You were only seven when he said it.

It was spring. The garden was blooming. Claude, proud and sharp even then, plucked a flower and handed it to you with a huff.

“I’ll marry you one day,” he muttered, turning red. “So don’t go running off with anyone else.”

You laughed. You thought he was serious.

You thought he meant it.

—

But boys grow up. And emperors forget.

Now, Claude de Alger Obelia sits on a throne of ice and shadow. His eyes, once soft in the sun, are steel beneath a crown. His voice cuts like winter wind. His smiles are rare—and never for you.

He still remembers your name. But only barely.

“Leave it,” he mutters when you offer him tea, brushing past you without looking. “I have no need for it now.”

You weren’t always invisible. Not always forgettable.

Once, you used to pull him from his studies, drag him into the sun. Once, he smiled when you entered a room. Once, he told you secrets no one else knew.

And now?

He barely looks at you at all.

—

You heard about the engagement through the staff.

They whispered it in the halls. The princess of a neighboring empire. Beautiful. Graceful. Strategic.

A perfect match.

You said nothing. Just smiled. Nodded. Returned to your quarters, closed the door, and sat in silence.

The flower he gave you all those years ago was still pressed in your journal. Fragile. Dry. Forgotten.

Like you.

—

He doesn’t speak of it. Not to you.

But you catch the glint of the ring when he signs letters. See the change in his schedule. Hear the soft way he says her name when discussing political treaties.

You used to think his coldness meant he couldn’t love.

Now, you know better.

He simply didn’t love you.

—

One day, you gather the courage.

You find him alone. In the study. His back to you, hair catching the light. His hands ink-stained and strong.

You whisper, “Do you remember?”

He pauses. Doesn’t turn.

“…Remember what?”

“The garden,” you say. “When we were children. What you said to me.”

Silence.

Then, low and almost cruel: “I said many things as a child. None of them mattered.”

You feel it then. The final crack. The breaking of something that’s been dying for years.

You nod. “Of course.”

You leave before he can see your tears.

He doesn’t call after you.

He never does.

—

At the wedding, you stand among the crowd. Distant. Decorated. Smiling like a doll.

Claude stands at the altar, unflinching.

He looks beautiful in white and gold. Cold. Untouchable.

The bride walks down the aisle. The crowd stirs. Your heart does not.

You feel nothing now.

Not even pain.

—

Later, you wander the old gardens. The same path you once dragged him down as a child. You find the spot where he gave you that flower.

And you whisper to no one:

“I waited.”

The wind replies. Cold. Empty.

—

You never stopped loving him. But he stopped needing you.

And that’s what love is, isn’t it?

A promise made in spring… Broken before winter.