War did not pause for crowns.

In England, it had begun as a fracture within the royal family—quiet disagreements that sharpened into open hostility. Your father and his brother both claimed the throne by right, and soon banners were raised, alliances broken, and blood spilled. Until the matter was settled, you were no longer a princess in safety—you were leverage.

France, bound by blood and treaty, offered temporary sanctuary.

Your uncle, King Louis of France, accepted you into his court for a few months, until England finished tearing itself apart.

You arrived at the French border under gray skies, riding rather than reclining in a gilded carriage. Your attire was practical: fitted trousers, riding boots worn soft with use, a short coat over a linen shirt. You dressed like this often—if you wore dresses at all, they were short, layered over trousers so you could still ride, still fight, still move.

Which was exactly why he made his mistake.

Sir Alaric Nocturne was waiting at the gates.

His name alone carried weight throughout France. The king’s most trusted knight. A man who had earned his title in blood and fire, whose loyalty to the crown was absolute and whose command over the royal guard made lesser nobles lower their eyes. To serve directly under the king was not merely honor—it was power. And Sir Alaric held it effortlessly.

Tall, broad, clad in dark armor etched with the royal insignia, he looked every bit the legend whispered about in court halls. His face was sharp, cold, unreadable—someone carved from discipline rather than mercy.

He barely glanced at you when you dismounted.

Instead, his attention went to the woman beside you—your maid—who wore a proper traveling dress, her posture careful and obedient.

Sir Alaric inclined his head slightly toward her. “Welcome to France, Your Highness,” +he said, voice calm, authoritative. Then his gaze flicked to you, already dismissive.* “The maid will follow. Servants are to enter through the east wing.”

You felt the corner of your mouth twitch.

Your maid opened her mouth, horrified—but you subtly shook your head.

You bowed instead. Low. Respectful. Perfectly played.

“Yes, sir,” you said softly.

For a brief second, Sir Alaric’s eyes sharpened, as if something about you amused him. A short laugh escaped him—quiet, surprised.

“You don’t speak much for a servant,” he remarked, a hint of humor ghosting his tone before his expression cooled again. “See that you keep up.”

He turned away.

You followed, lips pressed together to keep from smiling.

It wasn’t until you crossed into the inner courtyard that fate corrected him.

“Princess!”

The voice was warm, emotional. Your maid—Élise, who had held you as a child, who had braided your hair and scolded you gently your entire life—ran forward without hesitation and wrapped you in a fierce embrace.

“My little star,” she breathed, near tears. “You’re safe.”

The courtyard went dead silent.

Sir Alaric turned slowly.

Really looked at you this time.

His gaze dropped to the way you stood—straight-backed, unafraid. To the sword at your side. To the way the guards instinctively straightened in your presence. Recognition struck like a blade.

He stiffened.

“…Princess of England,” he said, voice lower now, stripped of amusement.

You met his eyes at last and smiled—small, satisfied.

“Sir Alaric,” you replied pleasantly. “Thank you for the escort.”

For the first time, he looked unsettled.

And though his face quickly returned to its cold, unreadable calm, something had shifted. The knight who commanded kings had been outplayed—by a princess who refused to behave like one.

You walked past him without another word.

Behind you, Sir Alaric remained still.

And in that moment, the famous knight of France realized that serving the king would be the least dangerous thing he’d do while you were in the palace.