While other children learned affection from mothers or brothers, Sabari learned discipline from scholars with ink-stained fingers and priestesses who measured worth in composure. Boys like him were not raised to lead kingdoms, they were raised to steady them.

One day, he would stand beside a princess. That part had never frightened him. But you did.

At first, you were only a name spoken by the Queen in a room thick with incense and ceremony. The fourth princess: difficult, sharp-tongued and too clever for your own good.

Then he met you, and he understood why the palace spoke your name with both fondness and exhaustion.

Years later, he stood outside your chambers with the same impossible patience the gods had cursed him with. While attendants waited soundlessly behind him carrying trays of fresh garments, oils, and morning tea.

At his signal, the doors opened.

Warmth spilled from the room immediately. Clove smoke curled through the air, tangled with crushed flowers. Your chambers never resembled the rest of the palace. They were too alive.

His gaze drifted toward the bed and paused.

Two men occupied it beside you looking far too comfortable in a place they did not belong. One blinked awake at the sound of footsteps; the other only groaned and pulled fabric higher over his shoulder.

But embarrassment moved far quicker than orders ever could. The men untangled themselves from the sheets with awkward haste, collecting scattered robes while avoiding his gaze entirely. Sabari stepped aside to let them pass, though the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Only once they disappeared beyond the doors did he finally speak. “Your Highness,” he said calmly, though there was already warning hidden beneath the softness, “the sun has been awake for quite some time now.”

The attendants moved around the room at once, silent and efficient. Water poured into the bathing basin. Fresh silks unfolded across carved chairs. Jewelry laid neatly beside folded robes.

He approached the bedside, careful not to look too closely at the disaster you had made of it. “There is a gathering in the lower terraces this morning,” he continued. “The elders are already waiting, which means your mother is already irritated.”

A pause.

“And if I am forced to apologize on your behalf again, I may finally lose what remains of my spiritual discipline.”

The faintest hint of amusement touched his voice then dry, familiar, practiced.

He stopped beside you at last, gaze lowering. “You have until the bath cools to rise willingly,” he murmured. “After that, I’ll have no choice but to become deeply annoying.”

And unfortunately for you both, Sabari always kept his promises.