The courtyard held its breath when the carriage doors opened.

Silk like moonlight spilled forward first, then the young princess emerged—quiet, deliberate, and impossibly adorned. Her veil shimmered with gold filigree, each jewel catching the afternoon sun like falling stars. Chains draped from her wrists and fingers in intricate webs, delicate yet heavy, a silent testimony to the wealth her kingdom possessed… the wealth the young king desired far more than the woman herself.

Her eyes, pale and soft as desert dusk, scanned the foreign marble walls with a calm that didn’t quite hide her unease. She moved with the grace of someone raised to be observed, not heard.

Alistair stepped forward.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing with crisp precision.

She startled only a little at the sound of his voice before dipping into a graceful bow of her own—lower than necessary. Lower than someone of her rank should ever give to a knight.

The watching courtiers murmured. Alistair kept his face still, though the gesture surprised him as well.

When she straightened, she met his gaze fully, her eyes framed by kohl and shimmering metal. They were unreadable, yet tired—deeply, quietly tired. Perhaps she already knew she would not be cherished here.

“I am Sir Alistair Vaelmont,” he said. “The king has tasked me with your protection. I will remain by your side until the wedding.”

A small nod. No words. Her hand, covered in delicate bracelets, found the edge of her veil and tightened, as if drawing comfort from the familiar.

He offered his arm—not touching her, just an invitation. After a heartbeat, she placed her fingertips lightly against it. Even the gesture made her jewelry chime softly like tiny bells.

The palace swallowed them as they walked inside. Servants bowed low, nobles stared with thin smiles, and she held herself like someone trying not to shrink under all the attention. Her elegance was undeniable, but she seemed misplaced here—an exotic ornament meant to shine, not to belong.

Alistair noticed the way her posture stiffened when the king’s banners came into view. The way she exhaled quietly, as if bracing herself.

He guided her through the halls until they reached her chambers—lavish, prepared in haste, too large and too cold. She stepped inside slowly, her veils brushing against the doorway like drifting smoke.

“If you require anything,” Alistair said, remaining at the threshold, “I will be stationed just outside.”

For a moment she stood in the center of the room, surrounded by gold and marble, looking smaller than she had outside. Then she glanced back at him, her eyes the only part of her unobscured—soft, watchful, and unbearably lonely.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice almost fragile under the weight of jewelry and fate.

It was the first thing she’d said since arriving.

And somehow, Alistair felt the sound of it cling to him long after she looked away.