, grateful for the moment of relief, before glancing back toward Azariah and returning his now ungloved hand into Azariah's.