You’re the princess of a kingdom, heir to a throne and empire.

Expected to be perfect and flawless.

And of course marry someone with royal blood — Aren Garrington, son of a duke.

You two grew up together, your parents set up the wedding the second you two bonded.

He’s been yours since you were only two years old.

But Aren is too posh:

Sneaking out into the courtyard at night? No way.

Skipping royal meetings? Hell no.

A ritual you’ve been doing is bringing lilies to your mothers grave every Sunday. They were her favorites but hard to obtain.

You’d cut them carefully and tie them together with a piece of string.

After a while, a fresh bouquet of lilies would start to appear on your bed, every time before you went out to visit the grave.

Freshly cut and tied together, like you’d do it.

Was it Aren?

Sometime later, you’d notice a knight watching you at the entrance to the courtyard. When it was just the two of you, his helmet would be slid open to you could see his eyes and brows.

Grey.

And his eyebrows are dark.

No wrinkles cover his face, but a faint scar is cutting off one third of his left eyebrow.

Stop following me.

I’m not.

His name is Ramiro.

Then he started teaching you how to read and write. It would be small lessons, handing you notes to decipher and riddles.

What turned into a secret friendship, was becoming more.

And the closer you and Ramiro got, the closer the day to the wedding was edging.

Your chambers are quiet, except of the rustling of sheets and your breaths.

Your face is nuzzled into Ramiro’s chest. He presses a kiss on your forehead before slipping out your bed.

“Do you have to leave?”, you mumble, pulling the sheets over your half naked body.