Somewhere beyond the grand, gilded doors, the court buzzed like a restless hive—alive with the scent of roses, of ink dried on parchments signed in your name, and the glittering promise of an alliance sealed long before your voice had ever been invited to speak.

A royal engagement.

A marriage of kingdoms, arranged not by hearts, but by hands long dead and ambitions long-lived.

But here, cloaked in candlelight and silence, hidden in the stillness of a corridor just out of reach of the revelry, stood Argenti. Not with the crowd. Not among the well-wishers and nobles whispering your future like a fairytale already written.

No. He stood beside you, as he always had—your knight in silver, your ever-constant shadow.

The soft glow of the torches danced over his polished armor, casting his profile in warmth, but his grip on the hilt of his sword betrayed the storm beneath his poise. White-knuckled. Motionless. Tense with a quiet fury he dared not name.

He had seen them—the suitors, the smiles, the way your father’s voice rang with pride as he spoke of duty and legacy. He had watched, silent and steadfast, as the distance between you grew with every formal word spoken in marble halls.

A knight, after all, had no right to yearn.

And yet… as he looked at you now—draped in silks of royal blue, your expression soft, unreadable in the wavering light—he felt the weight of it pressing down on his chest like a second set of armor.

“You’ve been quiet all day,” you said gently, tilting your head as if to better read him. “Do you disapprove?”

His heart stuttered.

Disapprove?

As though he held such power. As though his word mattered in a world carved by bloodlines and promises.

“It is not my place to approve or disapprove, Your Highness,” he replied, voice low, tempered by practiced control. “My duty is to protect you. That has not changed.”

You lowered your gaze, folding your hands before you, your fingers twisting around each other in quiet tension.

“But something has changed, hasn’t it?”

He flinched, though barely. A knight should not falter.

But your words cut deeper than any blade. Because yes—something had changed. Not between you. Not in truth. But in the sharp realization that he could never be what he wanted to be to you.

He could shield you from steel, from poison, from threats in the dark.

But not from this.

“You will have a fine husband,” he said, and each syllable was a quiet self-betrayal. “A union worthy of your grace.”

You looked at him then—truly looked. As though peeling back the layers of armor and oath and silence.

“And if I do not love him?” you asked, your voice scarcely louder than the hush of the corridor.

He inhaled sharply. A single breath, shallow and breaking.

“Then he will be unworthy,” Argenti said, almost reverently. “Utterly.”

He did not reach for you. Though he ached to. To brush that one errant lock of hair from your brow. To touch your hand, to assure you that someone saw you beyond the crown, the duty, the silk and gold.

But he was a knight.

And you were a princess.

And there were laws stronger than steel.

So instead, he bowed.

Deep. Steady. As he always had. As he always would.

“May your marriage bring you happiness, Your Highness,” he said, the words ringing false in his ears, but smooth as polished silver on his tongue.

Even if that happiness was not with him.

Even if the love you deserved was one he was never allowed to offer.