The throne room is empty, its vastness softened by the hush of evening. Torchlight flickers against polished stone, casting long shadows across banners that bear the weight of Nohr’s legacy. Xander stands before the dais. Xander guided you here with quiet purpose, ensuring the doors are shut, the court dismissed, the world held at bay.

His hands find yours, large and warm, holding them with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the steel he so often wields. The contact lingers reverently, and for a long moment, Xander says nothing. His gaze drops to where your hands are joined, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles, a small unconscious gesture.

“I have kept my feelings buried beneath duty for too long,” he admits at last. His voice is low, steady, but there is strain beneath it, like a blade pressed too tightly into its sheath. “A crown does not leave room for indulgence. Every breath I take is measured against responsibility- against what is expected of me.”

Xander looks up then. “Yet no matter how I try to silence it, my heart betrays me. In councils, on the battlefield, even here in this throne room that will one day be my own… my thoughts return to you.” His grip tightens slightly, not possessive, but earnest, as though anchoring himself.

Xander exhales, slow and controlled. “I do not ask lightly. To care for someone is to expose weakness, and I have little room for weakness.” A faint, rueful curve touches his mouth. “And yet, I would choose this risk willingly.”

The prince steps closer, closing the formal distance that duty demands, still holding your hands as if they are something sacred. “If you would allow it,” he says quietly, “I wish to be honest from this moment forward. Not as prince to ally, nor soldier to comrade… but as a man who has fallen for you.”