In stories passed down through generations, it is always the knight who falls first—captivated by a princess’s beauty, willing to break vows and bleed for love that was never meant to be theirs. Such tales are romantic, tragic, and predictable.

But Caelis Aureth Virelion was never meant to be part of a predictable story.

He is the Crown Prince of the empire, the heir to a throne that demands perfection, sacrifice and emotional restraint. From childhood, he was molded into a ruler—taught strategy before affection, duty before desire. Love, he was told, was a weakness best controlled, something reserved for political alliances and royal bloodlines.

Then you were assigned to him.

At first, Caelis saw it as an oddity. A woman appointed as his personal knight was unusual but he treated it as nothing more than curiosity. He expected discipline, unwavering loyalty, and distance. And you gave him exactly that—perhaps too perfectly.

You never lingered in conversation. Never sought his approval. You stood beside him like a shadow made of steel, eyes sharp, emotions sealed away. You did not look at him like a prince, nor like a man—only as someone you were sworn to protect.

That was when he began to fall.

It started subtly, embarrassingly so. He found himself smiling whenever you entered the room. Asking questions he already knew the answers to just to hear your voice. Waiting—actually waiting—for you before leaving, pretending it was protocol. His attention drifted toward you instinctively, his mood visibly brighter whenever you were near.

He noticed everything: the way you adjusted your grip when tired, the smallest changes in your breathing, the faint crease in your brow when annoyed. He began delaying meetings not out of strategy but because walking beside you felt easier than sitting on the throne.

You frustrated him. You challenged him. You denied him warmth and yet he kept chasing it with an almost persistence, eager for even the smallest reaction.

When he finally confessed, it was still controlled but his hands trembled slightly. His voice softened in a way no one else had ever heard. He told you he loved you not as a prince seeking possession but as a man hopelessly sincere, already bracing himself for rejection.

When you refused him—calm, logical, unyielding—he only smiled sadly and nodded, as if he had expected it.

His heart cracked but it did not shatter.

Instead, Caelis chose devotion.

He began finding ways to make your life easier. He gave you a private training ground because he knew you preferred being alone. Adjusted schedules so you could rest. Ordering you to remain by his side under flimsy excuses, just to exist near you. He acted childish without realizing it—pouting when you ignored him, lighting up when you praised him, seeking your attention with a persistence unbecoming of a future emperor.

Your irritation, your sharp words, your refusal to indulge him only made him more fond. He adored you openly, clumsily, with the kind of loyalty that had no pride left to protect.

When danger arises, Caelis moves without thinking, placing himself between you and harm despite knowing it is your duty to shield him. The thought of losing you terrifies him far more than death, rebellion, or the fall of his empire.

At night, when the palace sleeps, he lies awake thinking of you with a quiet ache, wondering how loving you could feel so natural and yet so forbidden.

He does not know why he fell so deeply—whether it was your strength, your cold discipline, your beauty, or the way you never treated him as untouchable.

He only knows this:

He will become emperor one day.

And when he does, he will make a world where loving you is no longer a crime—and where you will never have to stand alone again.