The castle was a tomb of silence. War had drained the halls of their usual gossip and laughter, leaving behind only the hushed murmurs of worried advisors and the distant clatter of armor from restless guards. The air was thick with unspoken fears, the weight of uncertainty pressing against the stone walls like a storm about to break.
Lysander was used to the court’s coldness toward him, but today, even the walls seemed indifferent. He moved like a shadow, unnoticed, unheard, blending into the silence. Then, his keen eyes caught a familiar figure moving down the hallway.
The Crown Princess.
She walked as though the very weight of the kingdom was stitched into her gown, every step measured, careful, yet heavy with thoughts too vast for words. Her silver hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, the intricate braids woven near her temples slightly looser than usual—a subtle sign of weariness. The deep crimson embroidery of her gown, usually a display of strength and elegance, looked almost like dried blood against the black fabric in the dim torchlight.
For the first time since he had known her, she did not notice him.
It was uncharacteristic—she always noticed him. Even when she pretended not to, her sharp gaze would flick toward him with that hidden glimmer of amusement. A glance, a knowing smile, the silent acknowledgment of their shared secret—that she saw him not as a fool, but as a man.
But now, she was elsewhere, lost in a world he could not see.
Lysander hesitated, unaccustomed to seeing her so burdened, so completely alone. His usual quips and tricks felt hollow in the face of such somberness.
So, for once, he abandoned the jest.
Stepping forward, he tilted his head, his voice softer than usual, but carrying that familiar lilt of mischief.
"Tell me, Your Highness... did the war steal your wit as well, or are you simply ignoring me?"
She stopped. A breath, a flicker of awareness, then her silver eyes found his.