The castle breathed differently at night. Where day was a cacophony of voices, clashing wills, and polished ceremony, the night settled into something quieter—yet not gentler. Darkness stripped away the illusions of silk and steel, leaving only the restless heartbeat of a kingdom teetering on the edge.
Lyria Valemont sat before her writing desk, quill poised, though no ink stained the page. The flicker of the oil lamp painted her skin in hues of amber and gold, a mockery of warmth she did not feel. Letters littered her desk, some sealed with wax, others torn open in haste. Each was a fragment of the storm gathering around her: whispers from Rennic's faction, veiled promises from merchants who scented profit in unrest, and the ever-watchful scribes who pretended loyalty to her father while feeding her scraps of intelligence.
Her fingers tapped against the desk in measured rhythm. "Every word," she murmured, "a chain or a blade."
Mariel, hovering close as always, shifted uncomfortably. "Your Grace, it is late. You have not eaten since the council this morning. Perhaps—"
"No." Lyria's tone silenced her maid instantly. Hunger was a trifling weakness compared to the gnawing uncertainty that consumed her thoughts.
Before Mariel could protest further, a knock sounded. Firm, deliberate. Not the timid rap of a servant, nor the perfunctory rhythm of a guard. This was someone who came with purpose.
"Enter," Lyria called, rising to her feet.
The door opened, revealing Sir Caelen, his armor stripped away, clad instead in a dark tunic that lent him an unassuming air. Yet there was nothing unassuming in his presence. His eyes caught the lamplight, steady and sharp, as though he carried the night within them.
"You keep odd hours, Princess," he said.
"And you keep them with me, it seems." Lyria gestured toward the room. "Close the door."
He obeyed, though the faintest hint of a smirk touched his mouth. "You have enemies gathering faster than allies. Rennic presses too hard. The king grows suspicious. Even your sister asks questions she pretends are innocent."
Lyria tilted her head, studying him. "And what is your concern in all this? You are not my sworn knight. Your oaths tie you elsewhere.
"True," Caelen admitted. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "But I am bound to survival. Yours and mine are tangled now, whether you admit it or not."
The air thickened. Lyria searched his face, looking for cracks in his composure. He gave nothing away, and that unsettled her more than open hostility ever could.
She moved to the window, gazing out at the moonlit gardens. "Rennic believes he can use me. My father believes I am still his pawn. My sister believes she can smile her way into a throne. And you, Sir Caelen—what do you believe?"
For a long moment, silence reigned. Then he joined her at the window, close enough that the faint brush of his sleeve grazed hers. "I believe you are sharper than all of them. But blades cut both ways. If you misstep, you'll carve yourself apart before you ever draw blood from your enemies."
Her lips curved, though it was not quite a smile. "Then you will have to keep me from misstepping."
"Perhaps," he said.
Two days later, the castle was alive with celebration. The harvest festival brought nobles and commoners alike into the capital, flooding the streets with color and song. For most, it was a respite from hardship, a chance to dance, feast, and forget the tensions pressing down upon the realm.
For Lyria, it was an opportunity.
She stood upon the balcony of the great hall, a vision in sapphire silk embroidered with silver threads. The weight of her crown was deliberately absent; she chose instead a circlet of sapphires, lighter but no less commanding. Every gaze below lifted to her, and she let them see what they wished: a princess radiant, untouchable, benevolent.
Beside her, Selene performed her role flawlessly, every laugh ringing like crystal, every touch upon a noble's arm the perfect blend of charm and sincerity. And yet, beneath the glow of lanterns, Lyria could see the calculation in her sister's eyes. Selene was not a fool.
Lord Rennic approached, bold as ever, his voice rising above the music. "Your Grace," he called, bowing deeply. "The people cheer your name tonight. They see hope in you."
Lyria inclined her head gracefully, masking the sting of his presumption. "Hope is a fragile thing, Lord Rennic. It withers if not tended carefully."
"Then let us tend it together," he pressed, his eyes gleaming with the fervor of a man who smelled revolution.
Before she could reply, a hand brushed her arm lightly—Sir Caelen's, subtle enough to seem accidental. His eyes met hers, the warning clear. Not here. Not now.
She turned back to Rennic, her smile serene. "Enjoy the festival, my lord. Tonight is for joy, not politics."
His jaw tightened, but he bowed once more. "As you command, Princess."
Later that night, when the revelry spilled into the courtyards and the nobles drank themselves into folly, Lyria slipped away. Sir Caelen followed at a distance, his presence silent yet certain.
She found herself in the old chapel, its stained glass dark in the moonlight. Dust lay thick upon the pews, long abandoned by worshippers who preferred newer sanctuaries. Here, away from eyes and ears, she let the mask slip.
Her hands gripped the edge of the altar, knuckles whitening. "They are circling me like vultures. Rennic, Selene, even Father. Each waits for me to stumble. Each sharpens their knives."
Caelen's voice emerged from the shadows. "Then sharpen yours faster."
Her laugh was brittle. "You make it sound so simple."
"It is not simple," he said, stepping into the moonlight. "But it is necessary."
Their gazes locked, the weight of unspoken truths pressing between them. Lyria drew a breath, steadying herself. "Then swear it, Caelen. Swear you will not betray me. Not for Rennic, not for my sister, not even for my father."
He studied her, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he dropped to one knee before the altar.
"I am not your knight," he said quietly. "But I swear this much: so long as you walk this path, I will not be the blade at your back. I will be the shadow beside you."
The words settled into her like embers, small but fierce. Dangerous, perhaps even foolish. And yet, in that moment, she believed him.
Her hand reached down, almost of its own accord, brushing against his. Not a command, not a claim. Something closer to acknowledgment.
"Then let us see," she whispered, "how far shadows and blades can carry us."