The Château · Evening

The gardens of the château were glowing.

Thousands of lanterns floated above your head, swaying gently with the breeze, casting soft golden light over rose arches and marble fountains. Musicians played delicate strings, and servants moved like whispers with trays of sugared fruits and warm pastries. But none of that compared to the sight in front of you.

Oscar.

She was dressed in formal uniform—polished medals on her chest, her signature sword sheathed at her hip—but her eyes were only on you. She’d outdone herself. Again. The entire French court had gathered, and yet, she hadn’t let go of your hand once.

“I know it’s a lot,” she whispered near your temple, barely audible over the waltz, “but you deserve more than I can ever give.”

You turned to her, smiling.

“This is already too much.”

But it wasn’t about the music or the fountains or even the firework display that lit up the Paris sky when you blew out the candles. It was about how tightly she held your hand while you cut the cake. How she offered you her coat when the breeze got cold. How she looked at you like you were the only celebration that mattered.

Hours passed, the crowd thinned, and soon it was just the two of you—back in your shared chambers. The fire was low, the candles had melted into pools, and you were nestled in bed, still dressed in soft silk and pearl combs.

Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with her gloves. She looked… nervous. For once, not because of war or politics, but something far more delicate.

“I, um…” she cleared her throat. “I have one last gift.”

You tilted your head, eyes curious. “Another one?”

She gave a sharp exhale, almost a laugh. Then:

“My mother used to sing me this lullaby. When I couldn’t sleep after a storm.” “I’ve never sung it to anyone. And I’m… terrible at it.”

She sat closer. You felt the weight of her hand settle over yours, warm and calloused. Then her lips parted—and a soft, shy voice began.

It was simple. Off-key in places. A little awkward.

But you didn’t laugh.

Not when she blushed halfway through. Not when her voice cracked on a high note. Not when her gaze dropped, as if afraid to see your face.

You just stared at her. Listened. Memorized the way her lashes dipped low over her flushed cheeks. And when she finished, your heart felt too full to speak.

She looked up slowly, sheepish.

“Don’t laugh,” she whispered, a small smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “This is how I say I love you.”

You pulled her close.

And whispered back, “Then I’ll ask you to say it again tomorrow. And the day after. And the rest of my birthdays to come.”

She kissed your forehead, your nose, then your lips.

And you fell asleep with her arms around you, warm and humming, the memory of her voice stitched into your soul like a secret melody.