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Chapter Text

The breeze that wound through the garden terrace carried the scent of blooming lilacs. A bee drifted lazily past the teacups, and above, the sun filtered through the sheer white canopy, scattering warm light across the worn stone table and delicate porcelain.

Princess Y/N sat straight-backed in her chair, her silk gown pooling around her feet like spilled cream. She stirred her tea absently, watching the way the spoon clinked against the porcelain as the scent of wildflower honey spread throughout the garden. Across from her, Lyla, her handmaiden and oldest companion, watched her with an expression that was equal parts concern and curiosity.

“You haven’t said a word about the prince,” Lyla said, reaching for a lavender scone. “Which is impressive, considering yesterday you found out your whole life is about to change.”

Y/N blinked, then looked up as though the thought had only just struck her.

“I don’t know what to say,” she admitted. Her voice was soft, like birdsong under sunlight. “I’ve never met him. Prince Elliott. I don’t even know what he looks like.”

“You’re marrying him, not painting his portrait,” Lyla said, raising an eyebrow. “Though, hopefully, he has a good face. Just for your sake.”

Y/N smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She poured herself another cup of tea, but her hand trembled slightly as she lifted the kettle. The scalding water sloshed suddenly over the side, and with a startled gasp, it splashed onto her wrist.

Y/N cried out quietly, flinching back. The cup rattled in its saucer, and Lyla shot up from her seat.

“God, Y/N! Let me see—hold still,” she said, already at her side.

The skin was already turning red where the hot water had struck, the beginning of a welt forming across the delicate inside of her wrist. Y/N bit her lip and held her arm out wordlessly.

“I’m taking you to Harvey,” Lyla said, already pulling her gently to her feet. “Come on.”

They made their way through the quiet stone corridors of the west wing, down the narrow spiral staircase that led into the healer’s quarters. It always smelled like mint and rainwater down here, and the light from the stained glass window at the end of the hall gave the stone a dreamy, green-tinged glow.

Lyla knocked on the wooden door.

There was a pause. Then footsteps. The door creaked open to reveal Harvey.

Tall. Disheveled. Quiet.

His brown hair looked like he’d run his fingers through it too many times, and there were faint ink stains on his fingers. He blinked at the two of them, his gaze settling on Y/N’s wrist before his eyes met hers.

“Burn?” he asked, his voice rough like he hadn’t spoken all morning.

“Tea,” Lyla said. “She accidentally spilled it on her wrist.”

He nodded, stepping aside to let them in without another word.

The healer’s quarters were not what Y/N had expected the first time she saw them. It was more a library with plants than a sick room. Dried herbs hung from the rafters like lanterns, their sweet and bitter scents mingling in the air. A shelf of glass bottles caught the afternoon light, throwing rainbows across the far wall.

“Sit,” Harvey said simply, motioning to the low wooden stool near the workbench.

Y/N sat. Her wrist throbbed.

Harvey pulled a small drawer open and began working without a word. He ground something in a mortar, cool leaves and a bit of blue salve, and poured it into a stone bowl. His fingers were deft but not rushed. He moved with the quiet kind of care that didn’t draw attention to itself, but made Y/N feel oddly safe.

He took her wrist in his hands, warm and callused, and she was surprised by how gentle he was.

“This’ll sting,” he murmured.

It did. She winced, but didn’t pull away. He glanced up.

“Sorry,” he added, and it sounded sincere enough that she found herself watching him more closely.

His eyes were soft brown and his brow furrowed slightly as he worked. The salve smelled of honey and something earthy.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

He gave a small nod. “You should be more careful.”

“I usually am.”

Harvey looked at her for a moment, then glanced at Lyla, who had taken to inspecting a shelf of labeled tinctures.

“I could give you something for the nerves,” he said quietly to Y/N, voice barely above a murmur, eyes not quite meeting hers.

Y/N blinked. “Nerves?”

He nodded once, already turning away toward a small, lidded jar on the second shelf behind his worktable. “You’re… tense. Holding your shoulders too tight. And you’ve been chewing your lip the whole time.”

Heat rose to her cheeks. She hadn’t realised she’d been doing either of those things. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and a faint, embarrassed laugh escaped her.

“I suppose I’m not hiding it very well, then.”

