The Kingdom of Lyrenne was holding its annual Festival of Hearts, a celebration of love, flowers, and far too many songs about romantic valor.
For most nobles, it was an opportunity to parade silk gowns and polished armor. For Sir Rowan Hale, it was a nightmare wrapped in rose petals.
Rowan had spent the entire morning in a feverish panic, consulting Finn — who had insisted that the "key to true romance" was grand gestures.
"I have it all planned," Rowan said, pacing. "I'll present her with a bouquet, recite the perfect poem, bow so elegantly she won't be able to resist…"
Finn grinned. "Don't forget to sprinkle in subtle hints of your brooding heroism."
Rowan groaned. "Subtle? I'm already awkward enough!"
By midday, the courtyard had transformed into a riot of colors: banners swaying in the breeze, stalls selling flowers and sweets, and minstrels playing merry tunes that sounded suspiciously like someone trying to improvise love songs.
And there she was — Princess Elara, in a gown the color of spring leaves, laughing at something one of her ladies-in-waiting said. Rowan's heart thumped so loudly he was certain everyone could hear it.
"Okay," he muttered, gripping a way too large bouquet of roses, "just… walk up, smile, recite poem, bow… easy."
Of course, nothing went as planned.
The moment he approached, a child darted past him, tripping over his boots and sending the roses flying. One landed squarely on the head of a nearby duke. Another somehow ended up in the fountain, floating like a tragic, petal-strewn ship.
Elara blinked. Then she laughed. Not a polite chuckle, but a full, delighted laugh that made Rowan's knees feel weak.
He scrambled to gather the remaining flowers. "Your Highness! I—uh—brought these—"
"Are you attempting to start a floral rebellion, Sir Rowan?" she teased, plucking a rose from his trembling hands.
"I… no?!" he squeaked. "I mean—yes! I mean—"
Before he could finish, Finn's lute strummed somewhere behind him. "Remember the poetry!" Finn whispered. "Now is your moment!"
Rowan groaned, cleared his throat, and began:
"Your… eyes… are brighter than… um…"
"Sir Rowan," Elara said, leaning closer, voice teasing. "The fountain already has enough water. You can spare the petals."
Rowan froze, realizing that somehow his last line had included the words "like a ship lost in the river of eternal passion."
Yes. He had said that aloud. And yes. The minstrels had paused to stare.
Elara covered her mouth, laughing so hard she almost fell off the bench. The nobles nearby whispered furiously, trying to keep a straight face while stealing glances at Rowan's utterly mortified expression.
By the end of the festival, Rowan had:
Fallen into the fountain once.
Accidentally serenaded the wrong noblewoman.
Broken a chair attempting a dramatic bow.
And yet… Elara had smiled at him the entire time.
As the crowd dispersed, she approached, brushing her wet hair from her face. "You know, Sir Rowan… I think you might be the clumsiest knight in all of Lyrenne."
Rowan opened his mouth, ready to argue.
"But," she added, smiling, "I rather like it."
Rowan's heart did that painful, fluttery thing that felt like a combination of joy and terror. "Y-your Highness…"
"Call me Elara," she said, voice playful. "And maybe next time… try not to flood the festival."
Rowan nodded furiously. "Yes! Of course! Absolutely! I will—"
Then he tripped over a loose cobblestone, landing in a heap. Elara laughed again, helping him to his feet.
Rowan groaned. Maybe Finn was right… maybe this is the stage of love I was doomed to live in.
After the disastrous Festival of Hearts, Sir Rowan Hale swore he would never attempt another grand romantic gesture again.
He also swore he'd never look at Princess Elara the same way again.
And of course… both promises were already broken by breakfast.
Elara had invited him to the palace garden — ostensibly to apologize for laughing at him in public. Rowan, suspicious and terrified, arrived with his sword polished, his armor dusted, and his hands carefully empty of flowers or any other weaponized romantic props.
