Your fingertips hover over the seal pressed in gold wax. The royal emblem of Elaria gleams in the soft candlelight: a lion’s head crowned in a halo of thorns. You know what’s inside. You don’t need to read the scroll to know its contents—another alliance proposal. Another list of royal suitors who bear noble bloodlines and powerful armies. Another man they expect you to wed.

Your heart is not in that scroll.

It lies outside your chamber door. Waiting.

You rise from your vanity, brushing aside the velvet drapes of your gown. The moonlight spills into your room through tall, arched windows, painting your chamber in silver. Your silk slippers glide across marble floors, soundless. Years of training make your movements graceful, every step poised. But inside, your heart pounds like a drum in a storm.

You ease open the hidden servant door that leads down the narrow stairwell and slip into the passageway. The scent of stone and lavender hangs in the air—your maids leave dried herbs in corners to ward off dampness. Your hands glide along the cool stone walls as you descend into the quiet of the palace’s lower corridors.

He’s waiting in the old music hall.

You feel him before you see him.

Standing in the doorway, arms crossed, dressed in his simple black tunic bearing the royal crest of Elaria’s Guard, he looks like a shadow given form—tall, steady, ever watchful. His sword hangs by his hip, but he always takes it off when you're together. That was part of your agreement. No weapons between us.

His eyes meet yours, and the room disappears.

“Your Highness,” he says quietly, lips twitching into the smallest smile. “Out for a midnight stroll?”

You shut the door behind you and step into his arms, hiding your face against his chest. You can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, stronger than your own. He holds you as if you might shatter, as if you are something sacred, something fragile he’s sworn to protect.

“I hate this,” you whisper against the soft fabric of his shirt. “I hate sneaking. I hate lying.”

His hands stroke your hair, calming, tender. “I know.”

You look up at him, your eyes searching. “It won’t always be like this. When I’m queen—”

He cuts you off gently, his fingers tilting your chin. “When you’re queen, you’ll be watched more closely than ever.”

There’s pain in his voice. He’s tried to keep distance before—tried to end it. But neither of you can. The bond is too deep. The love too strong.

“You’re not just a princess,” he says. “You’re the crown.”

“I’m also a woman,” you answer. “And I love you.”

His jaw tightens. “And I love you. That’s why this is so hard.”