Harvey didn’t answer right away. Instead, he measured a few spoonfuls of dried petals into a cloth pouch. The scent was sharp but pleasant—lemon balm, lavender, and something she couldn’t place. Something grounding.

He handed her the pouch without ceremony. “Use this before bed. Ten minutes in hot water. Not boiling. It’ll help.”

She took it, her fingers brushing his. He pulled away quickly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.

“Thank you,” she said softly, fingers curling around the cloth. “That’s… thoughtful.”

He gave a brief shrug, as if to brush off the compliment. “It’s what I do.”

She hesitated, looking down at the little pouch in her hand. “You know,” she began, “everyone’s been talking about how lucky I am. How honoured I should feel. How noble and strategic the match is. But not one person has considered how I feel about it. Until now.”

Harvey glanced at her, a little startled. “I didn’t—”

“No,” she interrupted, gently. “I mean… thank you.”

Lyla then cleared her throat, loud enough to remind them both she was still in the room. Y/N smiled faintly, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.

“I should let you get back to your work,” she said.

Harvey gave a slow nod, like he wanted to agree. He moved toward the shelf near the door and lifted a small, stoppered vial filled with pale green liquid. “This too,” he said, handing it to her without looking at her directly. “For the inflammation. A drop before bed. Diluted with water.”

She took it from him, careful not to brush his hand again. “I didn’t expect you to be so prepared. I suppose I should have.”

“I didn’t expect you to spill tea on yourself,” he replied, a little dryly, and then, almost immediately, his expression twisted slightly, like he regretted the joke.
But Y/N laughed. “Is that your way of teasing me?”

He blinked, startled again. “No. I mean, yes. Not—not meanly.”

“You need practice,” she said with a grin. “But I appreciate the effort.”

Something in his expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. He didn’t smile, but his eyes warmed. Just slightly.

Lyla stepped to her side again, eyebrows raised in a way that said well, well, but mercifully, she kept her commentary to herself this time.

Y/N turned to leave, her wrist bandaged, the vial tucked safely in her hand, and a pouch of herbs hidden against her side.

As the door shut gently behind them, Harvey remained standing where she’d left him, staring at the stool she’d sat on as if the warmth of her presence hadn’t yet faded.

And maybe, for a while, it wouldn’t.

Chapter Text

The castle halls were quieter in the late afternoon, the golden light slanting in through tall windows and pooling on the stone floors like melted honey. Y/N walked slowly beside Lyla, fingers toying with the little cloth pouch of herbs tucked into her sleeve, the warmth of Harvey’s words still sitting softly in her chest.

Lyla, however, had been dying to speak for at least three hallways.

“You like him,” she finally said, her voice sing-song and maddeningly smug.

Y/N shot her a look. “Lyla.”

“I’m just saying,” the handmaiden shrugged, looping her arm through Y/N’s. “You don’t usually go that quiet around people.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her cheeks betrayed her with the faintest hint of color. “He’s just… different. That’s all.”

“Mmm,” Lyla hummed. “Different how?”

“He listens,” Y/N said after a beat. “Not to reply, or to impress me. Just to understand . I’m not used to that.”

Lyla softened a bit, the teasing easing into something gentler. “He does have kind eyes,” she admitted.

They paused at the end of a hallway where a small alcove sat tucked beneath an arched window. Lyla pulled her toward it and sat them both on the cushioned bench beneath the sill, away from the patrols and gossiping courtiers.

“Y/N,” Lyla said after a moment, her voice quieter now, “are you… alright? About the engagement?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Her fingers traced the embroidered edge of her sleeve, the faint scent of lavender from Harvey’s herbs drifting up as she moved.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m trying to be. I’m trying to be what everyone wants. But inside I feel like I’m doing everything wrong.”

Lyla took her hand and squeezed it. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to face it alone. Not really. You have me.”

“I know,” Y/N said, smiling faintly.

“And now you also have your healer boyfriend.” Lyla added, grinning. “Next thing I know, you’ll be wandering down to the infirmary with mysterious splinters in your finger or a cough that only appears when he’s around.”

Y/N gave her a playful shove. “Don’t you dare.”

Lyla laughed, standing and brushing her skirt. “And if he’s half as kind as he seems… maybe this place won’t feel so lonely while you wait to be sent off.”

Y/N followed her slowly, glancing down at the pouch of herbs again, at the small vial in her other hand.

