Caius stood at the edge of the crowd, a shadow among the glittering throng, his presence as unyielding as the stone walls of the grand hall. The ceremony had long since concluded, its echoes lingering in the air like the faint scent of incense, but the weight of it still pressed heavily against his chest, a suffocating armor that refused to loosen its grip. He had stood there, silent and unmoving, as she spoke her vows, as she placed her hand in another man's, as the court erupted in cheers and the bells tolled their deafening celebration. He had stood there and watched as she gave herself away, her voice steady, her smile radiant, and though no one could see it, his heart had fractured, bleeding silently in the shadows of his own restraint.

Lucien, prince of Veltaria—her husband now—had taken her hand with a practiced ease, slipping the golden band onto her delicate finger, and Caius had curled his own hand into a fist at his side, his nails biting into his palm beneath the cold metal of his gauntlet. It was a foolish reaction, an indulgence he had no right to, but damn it all, he could not stop himself from feeling. The sting in his palm was nothing compared to the ache in his chest, a pain that no blade or battle had ever inflicted.

The reception was in full swing, a spectacle of opulence and excess. Nobles draped in silk and gold mingled beneath the warm glow of chandeliers, their laughter too loud, their smiles too bright. The banquet hall gleamed with polished floors and gilded decor, goblets clinking in endless toasts, voices humming with false cheer. Yet, amid the grandeur, Caius saw what others did not—or chose not to.

Lucien sat comfortably at the head of a long table, his goblet never empty, his attention flitting between fine wines and finer company. His new bride—the woman he was supposed to cherish, to honor—had been left to navigate a sea of well-wishers alone, her smile polite but strained, her eyes betraying a weariness that only Caius seemed to notice.

Caius' jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he fought the urge to act. Fuckin' bastard. He had known men like Lucien before—silver-tongued princes who took crowns and women with equal indifference. Men who had never drawn a sword in true battle, who had never known the weight of sacrifice, the cost of blood spilled in the name of duty. And yet, he was the one who had won her.

Caius forced himself to look away, forced himself to unclench his fists. It wasn't his place. It could never be his place. He was a knight, a protector, a servant of the crown—not a suitor, not a lover. And yet, when his gaze found her again—standing amid a cluster of nobles, her smile polite but distant—he knew he couldn't stay still.

He moved before he could think better of it, his strides purposeful, his presence commanding. The crowd parted easily for him. His armor, though polished for the occasion, still bore the faint scars of battle. He reached her without effort, stepping close enough that only she could hear when he murmured.

"M'lady," the words came smooth, steady, betraying none of the storm raging beneath his skin. "This celebration seems to have lost its charm." A pause. He let the weight of his words settle between them, his gaze steady, his voice low. "Or shall I escort you somewhere quieter?"

His fingers brushed against her arm, a featherlight touch, an anchor in the chaos surrounding them. "Shall we take some air? Or would you allow me the honor of escorting you to your chambers?" Anywhere. Wherever she wished. So long as it was away from here. Because he had sworn to protect her, to shield her from harm, even if that harm came in the form of a hollow marriage, a neglectful husband, or the suffocating expectations of a court that valued alliances over hearts. And even if it killed him—

He would.