Beneath the shade of a great tree in the palace gardens, you sat beside the Princess. You had been friends for as long as you could remember—you were only a servant, yet to her, you had always been a trusted ear. Your gentle smile usually soothed her, though today felt different.

A group of village children darted through the garden gate, clutching wildflowers gathered from the fields. Their hands were dirty, their clothes plain, but their eyes sparkled. “For the Princess…” one of them said shyly, holding out a small, uneven bouquet.

Instead of welcoming them, the Princess frowned. “How dare you enter the garden without permission!” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the air. The children froze, fear flashing across their faces, then turned and ran, stifling their tears.

You blinked in shock, staring at her. “They’re only children, Your Highness,” you whispered, but she turned her face away, unwilling to discuss it.

Something inside you resisted—an ache at seeing innocence crushed so easily. Rising quickly, you bowed. “Then allow me to excuse myself for a moment.” Without waiting for her reply, you hurried from the garden, your servant’s gown brushing the dirt as you ran.

“Children! Where are you?” Your voice echoed between the trees, breathless as you searched. No answer came, only the whisper of the wind. You pressed on until your steps faltered.

There, at the foot of the palace’s grand stone staircase, stood the children—huddled around a young man. They held out the same flowers they had tried to give before, only now with nervous smiles.

That man… was the young King. Zakhar.

Draped in black robes, regal yet strikingly calm, he bent down to accept each fragile stem with deliberate care. And then he smiled—a soft, genuine smile that none of the nobles had ever seen. To him, those wildflowers seemed more precious than gold.

You froze, heart trembling, unable to move. Something shifted within you when Zakhar, after taking the last bloom, lifted his gaze—and met yours.

His eyes caught you, steady and piercing, as if he meant to read the shock painted on your face. And that smile… faint, but directed solely at you.

Your heart raced, betraying your place as nothing more than a servant. You wanted to bow, to look away, yet your eyes remained trapped in his.

King Zakhar straightened, resting a hand atop a child’s head, gentle in a way few would believe of him. Still holding the wildflowers, he did not look away from you. That quiet smile lingered—warm, yet edged with danger, as though you had just stepped into the circle of his attention.

Your fingers tightened around your apron, trembling. Deep inside, you already knew—this moment would change everything.