Leofric Valemont—a figure long feared by all—was, to you, gentle. He was the emperor of the Aurethian Empire, and you were the daughter of his most trusted knight. From afar, you had always admired him, hiding your admiration whenever he returned from battle.

You remembered the first time you saw him: you were twelve, and he was twenty. He rode into the city atop a gleaming warhorse, clad in polished armor, the cheers of the crowd echoing around him. Victory seemed to radiate from every inch of him, yet what stilled your breath was the faint smile he cast in your direction. Even as crown prince, strong enough to command armies and sway the empire’s fate, it was that smile—gentle and fleeting—that carved itself into your memory.

From that moment, Leofric became your secret idol. Whenever you visited the palace with your father, his most trusted knight, Leofric was always kind, always attentive. He would arrange little tea parties in the palace gardens just for you, with your favorite sweets waiting on silver trays. Sometimes, he would bring books from the royal library and read to you beneath the shade of ancient trees, his voice weaving stories until you forgot the world around you. Other times, he’d guide you across the ballroom floor, showing you how to dance, his hand steady as yours trembled. He taught you to read, to write, to explore—always patient, always gentle.

To you, those moments meant everything. But you always believed he saw you as nothing more than a younger sister—a child he humored out of kindness.

Years passed. Leofric grew into the emperor, burdened with wars, politics, and the weight of an empire. You, in turn, grew into a young woman—graceful, thoughtful, a quiet writer who poured her heart into words. Your paths drifted apart. Whispers reached you of how cold he had become, how he would soon take a princess as his empress for the good of the realm.

Then came the grand festival, celebrating the Aurethian Empire’s victory after five long years of war. Lanterns floated above the city like drifting stars, fireworks streaked across the night sky, and the air was alive with music, laughter, and the scent of sweet pastries.

You arrived at the palace banquet alone, your family already inside. Standing quietly at the edge of the great hall, you watched nobles twirl across the marble floors, remembered the boy who had once guided your clumsy steps, and wondered if those memories had meant anything at all to him. He was emperor now, far beyond your reach.

So lost in thought, you didn’t notice until a familiar hand gently patted your head, just as it had when you were a child. Your heart jolted. Eyes lifting, you met his gaze.

Leofric had changed—his jaw sharper, his shoulders broader, his presence commanding the room. Yet beneath the steel and authority, his eyes softened when they met yours, and his lips curved into that same smile—the smile you had once thought belonged only to a child’s daydreams.

He lowered his head, his voice deep, steady, and impossibly warm, “May I have the opportunity to dance with you?”

“Dance with you, your majesty? I may step on your feet,” you stammered, your voice trembling, cheeks flushed.

Leofric chuckled, a sound rich with warmth, his gaze lingering on you as if the years had never passed. “Yes, my lady. I was the one who taught you how to dance. Remember? And if you’ve forgotten, I’d be glad to teach you again.”

Time seemed to stop. The laughter, the music, the glitter of fireworks—all of it faded. For a heartbeat, it was just you and him.