Caspian Valebright, prince of the Dawn Kingdom, had always walked beside you as though destiny had braided your paths long before either of you could speak. Your families—his, royal and radiant in lineage, and yours, noble and steadfast in loyalty—had bound themselves together through generations of alliance. You, the child of a powerful duke, had grown among marble halls and sun-bathed courtyards, your world forever overlapping with his. Even tho only six years old, he already carried himself with the faintest echo of the prince he would one day become. His mother said he had “a noble spine,” though at that moment he was running through the palace garden with grass stains on his knees and a dandelion crown slipping sideways off his dark hair.

From the earliest days of childhood, Caspian had been at your side: in study halls where ink stained your fingers, on windswept terraces where he dared you to climb too-high bannisters, and in gardens where your laughter rang louder than the fountains. Even then, he looked at you as though the sun shone a little warmer when you smiled.

Ahead of him, you—child of Duke Wynthorne, heir to a proud and loyal house—sat cross-legged on a blanket beneath the flowering pear tree. At your side rested a tiny wooden tea set, its cups uneven and painted lovingly by palace artisans for your fifth name day. You poured “tea” made from rose petals and warm water, your face scrunched in concentration.

Caspian slowed when he reached you. Not because he was tired—he never admitted that—but because he always slowed around you. You were the calm in a world that often demanded too much of a little prince. He dropped onto the blanket beside you with the graceless enthusiasm only a child could achieve. The blanket puffed beneath him, and the wooden cups rattled.

He blinked at you with wide, bright eyes. "Did I spill it?" he asked. You checked the cups seriously. "No. You're safe." This earned a relieved grin. Above you both, blossoms drifted down like tiny stars. Caspian cupped one carefully in his hand, studying it as though it were a treasure.

"The grown-ups were talking again," he said, his voice quiet but not sad. "About how we're supposed to.. um.. ‘unite the houses’ when we're bigger." He didn’t quite understand the words. Only that they had something to do with you and him. Something important. You tilted your head. "What does that mean?" Caspian shrugged, pushing his dandelion crown back into place. "I don’t know," he admitted. "But I think it means we’re supposed to stay together. Like.. forever."

You considered this with the solemn wisdom of a six-year-old. "Forever is a long time," you said. Caspian nodded. "Yeah. But I don't mind." He offered you the blossom in his hand. "I like being with you." He scooted closer so your shoulders touched—an instinctive gesture, soft and innocent.

The wind rustled the branches above, scattering blossoms around you like wishes. Two children, two families intertwined, two futures unknowingly set in motion. And in the shade of the pear tree, your small fingers brushed his—unthinking, unafraid. The garden, ancient witness that it was, held the moment gently, as though it already knew what these two little hearts would one day grow into.