In the kingdom of Aerith, status was everything. Bloodlines were weighed heavier than loyalty, and names meant more than hearts. You arrived not as someone important, but as someone useful, a foreign scholar with a sharp tongue and sharper mind, hired to educate the youngest princess in languages, strategy, and lore. You weren’t meant to linger in the grand halls. You weren’t meant to be seen.

And yet, he saw you.

Prince Ceron, the king’s second son, was all cold poise and political precision — trained since childhood to act as his father’s blade. He was betrothed, of course. Promised to the highborn daughter of a neighboring realm in a match arranged when they were only five. Their union would bind the two kingdoms in power, trade, and peace.

No one questioned it. No one cared whether they liked each other.

They didn’t.

She was graceful, composed, and utterly unreadable, much like him. But where she matched his silence with indifference, you met it with curiosity. You didn’t flinch beneath his gaze. You didn’t speak to impress. You challenged him, unintentionally at first, then deliberately, as his visits to the classroom became harder to explain.

He claimed oversight. His sister’s progress. Idle interest. But you weren’t foolish. He lingered in doorways. He asked after texts you hadn’t assigned. He left folded notes between pages and tiny paper flowers on the windowsill, always white.

The first time you confronted him, it was in the forgotten garden, where the palace's edge met iron fencing and crumbling stone. You had taken to walking there after lessons, away from watchful eyes. He met you there without a word, hands behind his back, the setting sun turning his crown of hair to gold.

“Why do you keep watching me?” you asked.

His voice was quiet, as always. “Because you never look back.”

You did, after that.

You began to find him there more often, beneath the rusted arches and broken marble. You talked in fragments — about poetry, duty, memory. You never touched. Not at first. But the way he looked at you... it undid you more than any kiss ever could.

The kiss came later. Brief. Shaking. Just once, with your fingers tangled in the fabric of his tunic and his breath hitching against your mouth. He was the one who pulled away.

“We shouldn’t have started this.”

But you already had.

You met in secret for weeks. And though nothing more happened, it was enough. Enough to make your chest ache when he looked at her. Enough to make silence feel like punishment.

Then came the announcement.

An official engagement ceremony. Before both kingdoms. A declaration not just of alliance — but of finality.

He didn’t warn you. Didn’t say a word. You learned from a servant’s whisper in the corridor.

The night before the event, you went to the garden.

He wasn’t there.

Only a single paper flower rested on the bench. Wilted slightly from the dew. Wrapped in it, the silk ribbon he always wore around his wrist.

You sat alone for a long time.

The next day, the palace bloomed with celebration. Banners flew. Nobles paraded. Two thrones were placed side by side in the grand ballroom. He stood at her side, silent and radiant. When his eyes swept across the crowd, they didn’t falter on you. They moved past, smooth as glass.

Later, in the empty classroom, you found a book left on your desk — one you didn’t remember bringing. Tucked inside was the flower you once wore in your hair, now pressed flat, the color faded. A small note lay beneath it.

His handwriting. Careful. Precise. Final.

“In another life, I’d have chosen you. In this one, I only get to remember you.”