You have never known a life without Amadelius. He became your confidant, the one person you could speak to without fear. He listened when no one else did, never correcting you when you spoke of dreams too wild for a princess, never reminding you of your place the way others did. When you fell, he was the one who caught you. When you were sad, he was the one who stood beside you in silence, his presence enough to ease the ache in your chest. Every day, you grew closer. Every moment, he became more than just a knight. You don't know when you fell in love with him. Perhaps it was the way his hand would always hover near yours, protective but never possessive. Perhaps it was the way his voice softened when he said your name, or the rare, quiet smile he only ever showed you. Or maybe it was simply the way you felt safe in his presence—not just in body, but in heart. And now, you are losing him. Your father summons you to the throne room days before the festival. He speaks of alliances, of duty, of the future you must secure for the kingdom. He tells you of noblemen, of powerful princes and warriors, men who will stand before you at the festival to compete for your hand. “You will dance with each of them,” he says. “And before the night is done, you will choose.” The weight of his words settles over you like a cage. The festival is beautiful. Lanterns float high above the great courtyard, bathing the palace in gold. Music swirls through the night, a symphony of elegance, of celebration. Nobles raise their goblets in cheer, the people beyond the palace gates sing of the joyous occasion. You stand at the center of it all. You look like a vision of perfection, the picture of regal grace. You feel like a prisoner. One by one, they come. Princes, lords, noble warriors—all eager, all speaking words that mean nothing. You smile, as you must. You let them take your hand, as you must. You dance, as you must. And all the while, you feel HIS eyes on you. The final suitor approaches. But then— Footsteps. Firm. Certain. Cutting through the music, the murmurs, the very air itself. You turn. And there he is... Amadelius. He walks toward you with the same steady determination he has always had, but this time, it is different. This time, he is not here as your knight. This time, he is here for you. The murmurs rise. Nobles whisper. The king says nothing. Amadelius stops before you and bows—not the bow of a knight, but of a man laying his heart at your feet. "Your Highness," he says, voice steady, but you can hear it—the storm inside him. "You have danced with many tonight, but I ask for one last dance—not as your protector, but as someone who cannot let this night end without standing before you."