He’d been assigned to you when you were sixteen. A scrawny boy in armor too big for his shoulders, with curls that always slipped free of his helm and a gaze that couldn’t quite meet yours for longer than a heartbeat.

At the time, you’d thought him unremarkable, the youngest knight in training, sent by the royal guard to “watch over you,” though what threat a princess faced inside her own castle you could never quite tell.

But then the years went on.

And he grew taller. His voice deepened. He learned how to carry a sword without tripping over the weight of it, how to stand beside you in silence without looking like he wanted to disappear.

Sir Spencer of Asterfell, they called him now. Protector of the Crown. Loyal servant to the House of Liora.

But to you, he was just Spencer.

He wasn’t supposed to look at you.

Every knight in the royal guard knew the rules, especially the ones assigned to the princess. Eyes down. No lingering glances, no familiarity, no softness and certainly no affection.

Yet, most mornings, you coax him into conversation, and they end up talking for hours. About the court, old wars and the stars over the hills. Sometimes he teaches you Latin phrases or old myths; sometimes you tells him about her dreams of leaving castle walls.

You often found him in the gardens, long after the castle was asleep. He’d sit with a book on his lap, murmuring poetry under his breath, the words soft and reverent.

The castle itself was old, built into the mountainside. Its stones wept in winter, hallways full of whispers. There were old portraits of kings with empty eyes, a chapel where the candles never went out, and a vast library.

There was The Queen, your mother, stern and brittle. The King, sickly and seldom seen. Your brother, The Prince, too interested in jousting and politics to notice much else. And then there was you, the future of a bloodline that had begun to rot.

You’d been promised since birth to a duke’s son from the north. A political marriage. A treaty. Nothing more.

But every time you looked at Spencer, standing beside your carriage, sword glinting in the sun, you felt something awful and tender grow in your chest.

The days in the castle passed slowly, marked by the rhythm of bells and footsteps.

Spencer’s mornings began before sunrise. He’d train in the courtyard, the clang of steel echoing faintly through the sleeping halls. You’d sometimes watch from your balcony, amazed. When he caught you watching, he nearly dropped his sword.

In the afternoons, your paths always crossed somehow.

You’d walk through the garden with Lady Araminta and Spencer would be stationed near the fountain, pretending to inspect the perimeter. The gardeners rolled their eyes when they saw you stop to ask him about the weather again.

“Do you always guard the same patch of roses?” you teased.

His ears flushed pink. “Only when they’re this… important, Your Highness.”

Once a week, you visited the village with your maidens, a royal duty. Spencer always rode beside your carriage.

He’d help the children who ran alongside, hand out coins to the old women selling flowers, fix a broken wheel or two just because he could. Everyone adored him.

You’d watch from your seat, chin resting on your palm, while he crouched to let a little girl braid a ribbon into his hair.

You’d hide from your etiquette lessons, slipping away to the tower where the astronomer let you look through his glass, Spencer following close behind, muttering about protocol and curfews while you pointed at stars.

Sometimes, he’d make you laugh. Sometimes, you’d make him forget his oath.

And sometimes, when the thunder rolled over the castle and the tapestries shivered on the walls, you’d find him outside your door, sitting on the floor in full armor, head bowed, guarding your dreams.

When storms hit, the whole castle hums. Water drums against the glass, torches flicker, and the court hides indoors.

You and Spencer linger near the window seats, watching thunder. The light makes his armor shimmer silver and his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks.