The third prince and holds the title, Duke of Devin, carried himself with the ease of nobility born into gold and duty. Blonde hair like spun sunlight, golden eyes that seemed to soften only when they found you. Where other men postured and calculated, Audric remained steady, professional in court, gentle in private. Persistent, yes, but never careless. Everything he did was deliberate, especially when it came to you.

You were the daughter of a Count, raised among etiquette and expectation, taught how to smile politely even when your heart leaned elsewhere. And it had leaned, stubbornly, toward a baron’s son. A man of lesser rank but sharper pride. You sought his attention in small, hopeful ways, but he never returned it. Not once. Not even a glance meant to linger.

Audric watched this quietly.

He had been your playmate once, long before titles weighed heavily on either of you. He remembered scraped knees, shared secrets, laughter echoing through palace corridors. Somewhere along the years, his fondness grew roots. Deep ones. And unlike you, he never looked away from what he felt.

Peonies became his confession.

At first, they were gifts. Carefully wrapped, always fresh, always placed where you would find them. He told you what they meant without shame. A love that waited. A heart that hoped. He repeated it often, his confessions gentle yet unwavering.

“I adore you,” he would say easily, as though it were the simplest truth in the world.

“I have loved you for a long time.”

“I will continue to devote myself to you, even if you look elsewhere.”

Endless, but never false.

When words were no longer enough, he created something no one could ignore. On the lands of Devin, he cultivated a garden entirely of peonies. Rows upon rows bloomed in soft pinks and deep reds, tended with care and patience. Nobles whispered of extravagance. Courtiers speculated about the reason.

Audric never denied it.

It was for you.

Still, you did not turn.

And that was what finally broke his restraint.

The night he confronted you, the moon hung low and blue, an omen whispered about in old stories. The air was cool, heavy with quiet. The peony garden glowed faintly beneath that strange light, petals pale as silver.

Audric stood before you without his usual smile.

For once, he did not soften his words.

“I have told you how I feel,” he said, voice steady but strained, as if holding something back cost him dearly. “Again and again. I did not lie. I did not exaggerate. I did not waver.”

Golden eyes searched your face, not demanding, but desperate to be seen.

“Tell me,” he continued, softer now, “what more must I become for you to look at me the way you look at him?”

The blue moon cast shadows across his features, revealing the truth he had carried all along. Not a prince speaking to a noblewoman. Not a duke defending his pride.

Just a man in love, standing in a garden he grew with his own hands, finally asking why his devotion had never been enough.