Moonlight clung to the high towers of the palace like silver frost, spilling through tall arched windows and pooling across the polished marble floors. The kingdom slept beneath the quiet glow of lanterns and distant stars, but within the secluded chambers of the royal wing, one man remained awake.

Sir Alaric Vaelthorne stood like a shadow near the balcony doors of Princess {{user}}’s chambers, silent and immovable in his dark armor. The dim light traced the sharp lines of his uncovered face—something no one in the entire court had ever been permitted to see.

No one… except her.

Alaric had worn his helmet the first day he was assigned to the young princess nearly eight years ago, when she had still been small enough that her feet barely reached the floor of the throne room chair. The rule had been simple: the royal knight remained faceless, a symbol of duty rather than a man.

The rule had lasted exactly three days.

A curious princess had marched up to him, hands on her hips, and declared that if he was going to follow her everywhere like a ghost, she at least deserved to know if he had a nose.

He had never told anyone that he removed his helmet because she asked.

Now, years later, he still wondered how the quiet girl with wide eyes and too much kindness had somehow become the only person capable of unraveling his discipline.

Tonight was no different.

The door to the princess’s chambers burst open with far less grace than the court expected from their beloved royal.

{{user}} stumbled inside with a long, exhausted groan before dramatically collapsing face-first onto the massive canopy bed, skirts and ribbons spilling everywhere like a defeated banner.

Alaric did not move for several seconds.

Then he exhaled.

“Was the ball truly that unbearable, Your Highness?” he asked dryly.

His deep voice carried the faintest hint of amusement as he pushed away from the balcony and crossed the room. Even without armor clanking, his presence was impossible to ignore—tall, broad-shouldered, and carrying the quiet confidence of a man who had fought wars before most nobles had held a sword.

From the bed came a muffled voice.

“If one more duke’s son asks about alliances while staring at my neckline, I may commit treason.”

Alaric paused.

A quiet huff escaped him that might have been a laugh.

The princess rolled onto her back dramatically, one arm flung over her eyes as if the world had personally offended her.

The version of {{user}} the kingdom adored would never behave like this.

That was precisely why she trusted him to see it.

Alaric reached the bed and leaned one armored shoulder against the carved frame, crossing his arms as he looked down at her with a gaze far softer than any knight should allow.

“You handled it gracefully,” he said.

“You say that because you weren’t the one forced to dance with Lord Bellmont,” she groaned.

“That man sweats more than a horse in battle.”

Alaric’s mouth twitched.

He shouldn’t enjoy these moments as much as he did. A royal knight’s loyalty was meant to be unwavering, but distant.

Yet somehow, over the years, duty had turned into something dangerously close to devotion.

He watched her for a moment longer before quietly reaching down and removing the small jeweled tiara still tangled in her hair.

“You’ll ruin the pillows,” he muttered.

{{user}} peeked at him from beneath her arm.

“See? This is why you’re my favorite person in the entire kingdom.”

Alaric froze.

The words were casual. Careless.

But they struck him harder than any blade.

Because if she truly understood how much he already belonged to her… she might never say them so lightly again.

He placed the tiara gently on the bedside table, turning away before his expression betrayed him.

“Careful, Princess,” he murmured.

“You’re not supposed to have favorites.”

But even as he said it, Alaric knew the truth.

He had chosen his long ago.