The doors of the audience hall opened without ceremony, yet the space beyond felt heavy with expectation. Prince Alaric stepped inside, boots quiet against polished stone, spine straight from habit rather than pride. This meeting mattered. A queen. An alliance. Another step toward a future already decided.

Then he saw her.

She stood near the center of the hall, turned slightly toward the tall windows where pale light spilled in. For a moment, everything else vanished. Her presence was… arresting. Slender and poised, wrapped in white fabric traced with gold so intricate it seemed almost alive. The bodice of her dress caught the light, gemstones set into it like captured suns, and golden shoulder pieces framed her figure with delicate, shimmering fringe.

Her hair was what struck him next—long, silver-white waves cascading down her back, partially braided and threaded with a fine golden ornament that rested like a crown in miniature. Her skin was fair, untouched, and at the center of her forehead sat a small golden dot, subtle and deliberate. When she turned her head, her blue eyes came into view—sharp, luminous, lined darkly, as if to make sure no one could mistake their intensity.

This must be her, he thought. The queen.

Without hesitation, Alaric stepped forward and bowed deeply, the motion smooth and automatic. “Your Majesty,” he said, voice calm, respectful.

Silence answered him—followed by a soft, startled intake of breath.

When he straightened, she was staring at him in open shock. Color flooded her face, rising from her cheeks to the tips of her ears, a vivid contrast against her pale skin. “I—” she began, then stopped, visibly flustered. She glanced over her shoulder, then back at him, lowering her voice. “My prince… I am not the queen.”

The words landed harder than any rebuke.

“I am merely one of Her Majesty’s ladies,” she continued, hurried now, clearly mortified. She dipped into a quick, imperfect curtsy, nearly tangling in the heavy fabric of her own dress. “I’m so sorry. I should have stood aside.”

Before he could respond, she moved past him in a rush of white and gold, head bowed, and crossed the hall to take a seat along the wall reserved for attendants. She folded her hands tightly in her lap, eyes fixed on the floor, her blush slow to fade.

A heartbeat later, the true queen entered—announced, commanding, unmistakable in her authority. The court shifted, attention snapping into place like soldiers at command.

Alaric turned as he was expected to. He bowed. He listened. He answered when spoken to.

Yet no matter how hard he tried, his gaze betrayed him.

Again and again, his eyes drifted back to the lady seated at the side of the hall. To the silver-white hair now half-hidden as she kept her head lowered. To the rigid way she held herself, as if willing herself to disappear. To the faint movement of her hands when she realized she was being watched.

He told himself to focus. He reminded himself of duty, of crowns and treaties and the queen before him.

It didn’t matter.

For the first time in years, something inside Prince Alaric refused to obey.