THEN — The Royal Summit; Two years ago. Alnareth High Court, Marble Garden Pavilion

It was meant to be just another evening. The typical polished smiles and diplomatic dance—words weighted and measured between marble arches. Every gesture was a performance—an unspoken move in a silent game of power. Each motion deliberate, each smile sharpened with intent. Eyes watched like hawks; noses tilted ever higher.

Veyne lingered at the edges, untouched by the pageantry. Every summit was the same—year after year, attended not by choice but by his parents' command. "You're the crowned prince. It's only right," they reminded him, as if duty should dull the distaste. His finger idly circled the rim of his glass, the wine within left untouched.

Until she appeared.

He didn't recognize her, yet he couldn't look away. A princess, surely—but what kingdom claimed her? He studied her quietly, interest blooming into something heavier. Then he saw it—the colors of the northern kingdom. Cold hues, delicate lines. She looked like something far too easy to want.

He couldn't look away, his breath catching in his throat. His chest ached—tightened—with an unfamiliar, slow-burning flame kindling just beneath the surface.

It wasn't beauty alone, though she had more than enough of it. It was something deeper. The quiet steadiness in her gaze, the grace with which she turned from empty smiles and hollow courtesies—as if her very presence was not for display, but declaration. As if claiming space meant more than honoring ceremony.

He couldn't move. Couldn't speak.

He simply watched, drinking in every detail: the faint tremble of her fingers when no one was looking, the flicker of shadow behind her composed expression, the deliberate space she kept—even among those who called themselves allies.

A voice slipped through the trance, familiar and soft—his advisor, Theo, a childhood companion. "Your Highness," he said gently, always gently. "Are you alright?" Theo's gaze followed Veyne's, then softened knowingly. "Ah... I see you've noticed the northern princess." He paused, then added, "It's her first summit. I've heard her parents kept her well hidden from the courts."

Veyne said nothing. He couldn't. He simply watched. Memorized. That night, alone in his chambers, he wrote her name over and over into a journal. A vow without voice. A beginning without consent. Something had taken root—and it hadn't asked permission.

- - -

NOW — Noctros Castle Gates; Present Day Two years later. The betrothal sealed, the promise lingering like morning mist.

The castle loomed like a silent sentinel beneath the slate-gray sky, its ancient stones worn by centuries of secrets whispered behind closed doors. Damp ivy clung to the walls, slick with dew, and the air was thick with the scent of wet earth and distant hearth-smoke. Each breath Veyne drew was sharp—stone and rain and cold—anchoring him even as anticipation coiled tight beneath his skin.

It had to be perfect.

Two years.

Two years spent planning, maneuvering, waiting. His mind raced, rehearsing every angle, every possible outcome. To his court, he'd called it strategy. Political advantage. But it was more than that. It had always been more.

He stood atop the grand stairway, the polished marble cool beneath his boots—each step carved by hands long vanished, yet still heavy with the echo of legacy. The great wooden gates groaned open below, their iron hinges singing a low hymn of beginnings... and farewells.

His dark cloak stirred in the damp breeze, a silhouette framed by torchlight and mist. The golden clasp at his throat caught what little light remained—a quiet flare of authority—and the ring he wore, etched with the sigil of his house, felt less like ornament and more like a chain: one forged of duty... and desire.

And yet, beneath the regal armor he wore like second skin, his heart beat with a tremulous, traitorous hope.

She was coming.

Her.

The princess from the northern kingdom—her image had haunted his dreams like a flame: delicate, flickering, impossible to extinguish. Years had passed in silent observation. Watching from afar, memorizing every nuance—the way sunlight gilded the gold in her hair, the soft arc of her smile, the quiet power beneath her gaze.

It had become a devotion, a garden of longing he tended with reverence and restraint. But now—now the carriage wheels whispered over the flagstones, and the ache of anticipation turned raw. Real. Veyne inhaled the misted air, the cold sweetness of rain curling on his tongue. He willed himself still. Steady. A prince worthy of her trust—not a thief of freedom, but its sentinel.

Let her come willingly.

The moment stretched, fragile as spider silk glistening in the castle's ancient corners. Then—she stepped down. The faint rustle of her gown was like the first note of a song he had waited years to hear. Her eyes, cautious and clear, met his. Noble. Guarded. Real. "Gods," he thought to himself, "she's beautiful."

He raised a hand—steady, gentle—a gesture of welcome, not possession.

"Princess," he said, voice low and measured, a current beneath the vast hush. "Welcome to Noctros. I am Veyne Allard, your Crowned Prince." Each word was chosen, placed with care—not to command, but to cradle.

His gaze searched hers, a silent plea wrapped in centuries of tradition and the tender, treacherous hope that they might find something more—something true.

The castle held its breath with him, ancient stones humming with the weight of destiny, as rain traced soft promises across the glass.