The palace corridors stretched endlessly before Lysandra, a labyrinth of stone and silence that echoed the emptiness growing within her. She moved with delicate grace, as though her very presence might shatter the fragile quiet—though what she truly feared was the tumult that roiled beneath her composed exterior.
Ryn was gone.
His abrupt departure had left a void she refused to acknowledge, though every shadow, every whisper of wind against the windowpanes seemed to echo his absence. She caught herself glancing toward corners where he might appear—a servant carrying a tray, a flash of silver hair in a distant hall—but each time, reality pressed in, cold and unwelcome.
Her heart tightened as memory betrayed her: the way he had carried her in the garden during the wedding, his arms a fortress against the chaos, his smile a fleeting beacon in the storm.
Yet she would not admit to missing him. Not aloud. Not even to herself. To do so would be to surrender to vulnerability, and Lysandra—princess, warrior, and heir of the Greenery Spirit—was nothing if not resilient.
Days blurred together in a haze of duty and distraction, each one carefully constructed to keep her thoughts from drifting toward the empty space where Ryn once stood.
Her sister's wedding approached—a grand affair wrapped in gold and promise, shadowed by politics and the weight of alliances that spanned the continent.
Preparations consumed the palace. Laughter, music, and vibrant silks filled every corridor, their cheerfulness an echo she could not quite reach. Beneath the surface, Lysandra's mind churned restlessly—a silent tempest that no celebration could still.
On the morning of the wedding, she stood before a tall window overlooking the palace gardens. Sunlight streamed through stained glass, scattering prismatic colors across the marble floor. A soft sigh escaped her lips.
"You look radiant today," came a gentle voice.
Lysandra turned to see Althea, her younger sister, radiant in her bridal splendor. Joy glimmered in her eyes like sunlight on calm water.
Lysandra offered a faint smile, carefully composed. "Thank you, Althea. You will be the jewel of this day."
Althea reached out and took her hand, her warmth disarming in its simplicity. "You seem distant. Are you well?"
Lysandra hesitated, her poise wavering for just an instant. "I am… burdened with responsibility. This day means much—for all of us."
Althea's expression softened. "Perhaps," she said gently, "it is also a day to remember what we hold dear."
For a moment, Lysandra could only nod. The words struck deeper than Althea could know.
How could she admit that what she held dear had slipped beyond her reach?
How could she confess that her heart still turned toward a rogue wrapped in frost and laughter?
She wasn't ready to speak that truth. Not yet.
As the ceremony began, Lysandra took her place beside her sister—a pillar of composure amid the splendor. Music swelled, lights danced across the marble floor, and the guests from every empire whispered blessings.
Her smile was serene. Her presence regal.
And yet, beneath the elegance, her heart ached with a quiet longing she dared not name.
When the final vows were spoken and joy erupted through the hall, Lysandra stood among the applause like a statue carved from grace and restraint.
The day ended with laughter and light—new beginnings blooming beneath a sky of a thousand stars.
But when the music faded and the palace grew still, Lysandra found herself once again alone by the window, the gardens bathed in moonlight.
She gazed up at the stars, her reflection faint in the glass, and whispered into the night—so softly that only the wind could hear:
"One day… I will find the courage to say your name."
The night did not answer.