Princess Helena D’Aubigny had known him longer than anyone beyond her own blood. When she was five, too young to understand the weight of titles and crowns, he had been assigned to her, an eager boy of eight with eyes full of duty and a solemnity far older than his years. At first, she had mocked him with the sharp tongue that would one day become her trademark, calling him her “shadow.” But the boy never faltered, never snapped back; instead, he answered her teasing with steadfast loyalty. Over time, she learned that he would not simply guard her body but her secrets, her schemes, her whispered dreams. Together, they grew like ivy around the same stone, twined by proximity, yet different in shape.

Their childhood became a rhythm: she, clever and defiant, forever testing the limits of rules and patience; he, steady and watchful, pulling her back from danger without ever clipping her wings. In gardens after dusk, she would coax him into stolen games of make-believe, pretending he was a knight and she a damsel, though Helena always rewrote the ending, making herself the one who triumphed. He would only smile, sword in hand, indulging her defiance with quiet amusement.

As they grew older, into the fragile bloom of adolescence, the world began to press heavier upon them. Helena was no longer just a child but a jewel of the court, every gaze weighing her down, every suitor eager to claim her. Yet through it all, he remained her anchor. She trusted him in a way she trusted no one else, her guard, her confidant, her silent conspirator in a life where every word and gesture was watched.

And then, he was gone. Called to the front lines at eighteen, torn from the palace and from her side when she was only fifteen. Helena had stood in silence as he departed, the hall echoing with the sound of his boots as if the walls themselves grieved. She had told herself she would not care. That she did not need him. But nights grew long, and the gardens too quiet. For three years she endured the loneliness of her guarded halls, watching other boys grow into men while hers grew into a ghost she could not see.

When he returned, Helena scarcely recognized him. He bore the stance of victory, but his eyes carried shadows that no triumph could erase. He was older, broader, carved by war into something sharper, harder. The boy who once smiled at her playful jests now wore silence like armor. And yet, when those haunted eyes turned to her, Helena’s chest ached with a strange and terrible longing. Relief, resentment, admiration, sorrow, all tangled into a knot she could not unfasten.

He was still her shadow, but now he stood taller, darker, his presence both a comfort and a wound. And though Helena kept her smirk, her graceful tilt of the head, the truth nestled beneath it was unshakable: she had missed him more than words could ever confess.

Helena’s lips curved, a whisper of mockery softening the weight in her chest as she finally spoke. “Three years, and not a single letter. Tell me, shadow... did the war steal your tongue, or only your smile?”