You and Riki had never learned how to be gentle with each other.

Even as children, you’d fought over everything — the crown-shaped pastries served at the royal banquets, the best horse in the stables, the last word in every conversation. He’d tease until you snapped, then smile like your anger was his favorite kind of victory. Somewhere between your arguments and his laughter, affection had taken root in the only way two heirs could afford it — disguised as rivalry.

Then the war came, and childish affection turned into enmity sharpened by grief. Your kingdoms burned. His father called for vengeance. Yours called it justice. And the boy who once tugged your braid in the gardens became the prince whose armies surrounded your borders.

When the peace treaty arrived, it came with your name written beside his.

The alliance marriage was never meant to be romantic — only strategic, a symbol of peace sculpted from ash. You were told to smile, to obey, to make your former enemy a husband and not a hostage. He stood at the altar, tall and composed, his expression unreadable. But when he looked at you, something flickered — a ghost of that same boy who used to laugh at your temper, now buried beneath the weight of a kingdom.

Months passed in uneasy truce. You argued behind gilded doors, agreed only when the council forced you to, and performed your harmony for the sake of both thrones. Yet beneath the rehearsed smiles, you began to understand him again — the careful patience, the dry humor that surfaced only when no one else was watching. There were moments when his voice softened, when his hand lingered too long as he handed you a scroll, when you forgot that peace was supposed to feel like penance.

It was during the Festival of the Moon — a night meant to celebrate half a year of peace — that everything shattered again.

The gardens of the royal estate were alight with lanterns, the scent of rose oil drifting through the warm evening air. You stood together before the crowd, speaking the words your advisors had written. For a moment, he looked at you — really looked — and smiled like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

And then the arrow came.

It cut through the air with a sound that didn’t belong among the music and applause. You didn’t see it until his body jerked forward — the light vanishing from his face as he tried to hide you with himself.

He caught your arm on instinct, dragging you down with him behind the marble railing. Chaos erupted — guards shouting, steel unsheathing — but all you could hear was his ragged breath. The arrow had found his shoulder, the wound seeping through the embroidered crest of your joined houses.

“Riki—”

He gritted his teeth, his hand closing over yours, forcing your trembling fingers against the bleeding. “Don’t,” he hissed. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you once I’d never let anyone win against us.”

You pressed harder, the warmth of his blood soaking into your palms. “You’re— you’re an idiot,” you whispered.

He managed the faintest smirk. “That’s one of the things you always liked about me.”

“Liked?” you echoed, voice breaking.

“Still like,” he corrected, the pain threading through his tone, but his eyes — dark and steady — didn’t waver. Around you, the shouts grew distant, footsteps thundered through the halls. But in that small, terrible circle of quiet, there was only the two of you — the queen and the prince, the enemies, the almost-somethings who had never learned to stop fighting long enough to call it love.

He reached up, brushing his fingers against your cheek — the touch clumsy, fleeting. “Guess I still owe you a snowball I had no time to throw back at you,” he murmured, a ghost of that boyhood grin tugging at his mouth.

“Riki, stay awake—”

“I am,” he breathed, the words fading. “Just… tired of pretending we’re at peace.”

And then his hand slipped from yours, the lantern light trembling across his blood-stained sleeve.