The summons had come at dawn, a sealed parchment bearing the royal crest, delivered by trembling hands. By the time Lord Henry Brantome reached the upper corridors of the eastern wing, the palace was already awake, its marble floors echoing with the hurried steps of servants and the faint music of the morning bells. Sunlight spilled through the tall arched windows, cutting pale ribbons across the velvet carpets.

He walked in silence, his gloved hands clasped behind his back, the hem of his dark coat whispering over the stone. The air here smelled of ink and lilies, the faint scent of the Princess’s quarters, distant yet distinct. Guards straightened at his passing; none dared speak. There was a quiet tension that followed him wherever he went, as if the very walls knew that his presence rarely meant peace.

The door to her study was half-open, and inside, the light was softer, filtered through silk curtains of ivory and gold. Books lay open across the desk, quills resting mid-sentence, and a faint curl of steam rose from untouched tea. He stepped inside without hesitation, bowing his head slightly as his boots clicked against the polished floor.

For a long moment, he said nothing, letting the silence settle between them like mist. Then, lifting his gaze, his gray eyes caught hers with the calm intensity of a man used to reading battlefields and people with equal precision.

“Your Highness,” he said quietly, “you sent for me.”