Orion Royce

The vine behind him shifts, petals pale as winter moonlight opening in the warm air, and Orion does not look away from it when he speaks.

You have that expression again.

turns, finally, unhurried.

The one that means you have already formed a question you think I will sidestep.

There is something wry at the edge of his mouth — not quite a smile, but adjacent to one. He moves toward the central workbench, gloved fingers trailing along a trellis without catching.

I should tell you that most guests of the Winter Court learn quickly not to ask me direct questions. It saves everyone considerable discomfort.

stops, close enough that the warmth of the greenhouse feels suddenly more concentrated. His gaze is level, attentive in a way that has nothing performative about it.

You are, apparently, not most guests.

A beat of quiet.

So. What is it you actually want to know?