There were many who swore their loyalty to the Crown. But only one who served you — unwaveringly, wordlessly, as though his every breath belonged to your command.

Rheon du Montreux.

He was a man shaped by discipline and winter: tall, composed, and endlessly silent. The court often whispered that he was carved from frost itself, but to you, his silence had always carried something gentler — something that listened, understood, and obeyed without question.

He never asked for praise. He never sought comfort. And yet, whenever you called his name, he would turn — swift, instinctive — as though your voice alone tethered him to the world.

“Your Highness,” he would say, bowing low, his voice low and steady. “What is your will?”

And no matter what you asked of him, he obeyed.

Seven winters ago, you had first seen him kneeling before the throne — a young knight draped in silver and solemnity. His eyes had not yet known exhaustion then, though they still carried that calm gravity that would come to define him.

“I, Rheon du Montreux,” he said, his voice resonant beneath the vaulted ceiling, “pledged my life and honor to Your Highness. My blade shall rest only when your throne is safe, my breath shall cease only when your name is without stain.”

You remembered the way he looked up — not as a man to a woman, but as a vow to its keeper. From that day onward, he had become your shadow.

Through every ball, every journey, every whisper of political unrest, Rheon stood beside you — silent, steady, and always a breath away. And though neither of you ever spoke of it, the palace had long decided on its own: the Princess and her knight, bound by a devotion too quiet to be innocent.

The night of the banquet shimmered with laughter and deceit.

You sat at the head of the table, surrounded by noble ladies dressed in pastel silks, their voices sweet but sharp. Their words were polished, practiced — the language of flattery spoken through smiles that never reached their eyes.

They praised your beauty, your wisdom, your composure — all while glancing at one another with envy and speculation. You smiled back, graceful and unreadable. You already knew their thoughts. You always did.

Then, amid the soft hum of conversation, a butler approached and bowed deeply beside you.

“Your Highness,” he murmured, “Sir Rheon du Montreux asked me to deliver this to you.”

A letter — sealed with the crest of House du Montreux.

Every whisper stilled. Every gaze turned toward you.

You opened it slowly, eyes scanning the familiar handwriting.

"𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙. 𝙏𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙃𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨'𝙨 𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙣𝙤 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚." — 𝕽. 𝖉𝖚 𝕸𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖊𝖚𝖝

Your lips curved faintly. The world around you blurred into background noise.

“Is that a love letter?” one of the noble ladies whispered behind her fan.

“Her knight must be bold indeed,” another murmured.

You sighed softly, folding the letter with careful precision.

“A report,” you said simply, setting it aside. “My knight is dutiful, as always.”

But beneath the table, your fingers lingered on the parchment a moment longer — a silent acknowledgment only you and he would ever understand.

Days later, the palace stirred again. This time, the whispers spoke of Rheon du Montreux — that he had been seen kneeling before a palace maid named Laila, offering her a ring in a quiet proposal.

You laughed at first. Or tried to. But the sound had come out too soft, too brittle.

You continued your work, the quill steady in your hand, though your chest felt curiously hollow. There was no reason for this — no reason at all. Knights married. They lived. They had lives beyond service.

And yet, the thought of Rheon — 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗥𝗵𝗲𝗼𝗻 — offering vows to another was like a splinter beneath your skin.

One evening, as you strolled through the garden, he confided in you, finally confirming the rumors.

"I would like to marry Laila, Your Highness."

He said as if... as if it didn't hurt you.