"Good morning, Sir Rowan," Elara said, lounging gracefully beneath the wisteria arbor. "I hope your pride has mostly recovered from the festival."
"Mostly," Rowan admitted, bowing so deeply he nearly toppled over. "I… uh… thank you for the invitation, Your Highness."
Elara smirked. "Elara. And I didn't invite you out of pity."
Rowan blinked. "Oh! I… yes. Of course."
For the next hour, they wandered the garden — Elara pointing out rare flowers, Rowan awkwardly trying to comment on each one without tripping over words or petals.
"Do you know," she said, stopping by a particularly vibrant bloom, "that these flowers are supposed to symbolize courage?"
Rowan swallowed. "Courage… yes. That… seems… fitting."
"Elara," she said, raising an eyebrow, "do you know what I think they symbolize?"
Rowan's heart skipped. "Uh… bravery?"
"No," she said, grinning. "Mischief. And the ability to survive disasters caused by knights with terrible poetry."
Rowan groaned. "That's… accurate."
Elara laughed — a soft, melodic sound that made Rowan feel simultaneously heroic and completely incompetent.
By midday, Rowan had realized two very important things:
Being alone with the princess was terrifying.
He didn't mind it in the slightest.
Just as he was thinking of a clever (or at least safe) comment, a voice interrupted.
"Sir Rowan! Princess Elara!"
It was Finn, bursting into the garden with a lute in hand, tripping over the cobblestones. "I bring inspiration! A new poem! Fresh ideas! Romantic genius!"
Rowan groaned loudly enough that Elara covered her face with her hand.
"Finn," Rowan said, voice deadpan, "you are banned from all romantic endeavors. Forever."
Finn blinked. "But—"
"I said forever!" Rowan snapped.
Elara peeked through her fingers, smirking. "He seems… passionate about it."
"Yes," Rowan muttered. "Passion for avoiding humiliation."
Elara's laughter rang out again, and Rowan realized something terrifying: he looked forward to this every day.
As the sun began to dip behind the palace towers, Elara turned to him. "Sir Rowan…"
He stiffened. "Yes, Elara?"
"I think you may be… improving," she said, her eyes teasing but warm. "Not in poetry, of course, but in surviving me."
Rowan blinked. "Surviving… you?"
"Exactly," she said, giving him a playful nudge. "It's a skill few knights possess. Consider it… training for our next encounter."
Rowan's face turned bright red. "I… uh… I will… train diligently!"
"Good," Elara said, smiling. "Now, I must leave — but remember, Sir Rowan, even clumsy knights can leave an impression."
As she walked away, Rowan stumbled over his own boots once again. Finn laughed from the nearby hedge, holding a fresh quill and parchment.
Rowan groaned. "I'm doomed."
And yet… somehow, he didn't mind at all.
The morning sun painted the palace garden in soft gold as Sir Rowan Hale rehearsed yet another speech in front of a particularly stubborn hedge.
"Your eyes… brighter than… the sunrise over—no, too cliché…" he muttered, tossing another scrap of paper onto the ground. "Why did I think poetry would ever help?"
Finn, crouched nearby with a notebook full of terrible ideas, grinned. "Because, my dear knight, you clearly have no sense of self-preservation."
Rowan groaned. "Finn! Just… stay out of sight this time."
Before Finn could argue, a shadow fell across Rowan's shoulder. He looked up — and froze.
Princess Elara, arms crossed, gave him a teasing smile. "Practicing for me again?"
Rowan's knees threatened rebellion. "Uh… yes, Your—Elara! I mean, yes!"
She stepped closer, tilting her head as though studying him like a particularly puzzling riddle. "Do you know what I think?"
Rowan gulped. "That… you… admire my… dedication?"
Elara laughed, clearly enjoying his discomfort. "I think you might be overthinking everything. Sometimes, a simple compliment is enough."
Rowan blinked. "A… simple compliment?"