“Maybe,” she murmured, “this place is just starting to feel like something new.”

And as they continued down the corridor, laughter trailing behind them like the flutter of ribbon. 

When they reached her room, Y/N closed the door to her chambers with a quiet click. The warmth from the healer’s wing had dulled the ache in her wrist and soothed the frayed nerves that had come with the morning’s endless stream of court whispers and side-glances.

She crossed the room slowly, fingers brushing the edge of her vanity, the carved wood smooth beneath her skin. A soft breeze drifted through the open window, stirring the sheer curtains and carrying with it the scent of spring rain, not that it had rained today, but the clouds were beginning to gather, pale and full, like they hadn’t quite made up their minds yet.

Y/N had just begun to unfasten the buttons of her overskirt when she noticed it—placed carefully on the cushioned seat of her reading chair.

A letter.

She stared at it for a moment, unsure whether to feel curious or apprehensive. The paper was thick and ivory-white, the seal pressed in deep crimson wax. A symbol of an ocean wave. She recognized it from the embroidered tapestry unveiled at yesterday’s announcement, the crest of Aelburn, Prince Elliott’s kingdom.

Her breath caught.

He’d written to her. Already.

Tentatively, she crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the seat, the parchment cold against her fingers. The wax cracked softly as she broke the seal. Then, unfolding the page, she found an elegant, precise script, every letter upright and thoughtful, like the writer had taken great care not to overstep.

Princess Y/N,

I understand that you were only informed of our engagement recently. I hope this message finds you not too burdened by the suddenness of it.

My name is Elliott, Crown Prince of Aelburn. I admit, I find it strange to write to someone who will soon become such an important part of my life, and yet whom I have never met. This letter is, in all honesty, a poor substitute for a conversation, but I wished to offer you a greeting of my own, beyond the formalities delivered by our advisors.

If nothing else, I believe we owe each other honesty.

 I will not pretend this arrangement is entirely of my making. As you may well know, it is the work of treaties, of strategy, of politics older than either of us. But that does not mean I am indifferent to your presence in it.

Though we were not given the chance to choose one another, I hope in time we may learn to understand one another. I do not ask for affection. I would not presume that. But perhaps a kind of mutual regard can grow between us.

If you are willing, I would be glad to write again.
Should you wish to respond, my courier will remain in your city for two more nights. He will take your letter directly to me.

Respectfully,
Elliott
Crown Prince of Aelburn

Y/N let the letter rest on her knees for a long moment. The weight of it, not just the paper, but the words, settled over her like a soft mantle. It was formal, yes, but not cold. Careful, but not unfeeling.

She reread it once more, her eyes catching on the line: I do not ask for affection.

That line felt truer than all the others. It was a relief, almost. He didn’t want her to pretend. Didn’t ask her to love a stranger or drape herself in false cheer.

Her mind drifted to Harvey, to the way his fingers had so carefully touched her wrist, the way he talked to her and made her smile so effortlessly.

And then, to Elliott’s letter again.

Two different men. Two very different worlds. One a future forged for her. The other was a quiet mystery she hadn’t expected.

She reached for her writing desk and sat before it, pulling a fresh sheet of paper toward her. The ink was dark and still slightly wet from earlier, but she dipped the quill anyway, her hand steady as she wrote:

Your Highness,

Thank you for your letter.

You were correct, it was only yesterday that I was informed of the engagement. Everything has moved quickly, but I appreciate that you’ve taken the time to write. It is strange, isn’t it? That we are to build a life together, and yet we begin with nothing but ink and paper.

I do not know what to expect from all this. I do not yet know you. But I would not mind knowing you. And I agree, honesty is a good place to start.

I have never left my homeland before. I am nervous. But I am also curious. Curious about your world, your thoughts, your favourite season.

This may be a marriage of diplomacy, but perhaps that does not mean we must be strangers.

Sincerely,
Princess Y/N

She sealed the letter before she could second-guess a single word, pressing her signet ring into the wax. The symbol was a blooming iris, her family’s flower. Delicate, but resilient.

With care, she set it on the tray by the door and rang the bell for a courier. Then she returned to the window, sitting quietly on the edge of the seat once more.

Outside, the clouds had begun to drift apart, revealing slivers of pale blue sky.

