You were never supposed to speak.

He was the king’s sworn guard—silent, sharp-edged, bound by oath and blood. You were the court’s brightest secret, a noble daughter promised to a foreign crown, you r future already signed in ink and expectation.

Still, every morning, you found him.

He stood in the palace garden at dawn, armor dull with dew, eyes fixed forward as if the world could not tempt him. You brought the sun with you anyway—bare feet on cold stone, laughter too soft to be proper.

“You never look at me,” you said one morning. “I’m not allowed to,” he replied, voice rough as gravel. “That sounds like a rule meant to be broken.” He didn’t answer. But his grip tightened on his spear.

Days passed in stolen words and borrowed silences. You talked of stars you’d never be allowed to chase. He listened, though listening was already a betrayal. When you smiled, it felt like treason. When you touched his arm, it felt like war.

The first time he looked at you—really looked—the world shifted. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. "I know,” you whispered. “That’s why I am.”

Your love lived in the spaces between rules. In glances held a heartbeat too long. In hands that never quite met. In nights where he stood guard outside your door, fighting battles no one would ever sing about.

The day of her departure came wrapped in silk and ceremony. You passed him in the corridor, radiant and breaking.

“Be happy,” he said, the lie cutting deeper than any blade.

You slipped something into his palm as you walked by—a ribbon, frayed at the edges, warm from your skin.