The palace garden's roses bloomed in profusion, their delicate scent carried on the warm spring breeze. Sunlight spilled through the leafy canopy above, casting dappled shadows over marble walkways and silk-cushioned seats. It would have been an idyllic afternoon—perfect for a sketch, a round of hide-and-seek with Whiskers, or one of Princess Charlotte's infamous breakout escapades through the hedge maze.
But instead, Princess Charlotte sat unusually still beneath her favorite rose arbor, her chin resting in one hand, her once-beloved sketchbook lying unopened at her side.
Even Whiskers seemed to sense the shift. The formerly rotund tabby lay curled in her lap, purring quietly, his amber eyes watchful, unsettled by her uncharacteristic stillness.
From a shaded pavilion nearby, Queen Seraphina observed with careful detachment, her parasol angled elegantly over one shoulder. She had watched the change in her daughter unfold over the past two years. Charlotte was still mischievous—she rarely went a week without sneaking a frog into some unsuspecting nobleman's teacup or staging an impromptu court play during supper—but the mischief had softened. The spark in her eye had dimmed. Her laughter came quieter now. Her sketches, once a riot of dragons and winged unicorns, were becoming subdued, precise. Controlled.
"She's thinking of him again, isn't she?" said Duchess Alina, her voice as gentle as the ivy whispering against the garden walls.
Seraphina didn't flinch. "Elias."
Alina stepped beside her, serene and stately. Once the heroine of a famed chivalric romance, she had matured into a pillar of courtly grace and discreet influence. She, too, knew the ache of waiting—and of words left unsaid.
"They were children when he left," Seraphina murmured. "Now they're… something else. Changed. But still bound."
"He never speaks of her," Alina said softly."But he watches, when she's not looking.""And Charlotte—she pretends not to notice him at all."
"Pride," Seraphina said with a sigh.
"And fear," Alina added.
Silence bloomed between them, broken only by birdsong—and the faint, familiar sound of pencil on paper. At last, Charlotte's hand had begun to move.
"Perhaps," Alina said, eyes alight, "a little assistance wouldn't go amiss."
Seraphina turned, one brow raised with royal mischief. "You're suggesting we interfere?"
"I'm suggesting we guide," Alina replied, entirely unrepentant.
And so, the Queen and the Duchess conspired.
It began innocently enough. Elias was assigned as Charlotte's personal escort for the upcoming royal visit from the Eastern Alliance delegation. The announcement was made with seamless nonchalance over breakfast. Charlotte lifted her head from her toast, blinked once, and resumed eating with careful indifference. Elias, standing behind the Queen's chair, acknowledged the order with a crisp bow—though his jaw tensed.
Next came the portrait sketch. Duchess Alina "accidentally" left a study of Elias in Charlotte's art studio, tucked among reference pieces for an upcoming series on royal war heroes.
"It's only for reference," she had said airily. "But he does have such a noble profile, doesn't he?"
Charlotte had scoffed—but later, discreetly, slipped the sketch between the pages of her journal.
At dinner, the Queen began recounting tales of wartime valor, each one featuring Elias."Such loyalty," she would say, her voice thick with meaning. "Even in the darkest hour, he stood unshaken."
Elias would glance toward Charlotte then. Occasionally—just occasionally—Charlotte would look back.
The Queen noticed. So did Alina.
And slowly, almost unbearably, something began to shift.
One afternoon, while rehearsing her speech for the Eastern delegation, Charlotte snapped at Elias for correcting her posture."Don't you have a war to win, Sir Elias?" she muttered, irritation laced with heat.
"I fear I've already won that one, Your Highness," he said smoothly. "These days, my battlefield is etiquette."
Charlotte blinked. Then smirked. "You're losing."
But she stood straighter.
And when their eyes met—brief, unintended—they didn't look away.
Not anymore.
The Queen smiled over the rim of her teacup.
Let the games begin.