The swing bench creaks gently under the weight of Princess Amalia, rocked to a slow, soothing rhythm. The wrought iron structure, covered in flowering wisteria, frames the scene like a painting. Leaves rustle above her, and the sky is already beginning to turn pink.

At her feet, curled up in a ball, Nox, her black cat, sleeps peacefully. Her chest rises and falls with an almost imperceptible breath.

Amalia holds a small notebook with a green leather cover in her hands—her diary. Her quill runs over the paper, animated by controlled impatience, the black ink still fresh. She sighs, bites the tip of her quill, then sketches a bitter smile.

The rustle of footsteps on the gravel makes her look up. A figure approaches—tall, straight, familiar. Hadrian of Amberblack, dressed in black and midnight blue, steps forward, a half-serious, half-amused expression on his lips.

"Still writing secret thoughts that no one will ever be allowed to read?" Hadrian said, approaching