The hallways had become a gauntlet of ambition disguised as gallantry.
"Your Highness, might I join you on the swordsmanship grounds?"
"Princess, I would be honored to discuss the new agrarian reforms with you…"
"Your Grace, a tour of the new port? I believe you would find it most illuminating…"
The onslaught was ceaseless. With each passing day, as my fourteenth birthday and the subsequent engagement tournament loomed, the heirs of every significant house grew bolder, their smiles sharper, their "casual" requests more desperate. It wasn't admiration; it was a calculated siege for the position of my fiancé.
The air itself felt thick with their ambition, leaving me starved for a quiet corner where I could simply breathe.
I was fleeing yet another such encounter when I nearly collided with the Empress. She was deep in a murmured, intense discussion with the Southern Duke. We exchanged swift, formal greetings.
"Ah, Princess Cia," Mother said, her eyes barely lifting from the parchment in her hands. "The Duke's daughter is weary of our dry talk. Would you be so kind as to show her the palace? If your schedule permits."
It was not a request.
"The honor would be mine, Your Majesty," I replied, the perfect, polished response.
A flicker of a satisfied smile touched her lips before she and the Duke swept away, leaving me with the girl.
"I am delighted to finally meet you, Your Highness. I am Delian Evan Desth." Her curtsy was flawless, her smile warm and seemingly genuine, untouched by the frantic calculation poisoning the others.
Mechanically, I led her through the portrait gallery and the sunlit gardens, a practiced tour narrated in a hollow voice. My training hour was a sanctuary I guarded fiercely, and I moved to leave her in a waiting salon.
"Oh, but might I see the training grounds?" she asked, her eyes alight with a curiosity that felt real. "I'm told you are formidable. I've some skill with a bow myself."
Reluctance warred with a flicker of interest. I preferred to suffer my sweat and struggles alone, but the mention of archery piqued my own competitive spirit.
"Very well," I conceded.
We arrived—me in my practical leathers, she a vision of lavender silk and lace amidst the dust and grit. The grounds were unusually crowded with new, unfamiliar faces. And then, my heart performed a foolish, traitorous leap.
There, speaking with a group of young lords, was Revez. The Northern Duke's Eldest son. The hero of Thomas Lake. My secret, star-lit crush.
An unbidden, radiant smile broke across my face before I could school my features. The newcomers bowed swiftly, offering compliments to both Delian and me. But my gaze was anchored to him.
Eager to demonstrate I was more than a political prize, I threw myself into sparring. I bested several of the new contenders, their movements predictable, their respect gratifying. But when I finally faced Revez, it was a swift, humbling education. He disarmed me in a single, elegant motion, his control absolute.
I was not disappointed; I was enthralled. "How did you…?" I breathed, my competitive fire burning brighter.
To my delight, he did not dismiss me. He stepped closer, his voice low and focused as he explained the pivot of my foot, the telegraph of my shoulder, the precise moment to exploit an opponent's imbalance. He was a brilliant, patient teacher. A warm, foolish hope blossomed in my chest. Perhaps he feels it too. This connection.
That fragile hope curdled into ash within moments.
His instructive focus wasn't on me. His gaze kept drifting over my shoulder, his explanations subtly pitched to carry. Following his line of sight was a lesson in heartbreak more effective than any sword thrust.
He was impressing Delian.
He was performing for her. Each expert parry, each insightful tip, was a feather laid at her feet. I saw it then—the soft, awed smile on her face, the faint blush on his cheeks when their eyes met. They existed in a quiet, sun-dappled world of their own making, a world with a door I could not pass through.
A jealousy so vicious it tasted like metal flooded my mouth. I wanted to shatter the practice swords, to burn the easy understanding between them to cinders. But I stood frozen, a princess carved from ice and protocol.
I could command an army. I could debate statecraft. But I could not command a heart. This was a defeat no tutor had ever prepared me for.
The pain was a physical sob trapped behind my ribs, a sharp, cracking sensation as something naive and sweet within me broke.
Every time I blinked, I saw the pathetic tableau: me, the outsider in my own story, watching his attention—the attention I had foolishly thought was mine—lavished on another.
This had to end. This weakness had to be excised.
I would forget Revez. I would forget the sting of his indifference and the glow of Delian's smile. I would scour this pathetic, hopeful feeling from my soul with the harsh grit of ambition.
I would become myself again. Not this aching, hollow girl yearning for a simple glance, but the Princess who needed nothing and no one. Especially not the affection of a man whose heart was so easily, so publicly, given elsewhere.