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 as he speaks.

“You’re supposed to be resting, your highness.”