Chapter Text
I wasn’t supposed to be at the fencing tournament.
It was considered improper for an unmarried princess to attend such events—not because of the violence, but because of the men. The warriors. The atmosphere thick with sweat and masculine pride. My mother said it wasn’t the place for girls who still wore their hair in courtly braids and perfume their letters with rosewater.
But I begged. I wore down her patience like river water over stone. And maybe, just maybe, a part of her was curious too.
We were guests in Emmaly then. Our kingdom had sent a delegation, a symbolic visit before the real politics began. I was told to smile, keep quiet, and look graceful. But no one expected me to fall in love.
I didn’t know it was love then, not really. Just something that caught in my throat and refused to let go.
Crown Prince Ramil stepped onto the arena in full fencing whites, and the world shifted around him.
He was beautiful in a way that didn’t seem aware of itself—broad-shouldered, lean, and composed, like he’d been carved out of some precious marble and then handed a sword just to see what would happen. His face gave nothing away, sharp and unreadable. He bowed once to the crowd and once to his opponent, and then he fought like a man who knew the ending before it began.
There was something terrifying about how easy it was for him. Every step was precise. Every movement clean. He moved like a prince raised on war stories and chess boards, like someone who had never been told no.
The crowd roared when he disarmed his opponent in one swift, almost lazy motion. I didn’t clap. I couldn’t. My fingers were clenched around the hem of my gown, my heart thudding like it was trying to flee my chest.
That was the moment I knew.
I wanted him to look at me the way he looked at the blade in his hand—like it was something he’d known forever.
But he never did. Not then. Not once.
Because when Ramil turned, when his eyes softened—barely, subtly—it wasn’t toward the crowd or his ministers.
It was toward a boy standing a few steps behind the fencing line.
You wouldn’t notice him unless you were looking. Which, of course, I was.
He stood straight-backed, hands clasped behind him, eyes locked onto the prince. His uniform was a little simpler, though still fine. His expression unreadable. But there was a familiarity in the way he watched Ramil. Not reverence. Not admiration.
It was something quieter. Something that had no name.
“Is that him?” I asked one of my ladies quietly, still watching.
“Yes, Your Highness. That’s Paytai.”
I already knew it was. Everyone had heard the rumors.
Paytai. The only son of the Minister of Defence. Ramil’s whipping boy, though no one used that phrase anymore. They dressed it up now—“childhood companion,” “trusted aide.” But the tradition hadn’t died. Emmaly clung to its customs like armor.
They said he took punishments on the prince’s behalf when they were boys. That he still did, in private. That he followed Ramil everywhere like a shadow. That he was loyal beyond reason. That there was more between them than loyalty.
But they also said he was engaged. To the Fifth Princess. A political alliance meant to secure the loyalty of another powerful province.
I told myself that made things simpler.
I was the daughter of a ruling queen. I had studied diplomacy, court etiquette, three languages. I had been raised to rule. I could be a good match. A real one. Not a whisper in the dark.
Still, I remembered the way Ramil’s eyes found Paytai’s that day. Just for a second. A flicker of something real in a man otherwise made of masks.
It wasn’t much.
But it scared me.
And yet, I hoped. Oh, how I hoped.
Days passed. We returned home. Emmaly stayed on my tongue like wine—sweet and sharp, unforgettable. My tutors noticed I was distracted. My sisters teased me, not knowing the reason. I waited.
And then it came.
A letter. Sealed with the royal crest of Emmaly.
When my father read the words aloud, I didn’t breathe.
They wanted to propose a marriage. An alliance through unity. A bond between our kingdoms. Between me and Crown Prince Ramil.
I didn’t faint, though my mother did. I didn’t cry, though my hand shook so hard I had to set down my teacup.
I smiled.
That night, I walked alone in the palace gardens and stared up at the moon, whispering thanks to whoever might be listening. I had done it. Or fate had. Either way, it didn’t matter.
I would go to Emmaly not as a guest, but as their future Empress.
Maybe he would learn to love me. Maybe I would earn his gaze. Maybe the stories about him and Paytai were just that—stories. Or maybe they’d fade with time. Engagements broke. Alliances shifted. People changed.
I packed for Emmaly with a heart full of dreams. Silks in his favorite colors. Books on their history. Perfume made from the oils of the same flowers that bloomed in their capital’s square. I asked my ladies to teach me Emmalyan court gestures, their dances, their songs. I wanted to belong before I even arrived.
I imagined our first meeting as husband and wife-to-be. His surprise. His quiet approval. The way he’d look at me once he knew I wasn’t just another princess passed through the gates of his kingdom. I was the one chosen. I was the one sent for.
I wanted so badly to be special to him.
The day we crossed the border, I remember leaning out the carriage window, watching the landscape shift from green hills to stone roads and high walls.
Emmaly. The jewel of the east. My new home.
My fingers curled around the window ledge.
Somewhere behind those walls, Ramil was waiting.
Somewhere in those towering palaces, he was training, ruling, planning, living.
And maybe—just maybe—thinking of me too.
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