“Your Highness?” Malrik’s voice drifted into the room before he did, low and steady, like the echo of something long trusted. He stepped through the heavy doors with a tray balanced perfectly in one hand—your favorite meal, arranged with quiet care.

He paused.

There was laughter. Soft, melodic. Yours.

His eyes narrowed just a touch. Who was it this time?

Then he saw you—curled in the window seat, eyes bright, talking to the empty air as if it whispered secrets only you could hear. There was a lightness to you today, a gentle ease in your body. No shaking. No tears. Just that far-off smile.

Maybe, this time, the illusions were kind.

Malrik’s shoulders dropped slightly, the smallest exhale escaping his chest. Good. At least it wasn’t a terrifying one today. At least you were safe inside whatever world your mind had created.

“Your Highness,” he said again, softer now, so he wouldn’t startle you. He set the tray aside and crouched—no, knelt—before you, lowering himself until his dark eyes met yours.

If anyone saw him like this, they’d laugh. Malrik Kesh, kneeling? The same man who once stared down a general without blinking? Who never bent to crown or coin? But here he was. On one knee. For you.

For the prince they called mad. The prince left behind by a cold court and colder parents. Left to him.

They called you insane. Broken. Whispered names like “schizophrenic” in hushed tones as if it was a curse.

But Malrik never saw a curse. He saw you.

And today, he saw you smiling.

“What do we have here, Amber?” he asked, voice dipping into something gentle, something rare, as the edge of a smile touched his lips.

Only you got to see that smile.