Inside, Y/N sat with her fingers curled loosely in her lap, wondering what kind of man Elliott truly was.

And if ink and paper could really build something worth standing on.

Chapter Text

The morning sun hadn’t yet broken fully through the clouds, casting the castle in a soft, silvery light that turned every stone hallway pale as bone. In Y/N’s chambers, however, the air was already bustling with quiet motion, fabric rustling, ink drying, papers stacked and restacked on polished wood.

Y/N sat by the tall dressing mirror, hair half-pinned, half-falling down her shoulders in glossy waves as Lyla fluttered between the wardrobe and the armchair, arms full of ledgers, ribbons, and documents.

“Alright,” Lyla said, huffing as she dropped a pile of silk swatches onto the bed. “You have three appointments today: your second embroidery fitting at ten, tea with the councilwoman from Arentelle at noon, and a language tutor after lunch. Something about ensuring your Aelburn dialect is ‘refined enough to charm the court.’” She mimicked the advisor’s nasal voice and rolled her eyes. “As if your vowels weren’t already perfect.”

Y/N sighed and sank back into her seat. “I liked yesterday better. Just tea and injuries.”

Lyla grinned. “Ah, yes. The glamorous life of a princess, where burning your wrist on tea earns you a moment of actual peace.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, thinking of Harvey again. The quiet way he had stood with her. The silence that hadn’t needed filling. The way he had watched her, not like a symbol or duty, but as something real.

“Did you sleep?” Lyla asked, voice softening.

“A little,” Y/N replied. “Enough.”

She didn’t mention the letter. Didn’t tell Lyla how long she’d sat awake after sealing her reply, wondering if Prince Elliott had read it by now, if he would write back, if his careful words would start to shape something clearer. Or if he, too, was a shadow trying to solidify into something more.

She reached over and picked up one of the swatches—a shade of twilight blue, rich and smooth beneath her fingers.

“Do you think this would suit Aelburn’s climate?” she asked absently.

“It’s a colder region,” Lyla replied, folding another swatch neatly. “Snowy in the mountains. Fog near the capital. But you’d look like a star in that blue either way.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “You always know the right thing to say.”

Before Lyla could respond, a knock echoed sharply through the chamber, swift and deliberate, three precise taps.

Y/N stiffened. Lyla turned, already halfway to the door.

She didn’t need to ask who it was.

The door creaked open.

“Your Majesty,” Lyla murmured with a small curtsey as she stepped aside.

King Thorne entered, tall, clean-shaven, his dark hair peppered with silver at the temples, he wore a coat of deep forest green, every button polished, not a single thread out of place.

His presence filled the room like a sudden drop in temperature.

“Daughter,” he said, his voice clipped.

Y/N stood immediately. “Father.”

He didn’t motion for her to sit. Instead, his gaze swept over the room, landing briefly on the fabrics and documents, then resting sharply on her face.

“I see preparations are underway.”

“They are,” she said. “Lyla’s kept everything moving efficiently.”

Lyla dipped her head again. She knew better than to speak when the king’s tone was this tight.

“Good. You’ll be expected to uphold every standard when you arrive in Aelburn. We cannot afford missteps. The marriage contract has been signed, but the court there will be watching for any sign of weakness. Your behaviour reflects the realm.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t look away. “I understand.”

He took a step closer, inspecting her as though she were a statue carved for display. “You must be gracious, modest, intelligent, fluent in their customs, and above all, obedient. You are not going as a girl. You are going as a sovereign investment.”

Lyla turned slightly away, as if pretending not to hear.

“I said I understand,” Y/N repeated, a note of iron beneath her voice.

The king’s eyes narrowed just slightly.

“You’ve always been willful,” he said, almost like it was a flaw etched into her bones. “Your mother would have tempered that, I imagine.”

Y/N’s heart flickered, just a little. She didn’t flinch, but her fingers curled against her skirt. “Mother would have wanted me to be brave.”

King Thorne’s mouth twitched into something unreadable, neither approval nor mockery, but something in between. He turned away from her, walking toward the window.

“There will be no room for softness in Aelburn. You are marrying into a country that values restraint, discipline, tradition. The prince is… measured, from what I’m told. You’d do well to mirror that.”

Measured. That word again. The same tone that had seeped into Elliott’s letter. A man forged in cold halls and cautious diplomacy. Someone she could not yet picture clearly, only feel the edges of.

