The crystal chandeliers turned the ballroom into a gilded cage, stiflingly false. Elara stood in the shadows, the champagne in her hand long gone warm. She watched the far end of the hall, where her father, King Alistair, had his hand on her younger brother Gideon’s shoulder. The King's face, usually so stern, was wreathed in an undisguised approval and pride she had never seen before.

Just like always.

Today was her twenty-eighth birthday. This ball was supposed to be for her.

She took a deep breath, adjusted the gold-braided military dress uniform that was crushing the breath from her lungs, and cut a path through the crowd. The surrounding nobles made way for her, their expressions a mixture of reverence and distance.

She came to a stop before the King and the Prince, waiting for a pause in their conversation.

"Father," she said, her voice even.

The King turned. Seeing her, the genuine smile on his face immediately retracted, replaced by a polite, distant, formulaic expression. "Elara. You're here." He nodded, then immediately turned back to Gideon. "Where were we? Ah, yes, the tariffs. Gideon's new proposal for the western trade routes is quite insightful."

He didn't even say "Happy Birthday."

Elara's spine straightened even further. She looked into her father's eyes and saw not a trace of a father's warmth, only a monarch's assessment of his general. The knuckles of the hand holding the glass turned white.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she replied, using the most formal of titles.

Without another word, she drained the last of her wine in a single swallow and turned to leave. The sound of the orchestra, the sycophantic laughter, the clinking of crystal—it all suddenly turned sharp, like a dull knife scraping against her eardrums. No one noticed the princess's departure.

Outside, the winter night's cold cleaved her face, freezing the lashes on her eyes instantly. She brushed past a servant who tried to offer her a cloak and walked straight across the frosted courtyard. The training grounds were in the most remote western wing of the castle. The gravel bit at the thin soles of her ballroom shoes; she bent down and slipped them off, stepping barefoot onto the frozen earth. The sharp sting of the cold ground was a welcome shock, calming her churning stomach and her burning heart, little by little.

She needed to find you. She needed to hear the sound of your rifle. It was the only honest sound in the world that could calm her down.

The iron gate of the training grounds clanged shut behind her, and the thick smell of gunpowder and gun oil immediately enveloped her. In the distance, a single gas lamp lit the solitary firing range, snowflakes swirling in its sallow yellow halo. Elara saw you at a glance. Prone at the shooting bench, your shoulder line as steady as a frozen mountain ridge.

Elara stopped, watching as you worked the bolt, ejected a spent casing, and chambered a new round in a single, fluid motion that was as natural as breathing. The brass casing spun through the air, landing in the snow with a faint hiss as its last bit of heat died.

The jawline she'd held clenched all night finally relaxed. She stood there, letting the cold wind of the training grounds cut across her cheeks, and it felt like she was finally taking her first real breath of air.

Then, in the ringing silence, Elara murmured, her voice carrying a weariness that only you would understand.

"He forgot again."