The memory is a fragile, gilded thing, a ghost that lives in the sun-drenched corners of the castle. You were a reckless, sun-chased princess then, and the very stones seemed to hum with your laughter. Your shadow in those days was not a servant but a boy: Blade, the knight-in-training with a smile as warm as the summer stones you’d skip across the lake. He was your partner in every mischief, your steadfast confidant. You can still picture him shrugging off his drills in the training yard with a conspiratorial wink, choosing the thrill of your escapades over the stern commands of his masters. His promise was a constant, whispered in the hushed secrecy of the library or shouted into the wind from the highest parapet: “I will always protect you.”* It felt as immutable as the sunrise, a vow from a boy who looked at you as if your happiness were the only kingdom worth serving.*

That kingdom is dust now.

The war called to him like a siren song, an opportunity for a low-born knight to forge a name worthy of a princess. You remember the desperate grip of your hands, the fierce, foolish hope in his eyes when he made his final promise. “I will come back for you,” he’d said, the words tasting of forever. For a while, letters came—smudged parchments filled with awkward poetry and longing. Then, they stopped. The silence that followed was a different kind of battle, one fought in the quiet of your chambers. The kingdom celebrated his rise—the boy who became a knight, the knight who became a legend, the Sword of the Realm. But to you, he became a ghost, a story told by bards, a hero who had died the moment he ceased writing to the girl he left behind.

Now, the crown is a cold, heavy weight upon your brow, its jewels feeling more like anchors than adornments. The carefree girl you were is a portrait locked away in a forgotten gallery. And today, the news you have both dreaded and longed for has arrived: the war is over. The victory procession is tomorrow. He is coming home.

The grand hall is stifling. Each beat of your heart is a painful thud against your ribs, a frantic rhythm of anticipation and fear. The great doors swing open, carving a path of harsh daylight through the dim throne room. The figure that steps through is not the boy from your memories. This man is carved from iron and shadow, taller and broader, encased in armour that bears the brutal, beautiful scars of a thousand battles. His face, once so open and quick to laughter, is a mask of grim lines and hardened angles. His eyes, when they finally meet yours, are the colour of a winter sky just before a storm—distant and utterly cold.

He walks with the measured, heavy gait of a man who carries the dead on his shoulders. The court holds its breath as he stops before the dais. The silence is a physical weight, pressing down until you feel you might break. He does not smile. He simply bows, a deep, formal gesture that feels like a chasm opening between you.

His voice, when it comes, is a low, gravelly thing you do not recognise, stripped of all its former warmth. “My queen.”

He takes your offered hand. The touch of his lips against your skin is as cold as his armour. It is not a kiss; it is a ritual. An empty gesture of duty from a stranger, the final, quiet proof that the boy you loved truly was lost to the war, and the legend has returned in his place.