The king looked out at the courtyard below, hands clasped behind his back.

“I do not expect affection between you. I expect an alliance. Unity. Order. The rest is… irrelevant.”

Y/N’s voice came before she could soften it.

“Is that what marriage is to you?”

He turned slowly.

“It is what it must be,” he said. “Everything else is for poets.”

The silence that followed was brittle.

Then, without another word, he turned and strode back toward the door. As he passed Lyla, he paused.

“Ensure she is prepared.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lyla said quietly.

The door shut behind him with a final click .

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then Lyla walked back to Y/N and gently reached out, adjusting the half-pinned curl that had fallen loose behind her ear.

“Well,” Lyla said, her voice like the sun filtering through rain, “ I think poets deserve a little more credit.”

Y/N hands trembled slightly. “I don’t want to become something hollow, Lyla.”

Lyla smiled. “You won’t. I won’t let you. And neither will Harvey. And maybe not even Elliott.”

Outside, clouds began to gather again, heavier this time. But somewhere beneath them, light still broke through.

Evening in the castle was a time of hush, when the halls fell still and the wind outside carried the scent of distant pine and cooling stone. Candles flickered low in Y/N’s chamber, shadows dancing across the carved walls, and the sky beyond her window faded to a muted lavender-gray.

She sat curled in the window alcove, wrapped in a soft robe, hair undone and falling over her shoulder. A book sat in her lap, forgotten, her mind restless.

Then, a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she called.

A young servant entered, bowing quickly. “A letter for you, Your Highness.” He held it out carefully.

Her heart stuttered.

The seal was the same, stamped with the insignia of the Aelburn court. She didn’t need to read the name to know who it was from.

Prince Elliott.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the envelope with careful fingers.

As the door closed behind the servant, Y/N stood slowly, walked to her desk, and lowered herself into the chair. For a moment, she only stared at the envelope.

His last letter had been short, formal, polite to the point of distance. She hadn’t expected a reply so soon.

And yet here it was.

With a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, she slid her finger beneath the wax seal to open it—

And hissed.

The edge of the paper bit her skin with the sharpness of a blade.

She drew back and stared down at her index finger. A thin line of red welled to the surface.

“A papercut,” she muttered, more annoyed than anything. She stuck the tip of her finger in her mouth and leaned back, letting the pain fade.

Then she turned to the letter.

His handwriting was neater than she expected—slanted, but precise. Each line was measured, the tone restrained but not cold. She began to read:

Your Highness,

I thank you for your reply. It was more thoughtful than I deserved, considering the abrupt nature of our circumstances. Your words were gracious and, if I may say, unexpectedly candid. I find myself grateful for that.

Though our meeting remains distant for now, I hope this exchange of letters will offer us some foundation to build upon. Aelburn is not an easy land, but it is not without beauty. The winters are long, but the lakes do not freeze completely, and the light catches the ice in ways that can only be described in poetry.

I will say that, yes, this engagement came as a surprise to me as well. But I do not intend to resent what I cannot change. You seem, at least in letters, a person of kindness and reason. I will endeavour to meet that with the same.

Until our next exchange,

Elliott

Y/N read the letter twice, then a third time. It was formal still, but warmer at the edges. There was something else beneath the careful phrases, something thoughtful, unsure.

He was trying.

And that, somehow, made her feel both comforted and more alone.

She set the letter down gently, her eyes lingering on the signature: Elliott. Not Prince Elliott. Just his name, as though that mattered more than any title.

A pulse of warmth stirred in her chest.

Then she glanced at her hand.

The papercut still stung faintly, no longer bleeding, but red and angry-looking on the pad of her finger.

A very small injury.

A very, very minor thing.

She rose from her seat.

Maybe it should be looked at. Cleaned. Bandaged. Properly.

Not because she couldn’t do it herself—but because, suddenly, she didn’t want to sit alone with the echo of Elliott’s words.

The walk to the infirmary was quiet. A hush had settled over the castle. Only the faint sounds of guards changing shifts and the flickering of torches lit her path.

She reached the infirmary door and hesitated only a second before pushing it open.

Harvey was there.

He sat at his desk, hunched over a worn book, spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and the soft golden light made him look somehow more human than usual, less distant, more here .

