In a kingdom where prophecy bound blood to fate, even royalty was not spared the weight of sorrow.
The wind clawed at Elara's hair as she balanced on the edge of her balcony, eight floors above the courtyard stones of Dravenhold. Her bare feet pressed against cold marble, her fingers trembling against the carved balustrade , a final, fragile hold on life.
Bound to curse and crown.
The prophecy echoed through her thoughts like a cruel refrain. Royal blood was meant to rule Eryndor, but to her it felt more like iron shackles tightening around her heart.
They called it honor.
They called it destiny.
They called it sacrifice.
They never called it a cage.
Below, the capital city stretched into darkness. Lanterns flickered along the palace walls, and distant laughter floated up from the grand ballroom , music, wine, hollow joys echoing through a kingdom blind to her misery.
Her father would be among the revelers, smiling for nobles he did not trust. Her aunt would be watching, calculating. And tomorrow, they would present another suitor to her as though she were a jeweled goblet to be passed between kingdoms.
Elara tilted her head to the stars.
"Mother," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You said royal blood was a blessing."
Her fingers loosened.
"You lied."
The fall promised silence , swift, merciful, final.
But before she could surrender to the void, strong arms seized her waist.
A body collided with hers, firm and unyielding, pulling her back from death. She gasped as warmth met her cold skin. The scent of steel and rain filled her senses.
She twisted in his grasp, but moonlight betrayed her rescuer , a figure half-cloaked in shadow, half-bathed in silver glow. Raven-black hair framed features not beautiful in a soft way, but precise , severe, almost , as though carved with purpose rather than grace.
For one suspended heartbeat, she wondered if he was death itself , come not to claim her, but to deny her.
Her trembling fingers rose before she could stop them.
She touched him.
First his cheek , warm beneath her palm. Then slowly, hesitantly, the line of his jaw. Her thumb brushed the curve of his lower lip as if testing whether he were spirit or flesh.
Warmth met her touch.
Solid. Alive.
His breath caught , barely perceptible , but she felt it.
The world tilted.
Darkness rushed in like a tide.
The last thing Elara felt was the strength of his arms tightening around her, holding her as though he would never allow her to fall.
♤♤♤♤♤♤♤
Elara woke to brightness.
For one disorienting moment, she believed she had crossed into the afterlife. Her canopy drapes shimmered in the morning sun; the air carried the faint scent of roses and burning incense.
Then the ache in her head struck like a hammer.
Pain.
Sharp. Real.
Disappointment followed.
She was alive.
"Disappointed?" a voice asked.
She turned sharply.
He stood near her bed, tall and composed , the same raven-haired figure from the night before. In daylight he appeared even more controlled. His posture was straight as a drawn blade, and though his expression was calm, his gaze held the quiet intensity of someone who missed very little.
"Good morning, Your Highness," he said. His tone was smooth, formal. "I am your newly assigned personal knight. I was sent to protect you, as the future heir to the throne."
Elara blinked. Then, incredulously, she laughed.
"You must be joking."
"I assure you, I am not."
Her amusement vanished. "Who sent you?"
"His Majesty. Your father."
Something in her expression hardened.
"So," she said coldly, "you are here to watch me. To report every breath I take." Her voice sharpened. "Get out, Ser Knight."
"Your Highness," he replied evenly, "even if I step outside, I will remain at your door."
"I did not invite you to linger."
"Doors do not keep danger out," he said quietly. "They only delay it."
Her jaw tightened. "I don't need your protection. No one in this cursed palace cares whether I live or die. Why should you?"
She stepped closer, chin lifted in defiance.
"Or perhaps," she added, eyes narrowing, "you accepted this position because you found me beautiful. I suppose you have not seen such beauty before?"
One brow lifted slightly.
"You are indeed beautiful, my lady," he said calmly. "Many men would desire you."
He paused.
"But I am not here as a man."
Color rose to her cheeks.
"How dare you,"
"I cannot protect you from afar," he interrupted, still composed. "Especially after what you attempted last night."
The memory struck like lightning , wind, marble, empty air.
"You," she breathed. "You were the one who stopped me."
"Yes."
Her hands clenched.
"Why?" Her voice cracked despite her effort to steady it. "Why would you stop me when I was finally going to be free?"
For the first time, something shifted. His jaw tightened , subtle, almost imperceptible.
"Freedom bought with falling," he said quietly, "is not freedom."
The answer unsettled her more than if he had shouted.
"You ruined everything," she whispered, anger rising again as shield. "With your wretchedly perfect face and your unbearable timing."
Silence stretched between them.
He did not react , which somehow irritated her more.
He bowed slightly.
"Your balcony remains, Your Highness. If you choose to attempt it again, I will still be there to catch you. My duty binds me to you. I will remain close."
Close.
The word felt heavier than it should.
"Your handmaiden, Maera, is preparing breakfast and a draught for your headache. You should rest."
Without waiting for dismissal, he turned and left.
Elara stood motionless, breath uneven.
Her father had ordered this?
The same man who rarely spoke to her unless politics required it?
No. There was more to this.
Her gaze fell to the door.
He did not look like a knight of Eryndor. Traditional knights wore silver-plated armor etched with the royal crest, swords displayed openly as symbols of allegiance. But he wore fitted black trousers tucked into high boots, a dark tunic belted at the waist, and a single sword sheathed at his hip.
Practical.
Unadorned.
More shadow than soldier.
As Elara turned toward her mirror, her heart sank. Tangled hair. Red-rimmed eyes. Wine clinging faintly to her skin.
Gods.
With a frustrated sigh, she moved toward her bathing chamber. Steam rose from the prepared bath. Maera always anticipated her needs.
As she sank into the warmth, the ache in her body eased , but not the weight in her chest.
"I will remain close."
Protection.
Or surveillance.
Outside, the bells of Dravenhold began to toll, calling the court to another day of false smiles and whispered betrayals.
Beyond her chamber door, the newly assigned knight took his place in the corridor shadows.
And for the first time in years, Princess Elara was no longer unwatched.