"Yes," she said, gesturing to a nearby flower. "Like, 'This blossom is lovely, and it reminds me of you.' Simple. Elegant. Not… catastrophic."
Rowan nodded furiously. "I… can do simple!"
"Good," Elara said. "Now, show me."
Rowan cleared his throat, took a deep breath… and immediately tripped over his own boots, sprawling across the grass.
Elara bit back a laugh, helping him upright. "Perhaps… we start with words while standing?"
"Yes! Standing works!" Rowan said, his face red enough to match the roses he'd carried days ago.
"Now, say it," she prompted, gesturing at the flower in her hand.
Rowan straightened, heart hammering. "This… um… blossom… is… lovely. And it… reminds me… of you…"
Elara's lips twitched. "Not bad," she said, teasingly. "Though I might prefer a version where you don't nearly trip while saying it."
Rowan groaned. "Finn's advice! He made me practice falling gracefully!"
Elara laughed so hard she doubled over. "Falling gracefully? Only you, Rowan. Only you."
By midday, Rowan had learned three very important things:
Elara's laughter was incredibly addictive.
His clumsiness was now officially a romantic signature.
The palace gardeners were beginning to avoid him.
As he left the garden, cheeks burning, he realized something terrifying:
He was starting to look forward to these lessons…
And he was pretty sure that Elara was too.
Later that evening, Finn approached him, quill in hand, eyes gleaming.
"Did it go well?" he asked.
Rowan groaned. "It was a disaster. I fell over at least three times!"
Finn shrugged. "Ah, but you made her laugh! That's… practically heroic in romance terms."
Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hate this. I hate all of this."
Finn grinned. "No, you don't. Admit it — you like her."
Rowan froze. "…Maybe a little."
Finn laughed so hard the quill nearly flew out of his hand. "Just a little? That's the understatement of the century, my friend!"
Rowan muttered something unrepeatable and stalked off into the twilight, cheeks flaming — and secretly hoping he never stopped stumbling into her life.
Sir Rowan Hale had spent the entire night planning.
Not a single detail could be left to chance. Not the flowers, not the words, not the perfectly timed bow.
This was it — the ultimate gesture of chivalry, romance, and bravery combined.
He would present Princess Elara with the Royal Lyrenne Heart Medallion — a ceremonial token traditionally given to honor someone of exceptional courage. Finn had insisted that "gifting something rare and shiny is irresistible to ladies of noble taste."
Rowan was terrified, but Finn had sung an inspiring tune about "love, valor, and strategic bowing," and somehow that had convinced him.
The courtyard was packed with nobles, servants, and an unfortunate group of musicians who were now nervously tuning their instruments.
Rowan approached Elara, medallion carefully clutched in his hands, rehearsing his words under his breath:
"Your bravery, your wit, your unparalleled… uh… elegance… I—"
"Sir Rowan," Elara said, eyebrow arched, "what have you brought me this time?"
"Only… the finest expression of… my… admiration!" Rowan declared, raising the medallion.
And that's when everything went wrong.
The medallion slipped from his sweaty grasp.
It bounced off a passing squire's boot, ricocheted off a fountain, and landed squarely in the lap of the Duke of Windermere — who immediately shrieked and shot Rowan a look that could have felled a dragon.
Rowan flailed, bowing so deeply he knocked over the nearest noblewoman's parasol. "Forgive me! I meant—uh—her! Not you!"
Elara doubled over laughing, clutching her sides. "Rowan! That was… spectacularly terrible!"
Rowan groaned. "Finn! Why did you think this was a good idea?!"
Finn shrugged, still playing a dramatic lute solo. "It's… memorable?"
The Duke of Windermere was now fanning himself with the medallion, muttering about lawsuits and the horrors of knightly incompetence.
Meanwhile, Elara leaned down and whispered, still laughing: "You always try so hard, don't you?"
Rowan's ears burned. "…I… I suppose I do."
She smiled, eyes softening just slightly. "And… that's why it's… charming."
Rowan blinked. "Charming?"
