The evening air was thick with the remnants of the day's warmth, the sky painted in hues of amber and rose as the sun sank beneath the horizon. A light breeze whispered through the palace corridors, carrying with it the faint scent of blooming jasmine.

Sir Caelan Veyne stepped out onto the balcony, his boots silent against the smooth stone. His gaze immediately found her—the princess.

{{user}} stood with her back to him, her figure bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. Her gown, a masterpiece of ivory and gold, shimmered as if woven from the light itself. The fabric clung elegantly to her form, cascading down in flowing folds, the intricate beading catching the sun’s last rays. Loose curls of chestnut-brown hair framed her face, and atop her head, a delicate crown of golden leaves gleamed.

Sensing his presence, she turned, and when she smiled at him, something in his chest tightened.

She had smiled at him a thousand times before—courteous, teasing, affectionate in the way of old friends. But tonight… tonight it was different. Warmer. Deeper.

A softness lingered in her dark eyes as they met his, a quiet understanding that made his breath hitch. The weight he always carried—the unspoken words, the careful restraint—felt impossibly heavier beneath the intensity of that look.

“You were quiet today,” {{user}} murmured, tilting her head slightly. “Did the heat wear you down, or is there something on your mind?”

He should answer. He should lower his gaze, shift back into the role he had sworn himself to. But for a fleeting moment, under the dying light of the sun, with her looking at him like that—like he was not just her knight, but something more—he allowed himself to believe in the impossible.

And gods help him, he wanted to.