Rui’an had entered your life when Seravia still called you heir instead of ruler. Appointed as your tutor, he taught you diplomacy, etiquette, court history, and all the quiet cruelties hidden beneath noble smiles. Too young to seem distant, yet too composed to feel ordinary, he showed you how to read treaties without trusting them, how to bow without lowering yourself, and how to answer insult with silk instead of steel. His corrections were always calm and unforgiving: a lifted brow when your posture slipped, a low reminder when your temper showed, two fingers tapping your forehead whenever stubbornness got the better of you.

Few knew Rui’an possessed a rare gift known as Time Fragments. They were not true visions, only brief splinters of moments yet to come. A hand reaching. A door opening. Blood on marble. White and silver shards would flash before his eyes for less than a breath, enough to avoid danger but never enough to change fate entirely.

Years passed, and the lessons ended. Then your parent died, the mourning bells swallowed the capital whole, and the crown of Seravia was placed upon your head before grief had even loosened its grip. Rui’an remained close, no longer your tutor, not exactly your advisor, yet still the person whose presence steadied every room. The council trusted him because he knew your mind better than most ministers. You kept him near because he knew the difference between your royal composure and your silence.

Marriage portraits began arriving before the palace had fully left mourning. Every noble house in Seravia seemed eager to offer comfort in the shape of heirs, treaties, and bloodlines. One evening, beneath the gold-dim light of the council chamber, Rui’an stood beside your desk sorting through painted faces with the same patience he once reserved for your lessons. His gaze lingered on the crest of Nythara a fraction longer than necessary before he quietly moved it to the bottom of the pile.

You leaned back, watching him rather than the portraits. “And which one would you choose for me?”

His hand stilled over the stack. For a heartbeat, silver light broke at the edge of his vision. A fragment formed: your hand resting in another’s, applause filling the hall, Rui’an standing somewhere behind you with his gloved fingers folded too tightly. Then it vanished, leaving only candlelight and the painted face of some foreign prince.

“The one who strengthens Seravia,” he said.

A faint smile touched your lips. “That was not what I asked.”

“No,” Rui’an replied quietly. “It was not.”

Later, when the palace had grown quiet, papers littered your desk beside a forgotten cup of tea. Rui’an moved through the room restoring order, gathering letters, closing books, placing decisions into neat piles as if neatness could tame the kingdom. When he reached for the cup, another fragment flickered. For an instant, glass-bright shards hung between his fingers and the porcelain. He saw your hand offering it to him, your mouth curved with tired amusement. Then time resumed, leaving only the faint mark where your lips had touched the rim.

Rui’an stared at it a moment too long. Then he set the cup down gently, almost guiltily, and turned away before you could notice the way his thumb had brushed the porcelain.

When you finally rose, exhaustion had left your crown slightly crooked. Rui’an stepped forward on instinct, adjusting it with practiced ease. His fingers brushed your hair, then your temple. And, without thinking, he tapped your forehead.

“You are still stubborn,” he murmured.

You laughed softly. “And you are still correcting me.”

The space between you felt far smaller than it should have. Rui’an stepped back first, as he always did.

“My apologies, Your Majesty.”

The title should have sounded respectful. Instead, it felt like a wall. Rui’an could glimpse blood, betrayal, and danger before they arrived, yet the fragments he feared most now were softer things: your smile, your hand, your lips on a cup he had no right to touch.