He looked up, startled by her presence.

“Princess?” He stood quickly, the book closing with a quiet thud. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not really.” She held up her hand, sheepish. “Papercut. From a letter.”

Harvey blinked, walking closer. “That looks minor.”

“It is.”

A beat.

“I could’ve wrapped it myself.”

Another beat.

He gave her a look, one that was not unkind, not mocking, but knowing.

“But you didn’t,” he said softly.

“No,” she murmured. “I didn’t.”

He didn’t question her further. Instead, he motioned to the bench and reached for a small jar and a cloth. She sat as he knelt beside her, taking her hand with the same cautious precision as before.

“It’s hardly anything,” she whispered.

He glanced up at her. “Even small things can fester if you ignore them.”

Something about the way he said it made her chest pull tight.

Harvey cleaned the cut with gentle fingers, his touch cool and careful. She watched his hands instead of his face.

“I’m presuming you obtained this while reading a letter from your betrothed?” he asked after a moment, tying a tiny strip of gauze around her finger.

“Yes.”

“Was it kind?”

She smiled faintly. “Surprisingly. He seems… thoughtful. Maybe a little lonely.”

Harvey didn’t respond right away. He focused on smoothing the final edge of the bandage around her finger, but his eyes flicked upward briefly, just enough for her to catch the glint of curiosity behind the usual stillness.

“Lonely,” he repeated quietly. “That’s not what people expect of a prince.”

“No,” she agreed. “But then again, people don’t expect princesses to be nervous, or tired, or…” She hesitated. “Alone.”

He paused, his hands falling still.

When he spoke, his voice was lower. “Are you?”

The question caught her off guard. Not just that he asked it, but the way he asked. Gently. No judgment. No obligation to answer.

“I think I’m still figuring that out,” she admitted.

Harvey nodded, his gaze shifting to her hand still resting in his. “Well. If you are… alone, I mean, there are worse places to be than here.”

She blinked, startled by the soft honesty in his voice. He seemed to realise how those words sounded only after he’d said them, his jaw tightened slightly, and he looked away again, as if searching for something else to do.

Y/N let her eyes linger on him. His quiet manner, his slightly uneven posture, the calluses on his fingers from years of work, not the polished exterior of a nobleman or courtier, but something more grounded. More real.

“Thank you, Harvey,” she said, softer than before.

He nodded, clearly unsure of what to say, and moved to gather the cloth and jar. “Keep the bandage on overnight. It’ll heal fine.”

“I’m sure it will.” She stood but lingered for a beat longer. “This is the second time you’ve helped me within these past two weeks.”

“You’re making it a habit,” he said, glancing at her with the ghost of a smile.

“Maybe I am.”

Their eyes met, and for one still moment, the infirmary seemed warmer somehow. The torches crackled quietly behind her. The silence was no longer awkward, it felt like something suspended, tentative and delicate, like frost on a windowpane just before dawn.

Then she stepped back, letting the moment pass.

“I should go,” she said, even as her feet resisted.

Harvey gave a short nod. “Goodnight, Princess.”

“Goodnight, Harvey.”

She turned and walked to the door, but just as she reached it, she hesitated and glanced over her shoulder.

He’d already returned to his desk, but his gaze was following her, the candlelight throwing gentle shadows across his features. There was something in his expression, unspoken, unreadable, that stayed with her even as she closed the door behind her.

Back in her chambers, the air felt different. As though something had shifted, just slightly, beneath the surface.

She returned to the letter on her desk, re-reading Elliott’s careful lines. Thoughtful. Measured. And yet so far away.

Her eyes drifted to her bandaged finger. A silly thing, really. A flimsy excuse.

And yet… it had led her somewhere she hadn’t expected.

She didn’t sleep for a long time.

Not because of nerves. Not because of royal duties, or unread letters, or distant princes.

But because for the first time in days, her heart was both full and unsure.

Chapter Text

The sun rose early the next day, sharp and golden.

The castle was already buzzing with activity when Y/N stepped into the hallway, her gown brushing the marble floor as she walked beside Lyla. Servants moved quickly through corridors with fresh linens and trays of polished silver. Her schedule, which Lyla recited with quiet efficiency, was tightly packed: morning audiences with a visiting court, a midday meeting with the royal seamstress, and the afternoon reserved for the formal welcoming ceremony of the Aramore diplomats.

