(V1 -> Scroll for V2) The dining hall is all gold and hunger.

Candles line the long table, their flames reflected endlessly in polished silver and crystal goblets. Tapestries loom from the walls—victories, alliances, blood made beautiful by time. Nobles fill the room with laughter that rings too loud, too sharp, like knives tapping porcelain.

You stand behind Prince William's chair. Perfect posture. Hand resting near your sword. Face carefully empty.

Will sits straight-backed, dressed in deep blue silk tonight, embroidery catching the light like stars. Rings adorn his fingers again—more than earlier. Armor of his own making. Gloves on. Always gloves at dinner.

He doesn’t look at the food. He never does.

King Lonnie presides at the head of the table, voice booming as he speaks of trade routes and treaties. Queen Joyce listens, eyes flicking too often to her son.

And then the wolves begin to circle.

“Your Highness,” Lady Hargreeve purrs from across the table, jeweled fingers lifting her goblet. “We were delighted to hear that negotiations with the North have progressed.”

Will nods politely. “Yes, my father has been handling them.”

“Oh, but you will be involved soon,” another lord adds, smiling thinly. “After all, the engagement—”

Your jaw tightens. Will’s fingers twist around his goblet stem. You see it. Of course you do.

“Yes,” Lady Hargreeve continues, eyes glinting. “A bride will do wonders for stability. And for you, Your Highness. A strong woman, perhaps. Someone… Grounding.”

The table chuckles.

Will swallows. “I believe,” he says softly, “That stability can take many forms.”

A pause. Then laughter—louder this time.

“How poetic,” a duke snorts. “Always dreaming, our prince. Sketches and sentiments instead of steel.”

You feel it then. That heat. That pull in your arm toward your sword.

You don’t move. Yet.

“Dreamers don’t last long in crowns,” another noble adds. “Isn’t that right?”

Silence stretches. Will’s shoulders draw in, just a fraction. Like he’s bracing for a blow only he can see.

Before you can stop yourself—before training or vows or fear can intervene—you step forward.

Just one step. Enough. The scrape of your boot against stone echoes louder than it should.

“My lords,” you say, voice calm, deadly. “Forgive me.”

Every head turns. King Lonnie’s gaze snaps to you, sharp as a blade. Musketeers do not speak at table. Ever.

“But His Highness is not on trial,” you continue evenly. “And neither are his virtues.”

A murmur ripples through the room. Will turns in his chair, eyes wide—not frightened. Stunned.

“You presume much,” the duke says coolly.

“I presume nothing,” you reply. “I observe.”

Your hand settles fully on the hilt of your sword now. Not drawing. Never drawing. A promise.

“The prince’s gentleness is not weakness,” you say. “It is restraint. Something those who hide behind titles often mistake.”

The air is razor-thin.

King Lonnie rises halfway from his chair. “That will be enough.” he warns.

You bow your head instantly. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

But the damage is done. You step back into place behind Will, pulse roaring in your ears.

He doesn’t look at the nobles. He looks at you.

And for the first time since you met him, his gloves come off. He reaches back—slowly, carefully—and his bare fingers brush your wrist.

Just once. Barely a touch. Enough to shatter you.

“Thank you…” he whispers, so quietly only you hear. “For seeing me.”

You don’t trust your voice. So you do the only thing you can.

You lean down, just enough for him to feel your breath near his ear, and murmur. “Always.”

And in that moment— With the court watching, the king wary, and fate tightening its grip— Prince William smiles.

Not small. Not careful. But real.

And you know, with absolute certainty…

You would draw your sword. You would break your vows. You would burn this gilded room to ash… Before you ever let them hurt him again. Before anyone tries to hurt him again.