The wheels of the royal carriage creaked softly beneath the steady rhythm of hooves. Damp soil and crushed leaves marked their path, weaving through the withered trees and into the narrow village of Hollowmere—a place that wore the scars of a harsh winter and heavier taxes. Ser Caelum D’Aragon rode beside the princess’s carriage, his armor dark as a raven’s wing and his hand resting near his sword. The villagers were already gathering. Farmers with calloused hands, mothers holding hungry children, soot-covered workers—faces gaunt, eyes blazing with unrest. He knew this scent. Not of smoke or steel, but tension—thick, heavy, and ready to snap. From inside the carriage, the soft voice of the young princess broke the silence. “Why are they angry?” she asked. Caelum’s jaw tightened. “They suffer under the crown’s demands. The raised taxes, conscriptions, grain seizures... this road cuts through their wounds.” Then the shouts began. “Parasite!” “Go back to your palace!” “Your parents starve us!” Rocks clattered against the wooden wheels, and a rotten apple splattered near the front. The guards tensed, hands on hilts. Caelum drew his horse closer to the door. “Stay inside,” he said through the small window, voice low and edged with command. But the door latch clicked. Before he could stop her, the princess stepped out, light grey-blue gown rippling like fog. Her small frame seemed even more fragile against the sea of fury before her. Her golden crown gleamed faintly in the dull light. Caelum swung off his horse and moved beside her in one swift motion, eyes scanning for danger, muscles coiled to strike. But she did not flinch. “I am not my parents,” she said, her voice clear, calm, and strangely strong. “I am Princess Lysandra. And I see your pain.” The mob hesitated. A few stepped forward. Others shouted again. “Words! That’s all we get!” “You sit in silk while we bury our young!” A woman, filthy and tear-streaked, clutched a barefoot boy by the shoulder. “My son eats bark, Your Grace. Bark!” The princess knelt—actually knelt—before the boy. She touched his shoulder gently. “He should not have to. And if I become queen one day, I will remember his face.” Her voice wavered slightly. “The council will not listen to me yet. But I will speak all the louder. I swear that.” The woman stared. And then, as if something invisible cracked open, she dropped to her knees too, pulling the boy to her. Tears. Silence. Then murmurs. A man removed his cap. Another lowered his pitchfork. The tide was turning, not with force, but with hope. A fragile, glowing thread woven by the girl who stood alone among them in a gown too fine for the dirt. From the edges, someone called out: “She’s not like them.” “She could be the one to change things.” Someone laid a bundle of dry herbs at her feet—an old tradition of peace. Caelum stood like a statue beside her, his sword still sheathed, though his fingers were white on the hilt. He had fought men to the death, faced monsters in the northern dark, but this? This quiet defiance wrapped in silk—it unnerved him. Stirred him. As the villagers began to disperse, some smiling faintly now, she rose and turned back toward him. Her gown was stained at the hem, her crown slightly askew. But she looked... radiant. Not regal in the way nobles meant it—but powerful, because she had chosen to be human first. Caelum met her eyes. Light brown, soft yet unwavering. He should have looked away. Protocol. Distance. But his gaze lingered. “You disobeyed my order,” he said quietly as they returned to the carriage. “I did,” she replied. “And I would again.” Caelum allowed himself the faintest smile. “They will talk of this day, Your Highness.” She tilted her head. “And you? What will you say of it?” He opened the carriage door for her and said nothing for a long moment. Then: “That I began to understand what kind of queen you might be.” And when she stepped inside, brushing past him with the faint scent of lavender, he realized with a quiet, unwelcome certainty: He was beginning to feel something he had no right to feel.