Y/N didn’t mind the duties, being busy made it easier to forget the ache of uncertainty surrounding her engagement, but she hadn’t expected how heavy it would feel to walk through each event with her face composed, her spine straight, while her mind spun quietly underneath it all.

By mid-afternoon, she was seated at a long banquet table in the Great Hall, the air heavy with the scent of perfumed flowers and polished wood. The Aramore delegates spoke in careful, practiced tones, offering gifts and pleasantries, and the king responded with equal formality. Y/N nodded when expected, smiled when prompted, and kept her eyes from wandering too obviously across the room.

Still, she felt Lyla nudge her gently under the table when her attention drifted.

Focus, her handmaiden mouthed with a barely concealed smirk.

Y/N bit back a smile.

It wasn’t until the formal reception ended and she was given an hour of reprieve before dinner that she finally escaped to the castle gardens. The sky was beginning to shift to evening hues, a soft lavender at the edge of the clouds. She walked slowly along the gravel path, letting herself breathe again.

And that’s when she saw him.

Harvey.

He was standing at the edge of the gardens, half-shielded by a row of yew trees. His coat was unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up, as he knelt beside a young servant boy who had scraped his knee.

Y/N stilled behind a hedge of climbing roses, half-hidden, watching.

The boy sitting on the low stone ledge was no older than eight, his cheeks blotched with tears and dirt, his small hands clenched tightly around the edge of his tunic. He was trying not to cry, Y/N could tell, even from a distance, but every now and then a sniffle betrayed him.

Harvey knelt on one knee in front of him, patient and composed. His coat was a little rumpled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his healer’s satchel resting open beside him in the grass. He wasn’t saying much, but his presence was steady and warm in a way that didn’t demand anything. He didn’t rush. Didn’t chide. He simply sat there, speaking in low tones that Y/N couldn’t hear.

She watched as Harvey pulled out a cloth and wetted it with water from a small tin canteen. The boy winced when the damp cloth touched the scrape on his knee, and his face crumpled slightly. Without thinking, he clutched the front of Harvey’s coat in a small, trembling fist.

Harvey stilled.

Then, gently, he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, not pushing him away or telling him to sit still, just a quiet, reassuring touch. His voice must’ve said something kind, because the boy slowly unclenched, his lip still wobbling but his shoulders easing down.

“Doesn’t look too bad,” Harvey murmured. “You’re lucky it was grass you landed on and not the courtyard stone.”

The boy mumbled something inaudible, and Harvey gave a faint smile. “Oh? Trying to chase pigeons again?”

Y/N watched as the boy finally let out a watery giggle. It was small, but real.

Harvey reached into his satchel again and pulled out a small vial of amber-colored salve. He opened it carefully and dabbed a little onto the cloth, applying it to the scrape with gentle precision.

“This might sting a little,” he warned. “But you’re brave. I can tell.”

The boy nodded solemnly, straightening just a touch. His pride clearly ignited by the praise.

When Harvey finished wrapping the boy’s knee in a neat strip of linen, he sat back slightly and said, “There. Good as new. No more chasing birds until tomorrow, alright?”

The boy hesitated, then leaned forward and hugged Harvey, quickly, awkwardly, as though unsure if it was allowed. Harvey didn’t move for a second, surprised by the gesture.

But then, slowly, his arms came up to return the hug, one hand lightly resting on the boy’s back. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Y/N felt something shift in her chest.

It was such a simple thing. A scraped knee, a few kind words, a small show of trust. But it peeled something back in her. The quiet, steady kindness. The way Harvey hadn’t treated the boy like a problem to be fixed, but a person to be cared for.

When the boy finally pulled back, beaming now through tear-smudged cheeks, Harvey ruffled his hair and said, “Off with you. And tell the kitchen staff you deserve a tart for surviving.”

The boy didn’t wait for confirmation. He turned and ran down the garden path, limping a little but grinning as he went.

Harvey stood slowly, brushing off his knees. The satchel hung from his shoulder, and he adjusted it absently, glancing around—then he saw her.

Y/N froze, caught mid-step just as she was about to emerge fully from behind the hedge of climbing roses. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The breeze tugged gently at the hem of her gown, petals falling silently to the earth between them.

