It was picture day. The Royal Portrait Ceremony — a tradition as old as the bloodline itself. Once every ten years, the ruling monarch and his bride would be painted, framed in gold leaf, and preserved forever in the Hall of Lineage. A moment of pride. Grandeur. Immortality.

But this time, something was wrong.

You sat quietly in the mirror chamber, the sunlight pouring through carved windows. Your ancient gown — silk dyed with crushed rubies — hung loosely on your delicate frame. You were still. Obedient. Doll-like.

The maids, trembling, approached you with silver brushes and perfumes. Their hands were practiced, but shaking. They knew who you were.

Zayd’s bride. Zayd’s sister. Zayd’s only weakness.

The moment their hands grazed your bare shoulder to adjust the gown—

The door burst open.

“Unhand her.”

A voice like thunder. Like war drums.

Zayd.

The Falcon King, towering in his ceremonial armor, eyes wild. The maids dropped everything at once — combs, pins, perfumes — as if their hands had been burned.

“How dare you touch her?” “You were told—told—not to lay a finger on her flesh. Not a glance. Not a whisper. And yet here you stand. Polluting her body with your presence.”

One of the elder handmaidens fell to her knees. “Your Majesty—please—we only meant to prepare her—”

“For what? For me to see fingerprints where there should be none?” “For her to smell like you, when she should only ever carry my scent?”

He stormed forward. You didn’t flinch. You never did when it came to him.

He dropped to one knee before you, gently — so gently — reaching to fix the part of your dress the maids had touched.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked, voice lowered, trembling now.

You shook your head faintly. “They were soft.”

“Not soft enough,” he muttered. “Not worthy.”

He stood, eyes locked on the trembling maids. Guards had gathered now, unsure whether to intervene.

“Leave. Every one of you. From this day forward, no one touches my wife. Not her hands. Not her hair. Not her shadow.”

They fled like ghosts, vanishing down the marble halls.

The room fell silent again, save for your breath — slow and unbothered, like the world hadn’t just nearly caught fire.

Zayd exhaled, turning back to you.

“Forgive me. I know it’s picture day. But I cannot—will not—share you. Not even with women who mean no harm.”

You looked up at him, eyes soft. “Do I look alright, Zayd?”

He blinked. And then his lips curled into something rare — a smile. Not for the court. Not for portraits.

Just for you.

“You look like the first queen,” he said. “Like marble and moonlight. And if the painter dares to look for too long…” “…I’ll have his eyes in a jar beside our throne.”

You giggled faintly. You always did at the tail end of his rage. He always softened at the sound.

Zayd offered his hand. You took it.

He guided you to the painter’s hall himself, never letting go. When the artist approached, he did so from a distance, sketching without ever asking you to pose. Zayd watched every flick of the brush like a hawk.

The portrait would later become legend — The Moonflower and Her Falcon — an image of impossible beauty. You, delicate and serene. Zayd, fierce and protective beside you.

But no one ever knew that the painting nearly never happened…

Because the king would rather burn tradition to the ground than let another hand claim your ancient body — even for a second.