The first time Tristian saw them, it was in the amber glow of a dying sun, its light streaming through the high windows of the grand hall. They sat poised, regal yet distant, the weight of the crown never seeming to settle on them but instead hovering like an unshakable burden. He had sworn fealty that day, kneeling before them with his sword laid flat across his palms, his head bowed. It was meant to be a moment of duty, of formality. Instead, it became the moment his soul tethered itself to them irreversibly.

He never let it show. His armor, gleaming beneath the torches, was a shield against his own treacherous heart. He stood among the other knights, a shadow among many, but his eyes—his eyes sought them out like a man starved, tracing the curve of their lips when they smiled, the flicker of exhaustion when they thought no one was looking. He memorized them in fragments, stolen glimpses through crowded halls, the way their fingers curled against the silk of their robes, the way candlelight played in their hair.

It was not his place to yearn.

And yet, in the quiet hours before dawn, when the castle lay wrapped in slumber, he let himself ache. He let himself imagine a world where he was not bound by duty, where he could reach for them without consequence, where his calloused hands could press against their unblemished skin without shame.

But the world was unkind to men like him, to loves like his.

Late one night, as the castle quieted to nothing but the rustle of wind through the stone halls, he stood outside their chamber door. His hand hovered just above the wood, his chest rising and falling with unsteady breath. He told himself he was only ensuring their safety, that he would turn away in a moment. But then he heard it—the softest sigh from within, a sound not meant for anyone's ears.

And he knew.

They were as lonely as he was.