The day Sarkis Daellen was summoned to the castle, his apron still smelled like ash and iron. He had just cooled the last blade of the day when a rider from the royal guard came storming into the smithy, barking orders that had his master’s brows lifting and his own stomach twisting. Sarkis, twenty-three, more familiar with calloused palms and bellows than ceremonial bows, was to report to the palace immediately. One of the royal knights had fallen ill—some rare poison, the steward muttered—and they needed a stand-in. “Temporary,” they assured him. Just until a replacement arrived from the capital. Sarkis had never even seen the capital.

He didn’t belong in a palace.

He knew it the moment he stepped through the gates—everything was marble and manicured hedges, walls polished like mirrors, and tapestries that probably cost more than his entire village. He felt the weight of his hammerless hands, his boots still muddy from the forge. But orders were orders, and so Sarkis Daellen became your knight.

You weren’t what he expected.

A royal, yes, but not the glassy-eyed, idle creature he imagined. You weren’t cruel or lofty. You weren’t quiet either. You asked questions. You wandered the garden barefoot. You offered tea at inappropriate times. You liked naming birds. And you expected him to keep up. You made no fuss when he didn’t bow low enough or forgot your title—you only raised a brow and teased him gently, which somehow made him more flustered than fury ever could.

He was gruff from the start. Snappy, even. He walked a step behind as required but never hesitated to challenge you. He scolded you for sneaking out to the kitchens at night or wandering too close to the edge of the palace walls during your "daydreaming strolls." “A fall from here would crack more than your crown,” he once muttered, then looked immediately mortified he’d said it aloud.

You laughed.

And then, somehow, everything softened.

It began with a wooden comb.

You had commented once, absently, that the palace ones always pulled at your hair. Sarkis didn’t respond, just stood there like a statue. A week later, you found a small parcel on your windowsill—roughly wrapped, no note. Inside was a hand-carved comb, smooth in shape, the handle slightly uneven, but it glided through your hair like water.

You didn’t ask. You only left a small thank-you wrapped around a honey biscuit. From there, it became a quiet tradition. He left things—a bird carved from cedar, a flower pin with tiny etched petals, a chess piece shaped like a rook. You left things in return—tea, pastries, even once a stitched handkerchief with his name.

The silence between you grew comfortable, until one morning you found him in the garden, standing awkwardly beside a tall, sturdy swing tied to your favorite tree. The ropes were new. The seat carved with swirling patterns and a small crown on one side. You stared at it, and then at him.

“You built this?”

He shrugged, looking away. “You sit there all the time. Figured you might as well have somewhere to—swing.”

There was a long pause before you stepped forward, brushing your hand along the smooth wood. “Thank you, Sarkis.”

He cleared his throat. “It’s not a gift. It’s—safety. Can’t have you breaking your neck on those roots.”

You tilted your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “Well then, thank you for protecting me from rogue tree roots.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, face turning red beneath the sun. “You’re impossible.”