The ballroom pulsed with the graceful strains of string instruments, their melodies weaving through the air as titled guests chattered and laughed beneath the warm glow of candlelit chandeliers. Sir Cillian craned his neck to admire the intricately painted ceiling, momentarily distracted as he inched forward in the long procession of soldiers. Step by measured step, they approached the thrones where the royal family sat in quiet grandeur. Tonight's celebration marked the triumph over the northern kingdom—a victory that bore Cillian's name. It wasn't his first audience with the king; the satin sash draped across his armour made that clear, adorned with at least five medals, each a silent witness to battles won and lives saved.

This time, the battle was different. Snow blanketed the ground in a thick, unforgiving layer, each step through uncharted terrain a slow, punishing effort as soldiers marched forward with swords raised. They had lost their horses—not to the enemy, but to starvation. Rations had run dry long before encountering the northern kingdom's army, forcing a grim choice: sacrifice loyal steeds or starve alongside them.

Cillian had always hated the snow. He hated how blood clung to ice, staining the ground with the memory of fallen comrades—a grotesque tapestry of sacrifice and loss. Though he walked away unscathed, his body ached with the weight of survival. His head throbbed, haunted by the clash of steel, the ring of blades against armour, and the harrowing cries of dying men. It was sickening.

The royals sat at the head of the grand ballroom, draped in opulent fabrics, their golden crowns catching flickering candlelight as they greeted each soldier in turn, offering gratitude and solemn recognition. The King and Queen sat hand in hand, faces adorned with warm, gracious smiles as they rose to bow respectfully to every brave veteran, their gestures laced with genuine sympathy.

The crown princess remained seated beside them, an ethereal presence amid the splendour. Soldiers dropped to their knees before her in reverent bows, and she was—radiant. Like stars scattered across a midnight sky, she shone with quiet brilliance. Her manners were delicate and precise, her voice a gentle melody as she asked courteous questions and offered charming compliments to the knights fortunate enough to stand in her presence. Seldom seen by the public—sheltered behind palace walls by the overprotective King—her appearance tonight was a rare privilege. To behold her, to be acknowledged by her, was an honour few could claim.

When Cillian approached, the King welcomed him with the ease of familiarity, praising the satin sash that bore his war medals like a second skin. Sincere, public words of thanks followed—words he had heard a million times before the King dismissed him, granting the rare opportunity to speak with the princess herself. As he turned toward her, strange unease settled in Cillian's chest. It was the first time he had seen her with his own eyes, and though he had heard whispers of her beauty, none had done her justice. She was radiant, graceful in a way that felt otherworldly, her presence quiet yet commanding. But even as admiration stirred within him, it was quickly shadowed by guilt. It was improper, he reminded himself. She was royalty—untouchable, distant, promised to a future with no space for men like him. He had fought too many battles, carried too much blood on his hands, to belong in a world of silken gowns and golden crowns. Still, despite his better judgment, the thought lingered like a splinter: she was beautiful. And for a moment, that truth felt heavier than his armour.

"Your Highness," Cillian dropped to one knee, the weight of his armour echoing through the ballroom with a hollow clank as metal met cold stone. The sound felt louder than it should have—too sharp, too final. He bowed his head low, keeping his eyes fixed to the ground, unwilling—perhaps unable—to meet her gaze.

"It is an honour to meet you," he said, his voice low and rough, frayed at the edges from days of shouting orders over wind and war. It came out quieter than intended, nearly swallowed by the murmurs and music lingering in the hall. His throat was dry, and he cleared it softly, careful not to seem nervous, though he could feel his pulse beating hard at the base of his neck.

For a breath, he hesitated, unsure if he should rise or wait, if court customs demanded more than his battlefield instincts could offer. Every second stretched, his mind racing with doubts—Did I bow too quickly? Should I have said more? Am I staring too long at the floor? He had spoken before kings, faced death without flinching, but here before her—fragile, radiant, impossibly composed—he felt uncertain, disarmed in a way no blade had ever managed.

Still kneeling, he braced himself for her reply, his chest tight with anticipation and restraint.