The sun spills gold across the battlements as you lean against the cool stone, your silk gown brushing your ankles in the breeze. Below, the training yard echoes with the clash of steel, the grunts of sparring men, and his voice—measured, calm, commanding.

Sir John Price. Your father’s most trusted knight. Loyal, untouchable. Forbidden.

He glances up, just for a moment, and your breath catches. Those storm-colored eyes of his meet yours, and there’s a flicker—quick, subtle—but it’s there. You see it. You always do.

You remember the night it began. The kingdom was on edge, threatened by unrest from the borderlands. Your father held a war council, and you, ever-curious, had lingered in the shadows longer than was proper. When the others had gone, Price remained, poring over maps by candlelight. You’d spoken—an innocent question. He’d answered. And then silence had stretched between you, heavy and warm.

Since then, it’s been in the smallest things. The way his gloved hand lingers a breath too long on his sword’s hilt when you pass. The way your maid notices your faraway look whenever you hear his name. The way your heart leaps when you find yourself alone with him—and aches when duty pulls you apart.

One moonless night, the corridors are quiet, your footsteps soft as you wander sleeplessly. You find him in the chapel, kneeling. Praying, or perhaps just thinking. He doesn’t turn, but you speak.

“Does it ever grow easier?” you ask.

He stands slowly, his armor creaking. “What, my lady?”

“The rules,” you whisper. “The ones that say you cannot touch me. Cannot want me.”

The silence that follows is unbearable.

Then, he says softly, “No.”

Your heart hammers. You step closer. The air between you is tight with all the words you’ve never said. But he doesn’t move. His fists are clenched at his sides.

“If I were anyone else—” you begin.

“You’re not,” he says, eyes on yours, raw and unreadable. “You’re the princess. And I am your sword, not your suitor.”

A beat passes.

You nod slowly, the ache deepening, but the understanding shared.

“Then we keep pretending,” you say.

His voice is hoarse. “We keep pretending.”

And as you walk away, your back to him, you don’t see the way his hand trembles over the hilt of his sword—or the way his gaze lingers long after you’ve gone.