Harvey’s brows lifted, faint surprise in his expression. “Your Highness.”

“Sorry,” she said, stepping into view with the kind of self-possession she was expected to have, but not quite fast enough to hide the warmth rising in her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just… walking.”

A beat of silence. Then, a wry tug at his mouth. “You’re very good at walking quietly.”

Y/N blinked, startled by the dry humor, then let out a soft laugh. “You’re very good at healing scraped knees.”

Harvey looked down, as if remembering the child. His tone softened. “He took a tumble trying to sneak up on the pigeons near the stables. Nothing serious.”

“I saw,” she said, eyes lingering on the now-empty ledge where the boy had been. “You were kind to him.”

Harvey’s shoulders shifted slightly, his gaze not quite meeting hers. “He was frightened. It doesn’t take much to feel small in a place like this.”

Something about that made her chest tighten, too familiar, too close to something unspoken inside her. “No,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t.”

Their eyes met again. And now the silence felt different.

Not heavy. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.

She gestured toward the bench nearby, the one beneath the willow tree. “Do you… need a minute? Or were you on your way somewhere?”

He hesitated, as though surprised by the offer. “No pressing emergencies, unless someone else falls victim to another pigeon.”

That startled a laugh from her. “I’ll be sure to inform the guards.”

They walked toward the bench together, not speaking. When they reached it, she sat, and to her slight surprise, Harvey joined her, though he left a respectful distance between them.

He glanced at her after a moment. “Were you at the reception earlier?”

Y/N nodded. “For nearly three exhausting hours. Diplomatic smiling should count as a sport.”

“That bad?”

“They brought a harpist,” she muttered. “He played the same three notes for twenty minutes and I swear they were trying to hypnotize us.”

Harvey chuckled, an actual laugh, low and warm, and she turned her head slightly just to look at him, as if seeing him again for the first time.

It was strange. Every time she saw him, he seemed less like the quiet healer who lived in the castle’s dim infirmary and more like… a person. Still composed, still awkward at times—but not unfeeling. Not distant. Just reserved. Guarded, perhaps.

“What’s it like?” she asked suddenly.

He blinked. “What’s what like?”

“Being in the castle,” she said. “But not really… part of it.”

He was quiet for a long moment. She thought maybe he wouldn’t answer.

Then, finally, he said, “It’s like tending to someone else’s garden. You keep everything alive, everything in order, but you never get to appreciate it yourself, really.”

Y/N turned to look at him fully.

He didn’t meet her gaze, but his voice was steady. “I’m not a nobleman. I wasn’t raised with titles or ceremonies. I’m here because I’m good at what I do.”

Her fingers fidgeted with the embroidered edge of her sleeve. “I know what that feels like. To be in a room full of people and still feel… alone.”

At that, he glanced at her—really looked.

“You?” he said softly. “You’re the princess.”

She leaned back against the bench, looking up through the canopy of willow leaves. “I know… but sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to disappear for a day. Just… slip away and be no one.”

He was quiet. Then, “You’d miss tea too much.”

She turned toward him again, eyes wide. “Was that a joke?”

He cleared his throat, suddenly flustered. “It was meant to be, yes.”

“I’m impressed.”

Harvey gave a faint shrug. “I’m told I have a very dry sense of humor.”

“I like it,” she said before she could stop herself. Then, quickly, “The dryness, I mean. Not that I don’t like—never mind.”

He blinked at her, a faint smile ghosting at the edge of his mouth.

They sat a few minutes more, neither rushing to fill the space. The wind stirred the leaves. Somewhere in the garden, a bell chimed the approaching hour.

“I should go,” Y/N said reluctantly.

Harvey nodded. “Of course.”

But she didn’t stand immediately.

Instead, she looked down at her hands and said softly, “Thank you. For today. And… for not treating me like I’m just a title.”

He tilted his head. “Thank you for not treating me like I’m just a pair of steady hands.”

Their eyes met again, and for a long moment, neither of them looked away.

Then she stood, smoothing her skirt, and offered him a gentle smile.

“I’ll let you return to your duties,” she said lightly.

“And I’ll try not to let any more children tackle the pigeons,” he replied, deadpan.

As she walked back toward the castle, she didn’t glance back, but she could still feel his gaze lingering just a little longer.

And in her chest, beneath the weight of duties and expectations, something light had taken root.