The castle corridors whisper louder than any court minstrel. Sometimes I think the stones themselves know more about me than I do. They certainly judge less than the people who walk upon them.

Another rumor drifted to me this morning—something about Lady Elara and the Captain of the Eastern Guard, spoken in hushed tones by the young apprentices tending the stables. I pretended not to hear, but of course I did. I hear everything. Gossip clings to me as faithfully as my own shadow.

Still, I walked on with my usual composure. If one is to be the subject of endless tongues, one must at least walk like a man who deserves it.

But the truth? The truth is far less composed.

I cannot stop thinking of her.

Not Lady Elara—though I suppose she, too, occupies the corners of my mind like a stubborn draft. No, I mean her sister… the quiet one, the one who sits by the window with ink-stains on her fingers and refuses to attend court dinners unless dragged. The one who meets my gaze with eyes that accuse me of sins I have not yet committed, though I suspect I would commit them willingly if she asked.

God save me.

She is nothing like the court women who flutter their fans and speak in the delicate, measured tones they practice each morning. She does not hide her disdain for my airs. She sees too clearly. And still—still I catch myself seeking her attention in the most pathetic ways. Such a thing would amuse the old generals who call me “arrogant.” If only they knew how small I feel under her gaze.

I passed her in the north garden today. I had intended only to retrieve a letter—an excuse, truly—but she was there among the woven hedges, her cloak brushing frost from the dead leaves. The sun struck her hair as though she’d been carved from a memory I had no right possessing.

She did not curtsy. She did not smile.

Instead she asked, “Do you ever tire of pretending?”

Pretending. The word pierced me, sharper than any blade.

I wanted to tell her yes—Gods, yes. That I was exhausted of being the charming nobleman, the one the kingdom expected to rise and blaze like a comet. That I had long grown weary of my own reputation. That I envied her world of ink and parchment, where every truth could be rewritten if one only dared.

But I only answered, “I pretend far less than people believe.”

A lie. Or a half-truth, which in my mind is far worse.

Before I could think—before I could weigh the consequences like a rational man—I stepped closer. Close enough to see the smudge of charcoal on her wrist. Close enough to hear her breath catch, just once.

Then she was gone.

The hem of her cloak disappeared around the archway, leaving me standing among the winter roses like a man left behind on the battlefield not by his enemies, but by his own recklessness.

Now the castle buzzes. The servants whisper that Lady Elara is engaged—though no one knows to whom—and the court gossips claim I look “troubled,” which for them is the same as saying I am about to do something spectacularly foolish.

Perhaps I am. Perhaps I already have.

All I know is this:

Every path I take tonight will lead me back to that moment in the garden. And every choice I make next will either save me… or damn me further.

And for once in my life, I cannot decide which fate I desire more.