The streets of the capital were alive with noise, the crowd pressing in from all sides as the returning soldiers rode through the gates. Cheers rose up from the townsfolk, mixed with whispers and wary glances — news of the war had spread faster than any official proclamation.

At the head of the formation rode Ser Alric, his armor dulled by travel but still catching the midday light with each careful step of his mount. He wore the cobalt blue cloak of a royal knight, though it hung heavier than it once did, the fabric stiff with dust and old blood.

When they reached the city's central square, Alric slowed, raising one gauntleted hand. At once, his men fell into stillness behind him, their discipline sharp, almost unnervingly so. Eyes lingered on them — admiration, curiosity, fear — but none dared approach too closely.

And there, just ahead, waiting at the steps of the fountain — you stood.

The princess.

Alric dismounted smoothly, boots striking the cobblestones with a muted thud. He dropped to one knee without hesitation, bowing his head low in perfect, almost exaggerated formality.

"Your Highness," he said, voice carrying just enough for the crowd to hear. It was steady, polished — the voice of a knight sworn to duty, nothing more.

But when he lifted his head to meet your gaze, the mask cracked, just for you. His eyes — those familiar, storm-gray eyes — softened. The smallest curve of a smile tugged at his mouth, visible only if one looked closely.

Rising to his feet, he clasped his hands behind his back, the picture of discipline, yet every inch of his posture leaned ever so slightly toward you — as if fighting the instinct to draw closer.

"I bring tidings from the front," he said formally. "And by the king's command, I am to deliver them directly." He hesitated, just a fraction. "In due course."

There was a flicker of something boyish in his smile then — fleeting, but achingly real. The smile of the boy who had once plucked flowers from the palace gardens to place behind your ear. A memory he clung to with white-knuckled devotion.

"If it pleases Your Highness," he added more softly, dropping his voice low so only you could hear, "I would be honored to escort you to the throne room."

You nodded, and Alric extended his hand with careful formality. The gesture was proper, expected — yet when your fingers brushed his, his grip tightened the slightest bit too long before releasing. Barely noticeable. Easy to excuse as the earnest excitement of an old friend.

As he guided you away from the main crowd, a path lined with blossoming trees, he kept his expression bright, warm — but his gaze never strayed from you for long.

He led you through the castle gates with slow, steady steps.

The guards at the entrance nodded stiffly, recognizing him, letting them pass without question.

Inside, the cool, echoing halls stretched out — the path to the throne room well-known to both of you.

But after a few turns through the marble corridors, Alric's steps subtly shifted.

Not abrupt — nothing obvious — just a quiet, casual veering down a side hall, a shortcut, he could easily explain if needed.

You didn't protest. Why would you? This was Alric. The same boy who had once dared you to race him through these halls as children.

And so, you followed.

The corridor grew quieter the further they walked, the heavy silence of old stone pressing in. Tapestries lined the walls, depicting long-forgotten battles, victories that seemed so distant now.

Finally, Alric slowed before a heavy oak door — one of the many small council rooms left abandoned when not in use.

He glanced back at you — almost shyly, almost boyishly — and pushed the door open with one gloved hand.

The room beyond was empty, lit only by the soft slant of sunlight through narrow windows. Dust motes floated lazily in the air. It smelled faintly of old parchment and stone.

Alric stepped aside, gesturing politely for you to enter first — but his eyes never left you, not even for a second.

Once they were inside, he closed the door behind them with a soft click.

The sound seemed louder than it should have, echoing in the silence.

For the first time since he returned, they were truly alone.

Alric exhaled — a low, slow breath, as if releasing a weight he had carried for miles.

And when he turned to face you, the smile he wore was different — not the polished courtly grin he gave to crowds — but something rawer, softer. A boy's smile. A man's longing.

He approached slowly, not quite reaching for you, but hovering close — close enough you would feel the heat of him, the sheer presence that war had not beaten out of him.

"You look well, my lady," he said with a small, fond laugh, the sound carrying only between them. "Brighter than any banner they raised for us."

The words were light, teasing, but a shadow clung to the edges. Something in the way he looked at you — not just admiration, but something deeper, more desperate, held tightly beneath the surface.

Alric's gloved hand brushed close to yours more than once, never quite touching, but never straying far. Like a moth drawn again and again to the same flame.

Outside the throne room doors, his soldiers lingered, keeping their distance. They waited quietly for Alric — protective, loyal — and more than a few exchanged knowing glances. They knew. They followed Alric not just out of duty, but belief — belief in the future he promised, a future he would carve from the ashes of the old.

But you knew none of this yet.

For you, Alric wore the face you remembered — the boy grown into a knight, returned from war, standing a little straighter, smiling a little softer, but still yours in the way he always had been.

Only if you looked closer — if you noticed the tension in his hand, the way his gaze flickered toward the distant castle towers — would you see the storm gathering behind the calm.

And still, he smiled, ever so gently, ever so fondly.

He would tell you the truth... later. For now, all he wanted was a moment longer.

Just them, just like it used to be.

Before the world changed forever.