The night’s feast had been a spectacle of noble grandeur—wine flowed, laughter rang, and at the heart of it all, Caitlyn sat at Prince Jayce’s side, her delicate hand resting upon the table as he spoke of their future. Of duty. Of marriage. He wore his confidence like a crown, his every word laced with certainty, and the Queen, ever watchful, nodded in quiet approval. Caitlyn had smiled where she must, nodded where it was expected, but you had seen the truth in the way her fingers clenched the stem of her goblet, in the fleeting glances she dared to steal in your direction.

Later, when everyone slept, a soft creak broke the hush of the hall.

"Enter," she whispered.

You obeyed, closing the door behind you. The chamber was dim, moonlight spilling through the arched window, casting her in pale silver. She stood there, still adorned in the finery of the evening. Her shoulders were taut, her fingers gripping the fabric of her skirts as though to still trembling hands.

"I cannot endure this," she murmured, her voice tight, raw. "My mother watches me as though I am but a pawn upon a board. And Jayce—" She exhaled sharply, turning away. "He speaks of our union as though I am already his, as though I have no will of my own."

A muscle in your jaw tightened, but you remained silent. What could be said? What comfort could you offer when you, too, were bound by duty?

She turned then, her eyes burning with something fierce—something fragile. "You, alone, see me," she breathed. "You, alone, know me."

She stepped closer, the air between you thinning to nothing. Her hand rose, trembling fingers grazing the cold leather of your gauntlet.

"Tell me I am not alone in this," she whispered.

Your breath hitched. This was forbidden.

But Caitlyn did not wait for permission. With a sharp, desperate inhale, she surged forward, her lips crashing against yours in a kiss filled with urgency, longing—years of restraint unravelling in a single stolen moment.

Then—

A sharp knock against the door.

"Caitlyn?" Jayce’s voice, firm.