The sea roared beneath the cliffside castle, endless blue crashing against jagged rocks like it was trying to claw its way inside. Lanterns flickered in the corridor shadows, golden light dancing on polished stone floors that had seen too many silent nights. She stood at the window, crown still in her hand, fingers cold despite the summer air.

Behind her, boots echoed softly—he never learned to walk quietly in halls meant for diplomacy. The scent of salt and smoke clung to him like memory. She didn’t turn. She knew it was him.

The boy her mother took in. The boy with blood on his hands and a grin sharper than any blade at his belt. The boy who learned to bow before he learned to fight, who kissed her knuckles in jest and called her “princess” like it was both a title and an insult.

Now, he leaned beside her, gaze lost in the sea. No grin. No jest. Just silence, taut and heavy, like the rope of a noose.

“You’re leaving again.” She didn’t ask. It wasn’t a question.

His fingers brushed hers on the stone ledge. Warm. Rough. A tether. “The sea doesn’t wait. You know that.”

She did. And still, every time he went, she waited. Waited for sails on the horizon, for boots on marble, for a voice that carried storms.

“I could go,” she said, finally looking at him. “One day.”

He shook his head. “You’d burn out there.”

“And you don’t burn here?”

A pause. Then: “Every damn day.”

She should’ve walked away. Should’ve said something diplomatic, something royal. But instead, she stood still as his hand slid to her jaw, touch hesitant, as if this—this moment—was more forbidden than any law.

He didn’t kiss her. Just stared like he was trying to memorize her into bone. As if she was a port he’d never dock at again.

Outside, gulls screamed, and inside, a heart broke so quietly not even the sea could hear.