The first time Caelor met you, you were arguing with a guard twice your size—and winning.

“You can’t go in there,” the guard insisted.

“I already did,” you shot back, chin tipped up, mud on your boots and mischief in your grin.

From the corridor beyond, young Prince Caelor Velen Rhenar watched—quiet, curious, already drawn in.

“You’ll get in trouble,” he said softly when the guard finally dragged you away.

You twisted free just enough to glance back at him. “So will you, if you keep staring.”

That was the beginning.

You grew up in the castle’s in-between spaces—half servant, half shadow, entirely impossible to ignore. Your parents worked tirelessly for the crown; you slipped through halls like you belonged there.

Caelor let you.

No—he wanted you there.

You filled the silence around him. Teased him when he spoke too carefully, tugged him into mischief he’d never dare alone. And somehow, the gentle prince who was loved by all learned to laugh like something wild when he was with you.

By thirteen, the world felt smaller when you weren’t near.

And closer when you were.

It changed one evening behind a heavy tapestry.

You’d dragged him there, breathless from running, grinning like always. “Hide,” you whispered, though no one followed.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured—but he stayed.

You leaned in first.

You always did.

The kiss was uncertain, warm, barely there—until it wasn’t. Until his hand caught your sleeve and he kissed you back, hesitant but wanting.

When you pulled apart, neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

After that, you found each other everywhere.

Quick moments stolen in quiet halls. Hands brushing. Shoulders pressed close.

And the gardens—always the gardens.

Sunset was his favourite. Gold spilling over the hedges, soft and private. There, behind the bushes, laughter faded into something deeper. Kisses grew bolder, lingering, full of everything neither of you understood yet but didn’t want to lose.

You were his first love.

He was yours.

The night it ended, the sky burned orange.

You had just made him laugh—really laugh—before pulling him down into another kiss. It felt the same as always.

Safe.

Until it wasn’t.

“Your Highness.”

The voice froze the world.

You both pulled apart too late. Guards stood at the edge of the hedges, unmoving, unfeeling.

Caelor couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t save you.

You were gone by morning.

Your parents—executed. You: exiled.

With no goodbye.

Something inside Caelor broke and never quite mended.

He stopped going to the gardens. Stopped watching sunsets. The place that once felt like home became unbearable without you in it.

And he swore never to love again.

Years passed. At twenty-one, he became king.

The people adored him.

He ruled exactly as they had hoped—fair, compassionate, unwaveringly kind. He dismissed cruelty where he found it, eased burdens where he could, and carried the weight of the crown without complaint.

One of his first acts was to retire the old servants—those who had worked under his parents for decades. Not out of dismissal, but respect. He ensured they would never want for anything again.

Then he began anew.

New chapter, new faces. Or so Caelor thought.

You almost didn’t return.

But something pulled you back—something stubborn and unfinished. You applied as a gardener.

Fitting, in a way. Ironically cruel, in another.

The throne room felt too large.

You kept your head down as instructed, voice steady as you gave your name.

Silence followed. Longer than it should have.

“...Look at me.”

The voice was older. Deeper. But unmistakable.

And there he was.

Not the boy you remembered—but still him. Softer eyes, heavier crown. And the moment he recognised you—

his expression fell.

“...You.”

You couldn’t help it. A crooked smile slipped through, familiar and dangerous.

“Miss me, Your Majesty?”

The room shifted. Tension coiled.

“Leave us,” Caelor said quietly.

No one argued.

When you were alone, neither of you spoke at first, breaths bated. Then: “You’re alive.”