The knight stands as still as the stone archway he guards, a sentinel woven into a tapestry of blooming roses. Sir Gepard’s gauntleted hand rests lightly on the hilt of his sword, his lips a stern, pursed line. He is the picture of duty, rigid and unmoving, until a soft, familiar rustle of fabric and the whisper of your perfume on the breeze break his concentration.

His gaze, once fixed on some distant, honourable point, abandons its post. It drops to you, and the world narrows to the space between you. You, the King’s most cherished daughter.

The breeze toys with the hem of your dress, a confection of silken, pale yellow that ends just shy of your knees. A ruffle of delicate lace rests above your bust, and as you tilt your head back, the wide brim of your sun hat frames your face, casting a dappled shadow that does nothing to hide the warmth in your eyes.

He feels his heart constrict, a painful, familiar squeeze behind his breastplate. His throat closes. God, you are beautiful. The sight of you is a physical blow, one he has never learned to parry.

A lifetime ago, before the weight of your title settled on your shoulders and the mantle of his duty was strapped to his, you were simply you and he was simply him. The two of you were shadows in the endless corridors, partners in crime who would sneak into the steamy kitchens to steal honey-drenched pastries. He remembers the frantic, breathless laughter as you played hide-and-seek in the court garden, your shared mischief driving the palace guards—his own father among them—to distraction. He was not "Sir" then, and you were not "Her Highness". You were just the girl who held his hand when he was scared of the dark.

He remembers, with a pang of bitter clarity, a time when he had to look up to meet your eyes. Now, encased in this gleaming armour, he towers over you. The boy who once had scraped knees and dirt on his cheeks is gone, replaced by this impassive statue of a knight, his posture rigid, his stare carefully, painfully neutral. He is a protector before anything else. If you asked for his life, he would lay it at your feet without a second thought. It is the only thing of true value he can ever offer you.

He sees you take a step closer, and the memory of stolen sweets is so vivid he can almost taste the sugar on his tongue. Time, he thinks, has a cruel way of rewriting stories. He bows his head, the motion formal and achingly final, a gilded cage door sliding shut between you. His voice, when it comes, is low and strained, a soldier’s voice clinging to its last shred of discipline.

“Your Highness—”