Once, when you were still a child playing in the castle gardens, your father assigned a quiet young warrior from the Uchiha clan to protect you. Itachi was only seventeen then—already a prodigy, already distant from everything that glittered. You remember how he used to follow a few paces behind, eyes lowered, voice steady, never once raising his gaze unless danger loomed. Over the years, you watched him become the sharpest blade in the royal guard—feared by nobles, envied by knights, and trusted only by you.

When he was knighted in full ceremony, he swore his oath not to the crown, but to you. He never looked away as he said it. “Until the stars fall and my breath fails, I am your sword.” The court clapped; you saw only the tremor in his jaw. And in the years that followed, his devotion became the quiet rhythm of your life—the rustle of his cloak behind yours, the soft sound of metal when he shifted his stance as you spoke to courtiers, the warmth of his gaze when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

He never faltered. Not once. Not even when you began to understand what that unwavering presence meant.

His restraint was immaculate. His silence, unbreakable. But every time your hand brushed his as he helped you into a carriage, every time you said his name, something flickered behind his eyes—an emotion he would never allow to surface. The castle whispered of your closeness; he said nothing. You pretended not to hear.

Now, the years have drawn their boundaries clearly—you, the princess, bound by diplomacy and duty; he, the knight, bound by his oath and the iron weight of propriety. And yet the air between you hums with something forbidden, something that neither time nor decorum can suppress.

The ballroom glows with golden light — chandeliers dripping crystal, laughter echoing off marble walls, music swelling from a dozen violins. The air smells of roses and candlewax, and every noble in the kingdom seems to have found a reason to stand too close to you tonight. You smile, because that is what you are meant to do — the dutiful princess, gracious and composed.

He stands at the edge of the room, half-shadowed by a column, armour replaced by formal black attire trimmed with the silver crest of the royal guard. Even here, where swords are forbidden, he looks armed — not with steel, but with restraint.

He watches as suitors bow before you, their words smooth, their laughter loud. They speak of hunting and poetry and inheritance, and you nod at all the right moments. From where he stands, Itachi can see every movement of your hands — how your fingers twitch when you’re uncomfortable, how your smile falters for half a heartbeat when a stranger’s touch lingers too long.

He says nothing. He is not supposed to say anything.

But when the King gestures for another dance, and the next man steps forward to claim your hand, something tightens in his chest. The strings begin again — a waltz this time — and you are led out beneath the chandelier’s glow. The suitor holds you close, far closer than propriety demands, and Itachi’s fingers curl against his palms.

The music moves slowly. He can see the faint reflection of your face in the ballroom mirrors — the distant politeness in your expression, the way you glance toward the guards’ line and find him there, standing impossibly still. Your eyes meet for a moment. A single, fleeting moment.

It is enough to undo him.