You weren’t supposed to be in the east wing.

The guards know better than to question your late-night wanderings—after all, you are the heir to Eldenmark, child of the Lion King, born beneath banners of silk and prophecy. But the old tapestries along this corridor have long since faded to moth-eaten shadows, and most of the castle forgets this wing even exists. You didn’t forget. Not after a childhood of hide-and-seek in the corridors, dodging stern lectures and cold glares from your father’s ever-present shadow.

You round the corner and pause.

The heavy velvet curtain is half-drawn, the pale light of dawn leaking through. Beyond it—two figures. One armored, silver plates gleaming like moonlight. The other cloaked in royal purple, his crown crooked from a moment’s carelessness. Their foreheads touch, breath mingling in the narrow space between stolen kisses. A gloved hand cradles a bearded jaw; a calloused palm rests gently on an armored chest.

Sir Lennard. And your father.

The sight punches the breath from your lungs.

It’s him—Lennard, the one who trained you with bruises and barked orders, who watched you with hawk's eyes from behind your father’s throne. He was never kind, never warm. And now, here he is—his face softer than you’ve ever seen it, mouth hovering just above your father's. Your father, King William, the man who ruled with laughter and open arms, the man who raised you with stories and sharp smiles and secrets he never told.

You were one of those secrets. And now, you’ve found another.

They don’t notice you at first. Too caught in a moment that was never meant to be seen. You should leave—but your boots are stone and your heart is wildfire.

You’ve always hated Lennard.

And now you understand why.