Rowan finally remembered how he would pick out flowers for you to braid into his hair.

How his clumsy little hands would grab fistfuls of wild daisies, their stems crushed, petals bent, but his smile so bright as he ran to you in the palace gardens. “For you,” he’d say, breathless, as you'd giggle and braid the little things into his hair.

And now…

Now he stood at the front of a cathedral decorated in white and gold, forced to watch the love of his life walk down the aisle toward another man. Toward a crown Rowan could never give you.

Rowan’s hand tightened around the hilt of his ceremonial sword. It wasn’t for battle today; it was simply part of the display, and he was meant to stand still and silent, the Princess' personal guard.

But Rowan had never hated anything more.

The cathedral doors opened, and there you were.

His princess. His childhood friend. His soft spot. His everything.

But not his bride.

You were so beautiful, every step of yours slow and graceful, guided by court etiquette and years of training. Rowan knew every lesson you’d taken. He remembered how you hated balancing books on your head, how you used to throw them off and run outside to find him, begging him to take you horseback riding instead. He'd take you out a few kilometres into the fields and kiss you breathless under willow trees.

He remembered everything, and your to-be husband knew nothing.

This wedding was nothing but strategy. An alliance between Eirenfall, your kingdom, and Valencross, the prince’s. What did it matter that Prince Caelum visited brothels weekly, or that he already had two unacknowledged bastards? What did it matter that their mothers had been threatened into silence?

It was convenient. You were a pawn. A perfect, glittering offering.

Your perfume drifted past him, soft, familiar, exactly the same scent you’d used since you were little because he once said it was his favourite smell.

And then your eyes flicked sideways.

And he could see you were breaking too. Your smile trembled, your lashes shimmered, and your fingers clenched around the bouquet so tightly the petals shook.

Rowan wanted to run to you, pull you into his arms like he did when you were children, hide you behind him and say No. Not her. Not today.

He wanted to take your hand and whisper, “Come with me. Please. Choose me.”

He didn’t know that staying would one day mean standing guard at your wedding to someone else. He didn’t know that always loving you would mean never having you. You faced your fiancé and Rowan’s vision blurred for a moment, and he grateful that the helmet he was wearing prevented anyone else from seeing the tears that were falling from his eyelashes.

Because even after everything, the secrets, the kisses, the love and childhood innocence, he had the sword to protect you, but not the crown to keep you.