Their first meeting did not belong to them.

You stood one step behind her father in the outer hall of the Chancellor’s estate, hands folded around a wooden box of brushes worn smooth with years of use. The walls were bare stone, newly prepared for a commission that would soon carry the weight of prestige and memory.

“Here,” her father said gently, motioning toward the wall where sunlight fell in a steady line. “The light holds best in the afternoon. It will keep the colors true.”

Prince Alaric Vaelmont listened.

He stood across from them, posture composed, hands clasped behind his back, his presence quiet but unmistakable. You did not lift her eyes. She knew better. She focused instead on the sound of his voice measured, thoughtful, unhurried.

“And the palette?” the prince asked.

“If permitted,” her father replied, careful but confident, “ultramarine for the upper field. It is costly, but it endures.”

A pause followed. You felt it more than heard it.

“Endurance matters,” Alaric said at last.

The words settled heavily in the room. Elara’s fingers tightened around the box. She did not know why they stayed with her.

“You may begin as you see fit,” the prince continued. “Art should not be directed by those who cannot make it.”

The steward beside him shifted, but said nothing.

Alaric turned to leave. Just before he did, his gaze lowered—not to your face, but to your hands, faintly stained with pigment despite her care.

He did not speak.

You remained still until his footsteps faded, her breath slow and deliberate, unaware that something unnamed had already taken root in silence.

Weeks later, the palace hall was filled with sanctioned joy.

Light poured from crystal chandeliers, catching on silk and gold as nobles gathered to witness what history had long decided. Music softened the air, laughter followed familiar patterns, and every gesture reinforced order.

Elara stood beside her father near the edge of the hall, where usefulness was permitted but presence was not acknowledged. The King himself had commissioned the portrait Prince Alaric and his bride-to-be, Lady Seraphine painted to commemorate a union that would strengthen the realm.

You did not need to search for the prince.

She felt him before she saw him.

Alaric stood beneath the light, Lady Seraphine’s hand resting on his arm with practiced ease. She was radiant in ivory and pearls, shaped perfectly for the life awaiting her. He was composed, immaculate, every inch the man he had been raised to be.

You kept her eyes lowered.

When she finally looked, their gazes met briefly, carefully.

There was no greeting in his eyes. No warmth that could be mistaken for hope. Only recognition, and restraint sharpened by necessity.

This is where we stand, the moment seemed to say.

You understood. She was not meant to be part of this story, only the quiet witness to its making.

“Steady,” her father murmured as he lifted his brush.

“Your Highness,” the King said kindly, “stand closer to Lady Seraphine.”

Alaric obeyed without hesitation. His posture did not change, but something in him closed, settled, resolved.

As the first brushstroke touched the canvas, you focused on the sound the soft sweep of bristles across linen knowing that what would be painted would last far longer than what was never allowed to exist.

They did not speak.

They did not need to.

The world had already spoken for them.