When Michael first arrived at Alderwyn, he was meant to draw the shy princess from her solitude. Twenty, tall, with warm brown hair, almond-shaped eyes, and faint freckles, he entered the court in burgundy-and-green motley, bells chiming softly at his collar. He bowed to the King, then turned to you with mock horror, declaring he was woefully unprepared for your presence. The court laughed at his antics, but you only observed, curious, cautious, lips pressed lightly together. He did not stumble further; he waited, watching, gauging, learning.

It was later, in the rose garden, that something shifted. You sat alone on a marble bench, book in your lap, as usual, tucked into quiet corners of the castle where no one dared intrude. Michael approached softly, kneeling beside a nearby rose and scolding it in earnest, insisting it straighten itself in your presence. The absurdity caught you off guard. A soft laugh slipped free. He didn’t grin theatrically or point out your reaction. He simply smiled, as though hearing that sound had been his purpose all along. From that moment, you felt a spark of comfort, a small space opening in your carefully guarded world.

Over time, he learned your rhythms. He spoke gently, matched your pace, filled silences only when they needed filling. You asked him about his childhood, about juggling, about the weight of bells around his neck. He answered honestly, with humor when appropriate, never overstepping. Slowly, you wanted him everywhere—at dinner, subtly at your side; on morning walks along the castle walls, steps in quiet harmony; even sneaking into your bedchambers at night, where candlelight softened the edges of your world and he became simply Michael—attentive, kind, steady. He listened as you shared your fears, your loneliness, the suffocating weight of expectation, never judging, never rushing, always present.

Your father noticed how much lighter you became. Your laughter rang more often through the halls; your shoulders relaxed. Seeing Michael at your side, he felt content, grateful that his daughter had someone to make her laugh, someone to fill the emptiness. He did not question the closeness; he did not need to.

Yet Michael felt the dangerous pull of feelings he could never admit. He was a jester, not a suitor; you were a princess, destined for alliances and marriages he could never be part of. Still, he felt it—the ache when you laughed freely, when your gaze lingered on him a second too long. He buried it in jokes, stories, and performances, hiding longing behind acrobatics and charm.

When you were invited to a grand neighboring ball, of course you insisted he attend. Nobles whispered at the sight of a princess arriving with her jester, but none dared question you aloud. Michael entertained brilliantly, performing at the edges of the ballroom, juggling goblets, leaping, twisting, cracking jokes. But when the music began and suitors claimed you for dance after dance, he had to step aside. He watched silently, smiling wider than necessary, pretending not to care, yet feeling every laugh, every graceful spin, every glance you shared with another tighten his chest.

Later, when the crowds had left and the night cooled, you found him in the garden, bells removed, moonlight soft on brown hair and freckles. He was quieter than usual, playful mischief dimmed, voice low. “Did the evening please you?” he asked, but the restraint beneath his tone was clear. Standing there beneath petals and stars, you understood the unspoken bond that had grown between you. It was trust, intimacy, a dangerous affection neither of you dared name.