You were never the kind of princess sung about in ballads.

No soft laughter, no golden gowns, no delicate smiles meant for portraits. You preferred the hush of winter mornings, when the world felt muted and honest. The whisper of cold wind through black lace suited you far more than silk or sunshine. Even your crown was black—onyx stones set in iron, heavy enough to remind you it wasn’t meant to sparkle.

You weren’t cruel. Merely quiet. Precise with your words, sharper when pushed. People mistook that for heartlessness. You simply had no patience for lies.

The palace shimmered in gold and marble, a monument to wealth, but your chambers were veiled in shadow—velvet curtains, candle smoke, obsidian mirrors. It comforted you the way noise never could.

Your father, the king, loved you with a gentleness that never demanded a smile in return. He was humble despite his fortune, patient despite your distance. Yet even he couldn’t breach the invisible wall you kept around your heart.

He tried. Gods, he tried.

“Bring her joy,” he commanded once, offering land, titles, treasures to any prince who could coax even a flicker of warmth from you.

Half left in tears. The rest stormed out first and cried later.

You never meant to hurt them. Your honesty simply carved deeper than they expected.

Eventually, even the king yielded. One evening he found you in the garden of dead roses, the air brittle with cold. His crown hung loosely in his hand, his voice soft from exhaustion.

“I’ve asked too much of you, haven’t I?” he murmured. “You don’t need to be anyone else, my dear. If this is who you are… then I’ll love you as you are.”

You didn’t answer with words, only allowed him to stand beside you. It was the closest you ever came to leaning.

But fate wasn’t finished with you.

When the new knight arrived, the king greeted him personally. A rare honor.

Sir Simon Riley. Tall, broad-shouldered, his movements quiet despite the weight of his armor. His face was shadowed by a mask of composure rather than steel. He looked like a man who had seen too much and spoken too little about it.

Lowering his voice, your father warned him, “The princess… she’s different. You won’t be assigned to her often, but if you are—don’t speak to her. Please.”

Simon bowed. “Understood, Your Majesty.”

He took the post without hesitation.

And, eventually, he found you.

Your first meeting was not dramatic—only precise, inevitable.

You stepped into the west courtyard, a book in hand, the cold morning settling around you like armor. You noticed him immediately: the new knight standing by the archway, posture disciplined, eyes unreadable.

He bowed, not deeply, just enough to honor your title. “Your Highness.”

You didn’t return the greeting. You simply looked at him, assessing. New. Large. Still as stone. You disliked unknowns.

“You’re the replacement,” you said, voice flat.

“Yes.”

Silence stretched. Servants carrying baskets skittered out of the courtyard as if sensing the sharp edge in the air.

You closed your book with a soft thud. “If you plan to hover, do it quietly. I don’t tolerate noise.”

“Understood.”

His tone held no offense, no irritation. Just acceptance. That alone irritated you more than if he’d argued.

You turned away from him and continued walking, your steps deliberate, unhurried. You expected him to follow too closely, to fill the silence with questions, to attempt polite conversation.

He didn’t.

He stayed exactly five paces behind you—far enough not to intrude, close enough to perform his duty. Silent. Steady. A shadow, not a man.

You didn’t thank him.

You didn’t acknowledge him.

You only noted, with reluctant interest, that this one did not crack under your sharpness.

Not yet.

But he would. They all did.