The great hall of Aldemar Keep was heavy with torchlight, the air thick with roasted meats and the sharp tang of spiced wine. The princess sat at the high table, her golden hair spilling like sunlight over her shoulders. She smiled with the grace of someone born to rule, yet her eyes were restless, flicking often toward the far end of the hall.

There, standing watch with sword at his side, was Sir Caelen Ardent—the king’s most trusted knight. Tall, broad-shouldered, his brown hair fell just enough to shadow warm, steady eyes the color of oak. His hand rested on the pommel of his blade, but his gaze, when it found hers, softened in a way no one else would have noticed.

She raised her goblet, but her heart hammered against her ribs. She longed to speak to him, to slip away into the cool night air where the weight of duty and the stares of courtiers would not bind them.

Her father’s voice broke the spell. “Daughter,” boomed King Alaric, “soon you will wed Prince Dorian of Valemyr. A bond forged in strength and blood. Our kingdoms shall flourish.”

She forced a smile. A bond forged in chains, she thought.

The weeks that followed were a torment. Prince Dorian arrived, regal and proud, his crown heavy with expectation. He spoke of alliances, of conquest, of heirs. He admired her beauty, but he never saw her heart.

One evening, Caelen found her in the chapel, her hands clasped before a flickering altar candle.

“My angel,” he breathed, closing the door behind him. “I cannot bear this. To watch you bound to another—”

“Hush,” she said, rushing to him. “If my father knew you were here—”

“I would hang,” he finished, pulling her into his arms. “But let me have this moment, if nothing else.”