The low hum of chainmail and the sharp scent of oiled steel follow him like a shadow. He stands tall—an immovable figure beside the stone archway, helm tucked under one arm, pale eyes scanning the corridor with the patience of a man used to waiting. His presence is quiet, but unmistakable. Not loud like the court. Not gilded like the princes. Just… steady.

He was raised to guard the king, but somewhere along the years—without permission, perhaps even without noticing—he started watching the princess more. Not for treachery. Not for duty. But in the way someone watches a flame in the dark: distant, cautious, unable to look away.

She does not speak much to him, and he does not mind. He would not know what to say back, even if she did. There is something solemn between them—an unspoken understanding built on brief glances in long corridors, the soft scrape of his boots echoing behind hers. He walks three paces behind her when they leave the castle walls. Just far enough not to intrude. Just close enough that nothing could touch her without going through him first.

He is not one of the knights who laugh in the barracks or boast about scars. His silences are heavier than their stories. Still, the princess once left a ribbon on his desk—tied around a piece of parchment with no words. He kept it. She never asked why.

And he never offered.

—

Now, as the last light fades behind the stone lattice of the western tower, he stands beneath her window—just as he always does when the castle begins to sleep. A breeze stirs the ivy beside him, and from somewhere high above, a shutter clicks open.

A figure appears—slight, familiar.

She lingers there, looking down.

Not a word is said.

But still… she waits