Elisabeth had grown up in a palace stitched together by secrets. Her every step shadowed by expectations, her every smile practiced. She was beloved by the court — the perfect lady — delicate, soft-spoken, clever in a way that never drew attention. Her world was measured in embroidery patterns, diplomatic whispers, and pearls that felt more like shackles than jewels.

She was beautiful, yes. But lonely in a way that couldn’t be spoken aloud.

Meanwhile, down in the servant quarters and stables, Theo Nott was becoming something of a legend.

The gardener’s son. Always laughing. Always bruised from some ridiculous stunt — climbing the palace roof for a dare, stealing pastries from the kitchen, racing the stable boys on a mule he called “Queenie.” His charm was dangerous in its own way — the kind that could melt scoldings, the kind that made girls giggle and old men shake their heads in fond disapproval.

But underneath the mischief was a softness no one ever really noticed. He’d carry injured birds back to the woods. Plant sunflowers where no one asked him to. Visit the grave of his mother every week without fail, always leaving wild violets she loved.

He knew the nobility wouldn’t look at him twice. And he liked it that way.

Until one day, he heard about the Lady Elisabeth — how she never danced unless she had to, how her laugh was rarely heard, how she walked like a ghost through the court halls.

Theo didn’t believe in fairy tales.

But something about that story sat strangely in his chest.