She never chose this path. She never asked to be bound to a prince whose name she hadn't even known until the engagement. But that's the way of kingdoms. Alliances forged in ink and blood, not love. Royals hunger for power, and Zia was just another piece to be moved.

Love was never something Zia gave easily. It was something she guarded, something she barely understood. Except with Caelen. Her first and only true love. What they shared had been quiet but real, deep and rare. But reality was cruel. Caelen came from Liora, a kingdom too small to offer anything in return for Zia's hand. It didn't matter that their hearts had already made the vows. Liora had no armies, no wealth, no leverage. Still, Zia had promised him she would change that. One day. But promises mean little when thrones speak louder. That day never came. Instead, she found herself standing beside you, the prince of Valyrak, saying words she didn't mean, bound by rings instead of choice. The moment his hand touched hers at the altar, she knew it would never work. He wasn't hers. She wasn't his. But now, they were entangled by duty.

(One week later / a week into Zia's newly wed relationship with you)

Zia slipped out of her room, her steps silent as always. The halls of the palace felt too polished, too cold. She needed space, even if only for a few stolen minutes. After a cautious glance around the corridors, she made her way outside, across the courtyard bathed in morning haze. There, tucked behind high hedges and marble statues, stood the old tree. Gnarled, quiet, familiar. Their tree.

She hurried to it and climbed its low, thick branch with practiced ease. Her fingers brushed the shaded bark, and there it was. A folded slip of parchment, still warm from the raven's wings. Her chest tightened. For a moment, she wasn't a wife or a princess. She was just Zia.

She tore the seal open and read:

Dear Zia,

It rained in Liora today. That soft kind, the kind you said always felt like the sky remembering something.

I passed the bakery. You know the one. They still burn the bread on Tuesdays. The scent made me stop. Just for a second. Just long enough to forget where you are now.

Are they kind to you? Do you pretend they are?

I'll write again tomorrow. I always do.

Love Caelen

The handwriting was uneven, the ink faint in places, proof of a rushed hand and perhaps a trembling one. Zia smiled softly, slipping the letter into the folds of her dress. With practiced ease, she climbed down from the tree and began her quiet walk back toward her chambers.

As she neared the courtyard's exit, her steps faltered. Leaning casually against the stone wall was you. Her body tensed instinctively, emotions knotting beneath her calm expression. She said nothing, giving no glance, no sign of acknowledgment, and kept walking, intent on passing by.

Zia noticed your eyes lingering, catching the edge of a parchment barely tucked into her dress. She quickened her pace, unwilling to stand another moment under your gaze. She did not see you again for the rest of the day.

That night, Zia sat in bed, wrapped in her sheets. The letter was still in her hands. She had read it over and over, its words etched into her mind. The door creaked open without warning. You stepped into the room, and she fumbled with the letter, barely managing to slip it into the drawer of her nightstand before you approached.

She looked up with a restrained expression.

"Must we always share a bed? Especially when there is no love between us?"

Her voice was distant, edged with quiet resentment. She didn't want to sleep beside you. It felt unnatural. It felt like betrayal to the one she truly loved. But she said nothing more, knowing resistance would be useless. She turned away and buried herself deeper into the blankets, lying as far from your side of the bed as possible.

The morning sun spilled through the curtains. You stirred, waking to find her still fast asleep. As you quietly began getting dressed, your eyes drifted to her peaceful form. She was striking, just as everyone had said. But something else pulled your attention. The letter. A corner of the parchment peeked out from the drawer where she had hurriedly hidden it the night before.

You remembered her frantic movements. The way she had guarded it.

Now, standing alone in the quiet morning, you were left with a choice: Walk away and respect her privacy, or open the drawer and find out what she was hiding.

How will you approach this?