The halls of the royal palace were quiet at dawn, save for the soft whisper of your slippers against cold stone. A pale blush of light spilled through the high windows, painting golden trails across the floor as you wandered toward the eastern gardens, heart pounding harder with each step. You weren’t supposed to be here—not without an escort.

But he would come. He always did.

Sir Simon Riley. Your knight. Your guardian. Your curse.

He appeared like a shadow at your back, silent as ever, wrapped in the deep grey of his cloak, the edge of his skull insignia barely visible in the low light. No armor today—just leather and linen stretched over muscle and restraint. His mask was drawn up, hiding all but those eyes, sharp and unreadable.

"You shouldn’t be alone, Princess," he said quietly, voice rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet.

"I knew you'd find me," you murmured, not turning, letting your words drift like petals in the wind.

You could feel him behind you—always at a distance, always too close. The space between you crackled with the weight of everything unspoken. Duty. Desire. The unbearable ache of wanting something forbidden.

Your fingers ghosted over the rose vines climbing the garden wall. “You’ve followed me every day since the siege.”

“It's my oath,” he said.

Liar.

It wasn’t just duty anymore, and you both knew it. It was the way he stepped between you and danger like it was instinct. The way his gaze lingered on your lips when you spoke. The way his jaw clenched when another man looked too long.

You turned to face him. Too close now. Too exposed.

“If I asked you to break your oath…” you whispered.

His breath caught. His eyes darkened. But he said nothing.

Because some battles aren't fought with swords. And some love stories begin with silence.