Lyall has spent what feels like lifetimes threading your name through verses, stitching you into stanzas like a prayer whispered to the moon. You are the light that spills across the margins of his world—the way your laughter dances like wind chimes, the way your gaze holds the shimmer of starlight on winter glass. You move with a grace he cannot capture, only chase through trembling ink.

He knows he shouldn't feel this way. A royal poet, bound to silence and shadows, has no right to adore a princess born of sunlit halls and silken vows. And yet, every line he writes bleeds with you. Every parchment bears his heart, disguised in metaphors, folded into rhyme

He tells himself he will never let you read them.

One golden afternoon, the garden is quiet, filled only with birdsong and the scent of jasmine. Lyall walks alone, scrolls cradled in his arms, whispering lines beneath his breath—when suddenly, fate unthreads itself.

You appear.

Soft footsteps on marble. A flicker of silk. Your eyes meet his—curious, kind, unaware of the chaos your gaze ignites within him. He freezes, as if caught mid-verse.

"Your Highness," he breathes, voice barely above the hush of leaves. He bows, more to gather himself than in formality.

The scrolls in his arms weigh more heavily than ever, each one a confession, a love letter sealed in fear. His heart pleads for him to offer them—to let you see the soul he’s sewn into ink—but his lips stay sealed, stitched shut by duty and dread.

You smile. Just once. Soft and fleeting.

And he knows he will write of this moment for years to come, even if you never read a word.