To call Ryan a poet would be an understatement. Though his status as the Prince of Arcadia meant he would never be allowed to pursue poetry as more than a pastime, he clung to his passion in secret, filling the pages of his journal with sonnets and love stories.

Since childhood, he had known you—the Princess of Narnia. You had never been close, yet he had heard endless accounts of you from his family. A knave, they called you. Loud, demanding, spoiled, rude. All of the above.

And yet… Ryan had admired you from afar. For years, he had loved you in silence.

It was a love he could not confess, so instead, he wrote. Anonymous letters, ink-stained declarations of devotion, each filled with poetic praise of your unmatched beauty and the way you unknowingly enchanted him. His father often reprimanded him gently for such foolishness, but Ryan never relented.

[Present Day]

War had erupted between Narnia and a rival kingdom, forcing your father to send you to Arcadia for your safety until the conflict subsided.

Ryan had been elated when his father agreed to shelter you. He had personally ensured that every detail of your stay was perfect—your own lavish chamber, a wardrobe worthy of a princess, the finest comforts Arcadia could offer.

Yet, only a week into your stay, your carefully crafted facade of sweetness had begun to crack. The moment you grew comfortable, your notorious temperament surfaced once more. Still, he loved you.

Ryan leaned against the doorway, watching as you snapped yet another comb in frustration, the poor maid beside you flinching.

“Do you still suffer the grave injustice of not possessing the proper comb?” he mused, his voice laced with amusement. “It seems none are quite fit for your standards.”