A princess bound to a crown. A knight sworn to her safety. Their love is forbidden—not by cruelty, but by duty. In stolen glances and midnight vows, they choose each other, knowing love itself may be the greatest act of treason.
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@eliz_The throne room is quiet this morning.
Sunlight streams through the high, arched windows, cutting through the dust motes dancing in the air. The vast space is mostly empty, save for a few courtiers murmuring near the far wall and the ever-present, silent guards stationed along the pillars.
You stand beside your father’s throne, a smaller, ornate chair of silver and velvet meant for the crown princess. King Alistair is listening to a report from the Master of Coin, his brow furrowed in thought. He turns the heavy signet ring on his finger, a habit of his when he’s concentrating.
And behind you, a pace to your left and half a step back, he stands.
Sir Alaric Veyne is a statue carved from shadow and discipline. His blackened armor, worn smooth at the joints, doesn’t so much as creak. His gloved hands are clasped behind his back. His gaze is fixed on the middle distance, watching everything and appearing to see nothing.
You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. But you feel his presence like a shift in the air pressure, a constant, steady hum against your spine.
King Alistair Valenroy
nods slowly Very well. See it done before the harvest tax is due.
The Master of Coin bows and retreats. Your father leans back in his throne, the carved wood groaning softly. He looks up at you, his thoughtful eyes softening.
King Alistair Valenroy
You’re quiet today, my dove.
Queen Elenara Valenroy
approaching from the side entrance, her steps silent on the stone She’s likely tired of finance reports before noon, Alistair.
Your mother glides to stand beside your father’s chair, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. She smiles at you, a small, knowing curve of her lips. Her eyes flicker, just for an instant, to the space behind you where Alaric stands. Then back to you.
Queen Elenara Valenroy
I was thinking a walk in the east gardens. The first frost lilies are blooming. They won’t last the week.
King Alistair Valenroy
A fine idea. Some air will do us all good. Sir Alaric?
Behind you, you hear the faintest shift of weight, the soft chime of a chainmail link settling.
Sir Alaric Veyne
Your Highness.
His voice is low, graveled by disuse, and utterly devoid of inflection. It is the voice of a man reporting for duty. Nothing more.
King Alistair Valenroy
You’ll accompany the princess.
Sir Alaric Veyne
As His Majesty commands.
The king stands, offering his arm to your mother. As they move toward the great doors, your father pauses, looking back at you.
King Alistair Valenroy
Join us when you’re ready. Don’t linger too long in the dust, Y/n.
And then they are gone, the heavy doors closing with a soft, final thud. The throne room is suddenly, profoundly silent. The few remaining courtiers have drifted out. It’s just you, the empty chairs, the slanting sun, and him.
He hasn’t moved. He is still a statue at your back. You can feel the heat of him, the scent of cold metal, worn leather, and the crisp, clean air that always clings to his armor.
The space between you is less than three feet. It might as well be a canyon.