"Yes," she said, brushing a stray feather from her hair. "Even when it's ridiculous… or dangerous… or… very nearly catastrophic."
Rowan's chest tightened. Somehow, somehow, her words felt more powerful than any grand gesture could have been.
He opened his mouth to respond — and promptly tripped over the fountain edge, landing face-first in the water.
Elara laughed until tears formed in her eyes, reaching down to help him up. "You truly are… hopeless," she said warmly.
"Yes," Rowan admitted, dripping and defeated. "But… your Highness… Elara… I hope you find it endearing at least?"
"I do," she said, smiling. "More than you realize."
And as Rowan scrambled to his feet, soaking wet and utterly humiliated, he realized two things:
He would never live down the Festival of Hearts.
He didn't care — because Elara's smile made every disaster worth it.
The morning after the "Grand Medallion Fiasco," Sir Rowan Hale awoke with soggy armor, bruised pride, and an unexpected grin.
Somehow, despite tripping into fountains, ricocheting medallions, and public humiliation, Princess Elara had laughed with him. Not at him — with him.
Rowan's heart did that fluttery thing again. He hated that feeling. He also secretly loved it.
By mid-morning, he was summoned to the palace garden. Finn whispered from behind a rose bush, grinning like a fox:
"Your training continues, Sir Rowan. Today we tackle… confidence."
Rowan groaned. "I'm confident enough that I won't survive another disaster."
"Elara disagrees," Finn said, twirling his lute. "She seems to enjoy it."
Rowan muttered something unrepeatable under his breath.
Elara was waiting near the fountain, this time without a single rose in sight. Her green gown shimmered in the sunlight, and her eyes sparkled with amusement.
"Good morning, Sir Rowan," she said, tilting her head. "You seem… determined today."
Rowan straightened, puffing up his chest. "Yes, Your—Elara! Today, I will demonstrate courage, skill, and dignity."
Elara raised an eyebrow. "Dignity?"
"Yes!" he declared. "And… possibly… subtle charm."
The "lesson" quickly turned into chaos. First, Rowan attempted a formal bow — and tripped over the garden hose. Then, he tried to offer a simple compliment about a flower — only to sneeze directly into Elara's hand.
Elara blinked. Then laughed, a sound that made Rowan forget every word he had ever rehearsed.
"Subtle charm, you say?" she teased, brushing her hand off.
"Yes!" Rowan shouted, voice cracking. "Exactly that! Subtle! Charm! Very—uh—charming!"
Elara's laughter rang out across the courtyard. "You really are hopeless," she said, leaning closer. "But… in a very endearing way."
Rowan's ears burned. "Endearing…?"
"Yes," she whispered, smirking. "I almost want to… help you be less hopeless."
Rowan's brain froze. Did she just… offer… to teach him how to impress her?
"Yes! Please!" he managed, nodding furiously. "Teach me! I… I need lessons!"
Elara's smile widened. "Very well, Sir Rowan. Lesson One: confidence. Not just in words, but in… being yourself."
Rowan blinked. "Being… myself?"
"Yes," she said, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "Even if that self trips over fountains, falls into flowers, or writes terrible poetry — I quite like it."
Rowan's chest felt like it might burst. "…I… I'll try."
Elara laughed softly, stepping back. "Good. Lesson Two: don't faint at my smile."
Rowan's knees wobbled. "Noted!"
By the time the sun dipped low, Rowan was exhausted, sweaty, and still completely flustered. But something had changed.
He no longer feared the mistakes. Each stumble, each awkward word, each accidental fountain dive… somehow felt like progress.
And as he walked away from the garden, he realized the most terrifying — and wonderful — thing: he wanted to see Elara's smile every single day, no matter how many disasters it caused.
Finn peeked from the hedge, quill and notebook in hand. "Well? How was your first real lesson?"
Rowan grinned tiredly. "…I think I'm in trouble."
Finn laughed. "Ah, the good kind of trouble!"