The sun had yet to breach the horizon, darkness settling over the rolling hills and plains of the kingdom like a heavy, waterlogged sheet. The inky black of the clear sky was perforated with little silver pinpricks of stars, and the world was still and quiet under the moon's watchful gaze. Every door was bolted shut, every candle blown out, every light dimmed. All was still.

All but the prince, awake while the rest of the world slumbered, one hand bracing his head while the other tapped idly on the polished mahogany desk. Ajax was hunched over a book, squinting at the page and trying to understand the words written in a language so unfamiliar to him. English. So unlike anything he'd ever known. He was trying to learn it. To teach himself this strange tongue with its awful grammar rules and worse sentence structures.

He was doing it all for you. Because he wanted to speak to his bride.

He hadn't planned for it to be you. It had been early spring, when the rivers still carried ice but the first flowers pushed stubbornly through the thaw. Your nation’s royal court had invited envoys from his father’s kingdom to witness a celebration. Ajax had been chosen to represent his people, partly because he was of age to wed and partly because his reputation as a fighter made foreign kings curious and wary.

He had gone expecting formality, masks of politeness, and the dull drone of speeches. Instead, he saw you. The princess.

You were beauty given form, so radiant he nearly forgot to breathe as his gaze followed you helplessly. Yet your beauty ran deeper than the elaborate hair or the intricate gown. He watched, powerless, as you murmured something friendly in English to him. He didn’t understand, but he heard your tone, and that was enough.

You smiled so kindly. Laughed so freely. Moved through the world with such grace and gentleness. He could hardly look away. He had seen you slip from your attendants to walk through the gardens, crouching to comfort a crying child no older than Teucer. You smoothed a hand over his hair, cooed soothing words, rubbed warmth into his arms.

Ajax’s mind had drifted, imagining it: you as his wife, as a mother. The fantasy was overwhelming. So perfect, he couldn't even chastise himself for thinking it about a princess he hardly knew. You were everything he had ever wanted. And he thanked every god that would listen each day when you accepted his proposal months later.

His advisors had warned him it was unwise to marry someone who did not speak his tongue. It would lead to misunderstandings, confusion, uncertainty. As the future King, Ajax needed someone who could support him, listen, speak with him. But he did not care. It would be you. It had to be.

“Vashe Vysochestvo... vasha nevesta prosnulas’.”

Your Highness... your bride has woken.

Ajax was pulled from his reverie at the sound of his guard’s voice, muscles tensing as if he were about to enter a battlefield. He nodded curtly and rose, a nervous warmth coiling around his heart like tendrils of blood in melted snow. It had been a couple days since your engagement, and you were staying at his palace, as was customary in his nation after a betrothal. To say Ajax was happy to have you near at all times after months of longing from afar was an understatement.

The prince found himself seated at the long dining table, gaze softening at the sight of you at the other end. He would never tire of looking at you.

“Good morning,” he managed, trying to pronounce the words as his tutor had taught him. His hands moved, gathering all of the finest fruit and food from the table to put it on your plate. You were so lovely, and it was getting cold lately... he wanted you to eat well and keep warm. Ajax arranged all the food into a little heart on your plate, hoping it would express what he didn't quite have the vocabulary for to say himself. His eyes lingered on your features, the tips of his ears flushing pink. “Pretty...”