It was after training, the sun just dipping toward the hills, when I finally escaped the heat and ducked into my room.
The castle was full of sound—distant laughter, plates being stacked in the kitchens, the clatter of boots on flagstone.
I'd been half-lost in the comfort of clean hair and bare feet when I noticed the envelope on my pillow.
White paper, faint scent of roses. No name on the front, just my own, written in careful, looping script: Lyra.
Not again, I thought, not unkindly. It was far from the first time.
I sat on the edge of the bed and slipped a claw under the seal, breaking it open with practiced care.
The note inside was folded and blushing, the ink uncertain in places, like its writer had paused, then gone on.
Dearest Lyra,
I hope you do not think me too forward, but I cannot keep this to myself any longer. Every day I see you, my heart stirs with hope and dread. I admire your strength, your kindness, the way you smile at those who have nothing.
If you wish to meet me, come to the east garden after supper. I'll be waiting by the marble fountain. Yours, if you want me, Iris.
A sigh escaped me. Iris was a servant girl—one of the new maids, sweet and gentle, her brown eyes often darting in my direction as she carried fresh linens or swept the hallways.
She had written me once before, a shy thank you when I'd helped her pick up a dropped basket of apples.
I liked her well enough, but not in the way she clearly hoped. Still, I had learned long ago that kindness could not be given carelessly; I'd seen what happened when hope was sparked and left to burn untended.
I could have ignored the letter. But that felt cowardly. Better to meet her, speak plainly, let her down gently. Better to be honest, even if it stung.
I dressed—simple as ever: dark trousers, soft shirt, boots laced up tight.
The castle at dusk was all shifting light and shadow, voices echoing from distant corners. My own footsteps felt unnaturally loud.
The east garden was nearly empty, save for the gentle hum of bees and the slow trickle of water from the marble fountain.
Ivy curled around the statue's feet, and the roses were heavy with scent, their petals flushed with the last light of day.
Iris was already there, waiting. She stood by the fountain, nervously twisting the edge of her apron in her hands, eyes wide and hopeful.
She was small and pretty in a way that would have made my heart leap once, but never now—not after everything the years had carved into me.
She saw me and blushed, but didn't run. That alone made me respect her a little more.
"Lyra," she said softly, her voice trembling. "Thank you for coming."
I nodded, keeping my tone as gentle as I could. "I got your letter."
She smiled—shy, sweet, and heartbreakingly earnest. "I meant every word. I know you have many admirers. I don't expect anything, I just… I wanted you to know."
I let out a slow breath. "Iris, you're brave for telling me. That takes more courage than most knights show with a sword. But I can't return your feelings. I'm sorry."
She looked down, hands twisting tighter. "Is it because of someone else?"
I shook my head. "No. It's not anyone else. I just… don't feel that way. Not now. Maybe not ever."
She nodded, tears prickling in her eyes, but she didn't cry. "Thank you for telling me the truth. Most people would just laugh."
I managed a small, sad smile. "You deserve honesty. And a lot more kindness than you think."
She took a shaky breath, then curtsied awkwardly and hurried away, back toward the kitchens. I watched her go, a weight settling on my chest.
Rejecting someone hurt, even when it was right. I lingered by the fountain, letting the water's song clear my mind.
"Did you leave a trail of broken hearts everywhere, or is it just the ones we hear about?"
The voice was cold, crisp, and unmistakable. I didn't have to turn to know it was Isolde.
She stood by the arch, arms crossed over her chest, her white hair catching the last gold of the setting sun.
She looked more queenly now, grown taller, her face sharp as cut glass. If she'd wanted to blend in, it was too late; even in the garden's shade, she looked like something sculpted from moonlight and ice.
"Were you spying?" I asked, only half-teasing.
She raised an eyebrow, cool and imperious. "I was walking. I happened to see you. I also happened to see Iris leave in tears. Are you collecting servants now?"
I shook my head, refusing to rise to her bait. "Just being honest. I'm not in the business of leading anyone on."
She smirked. "I doubt you could if you tried. You're far too direct."
The barb was softened by the faintest curl of her lips—a shadow of a smile, more dangerous than her glares.
"I'd rather be direct than cruel," I replied. "You should try it sometime, Princess."
She huffed, clearly enjoying herself. "I'll leave honesty to the commoners, thanks. It seems to suit you."
I snorted. "Is that your way of saying you're jealous?"
Her eyes flashed. "Of you? Please. The only thing I envy is your apparent immunity to embarrassment. Shirtless, fighting in front of half the castle? You really have no shame."
I shrugged, grinning. "Why be ashamed of what I'm good at?"
She didn't answer right away, and for a moment, I caught a glint of something complicated in her gaze—envy, irritation, admiration, or something else entirely.
"Well," she said finally, "don't let Iris's heartbreak distract you. The world's full of people hoping for things they can't have."
The words were too sharp, almost sad. I wanted to ask if she included herself, but Isolde had already turned, stalking off with the same perfect posture she wore like a shield.
I watched her go, my amusement fading into something closer to confusion. Four years, and we still circled each other like dogs over a single bone—pride, or pain, or the strange ache that had grown between us as we grew up.
I'd never admit it, not even to myself, but something about her lingered with me in a way that not even Iris's gentle devotion could.
The dinner bell echoed through the halls, snapping me out of my thoughts. I hurried back, smoothing my hair and running through the usual checklist of court etiquette.
Most days, I would have eaten in the knights' quarters, but tonight, the summons was clear: I was to join the royal family in the grand dining hall.
By the time I arrived, the long table was already filling up. The king and queen sat at the head, their faces grown older but no less regal.
Seraphina was deep in conversation with a visiting ambassador, while Isolde sat beside her, every inch the Ice Princess, her expression unreadable as always.
I took my seat, nodding to the knights and counselors along the sides. The air was thick with the aroma of roasted game, fresh bread, spiced wine, and laughter.
Candles flickered along the silver candelabra, and music drifted in from the adjoining salon.
Dinner began in the usual way: platters passed, polite conversation, the faint hum of intrigue always present just beneath the surface.
I answered the king's questions about training and offered a careful compliment to the chef, who always looked for my approval.
It was halfway through the meal—just as the roast duck was being carved—that the doors at the end of the hall swung open. The room fell silent, the nobles' chatter dying to a whisper.
The man who entered was impossible to mistake. Tall, imposing, his hair the dark gold of a wheat field at harvest, his eyes bright and hawk-sharp.
He wore the deep green and silver of the capital knights, his cloak slashed with the insignia of the royal guard. His presence seemed to draw all the air out of the room; even the servants paused, wide-eyed.
He strode to the head of the table and bowed deeply to the king and queen. "Your Majesties."
"Sir Aldric," the king greeted, rising from his seat, "to what do we owe the honor?"
Aldric's gaze swept the table. When his eyes landed on me, something in his face tightened, as if he weighed and measured me in a single glance.
"I have a request," he said, his voice calm, assured, carrying the weight of the capital's most elite order. "I want to take Lyra with me, Your Majesty."