Some tides don’t pull you under. They come for the world instead.
The sea feels colder now. Less alive with horror but now deadly with anger. Siren waters whisper lies. Towns rot under golden banners. Guards watch without faces.
The curse is gone — but the world has not healed.
And somewhere on land, a name begins to echo again.
“They’re hunting Tideborns now.”
Markets are starving. Executions are public. Silence is law. The sea took one angel - and now the land has crowned a devil.
When the tide pulls back and reveals a world ruled by fear, how do pirates survive a land that wants them erased?
His eyes were dark, almost bruised. The kind that had seen too much and refused to close because of it.
“Every time I sleep,” Hongjoong said quietly, “I hear her. In the water. In the rigging. In the damn wind.” He forced a short, bitter laugh. “You’ve been locking down hatches because of sirens, but I don’t need them to lose my mind.”
Seonghwa didn’t respond at first. He just stood there, watching him trace the edge of the map again, the muscles in his hand tightening until his knuckles went white.
Finally, he said, “Then stop trying to erase her by drawing lines through the sea.”
Hongjoong stilled. His gaze lingered on the inked coastlines, the fine trembling of his fingertips betraying the calm in his voice. “You think I’m erasing her?”
so sorry for the long pauses between updates :( writer’s block is such a bitch.
but i’m about half way through chapter 9 of EBTH and i just wanted to let you guys know that chapter 10 will be the last one 💔 (maybe lol depends how long i drag the finale)
it was always meant to be a mini series but i was careless and forgot that i only mentioned that like once a few months ago 😭😭 im sorry
but i really hope you enjoy the last two, and continue on with me when i delve back into my Tidebound/Saltwake universe 🫶🏻
Genre: Enemies(?) to lovers, dark fantasy, medieval au, adventure, slowburn, knight x princess, angst, eventual fluff, betrayal, death. so sorry in advance
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She fled a kingdom that wanted her blood. He fled a crown he refused to kneel to. Their paths weren't meant to cross... but fate wanted a different story. The kingdom wanted her dead. The knight wanted nothing to do with her. But the moment she saw the eyes beneath his helm... she stopped running from danger, and started running towards him.
The air definitely does not feel the same anymore.
What had once been soft, quiet, untouched by anything beyond the gentle ripple of water and the hush of wind through leaves now feels heavier, as though something unseen has settled over it, pressing down into the space between you all. The warmth of the afternoon lingers, but it no longer comforts. It clings instead, thick and suffocating, making it harder to breathe, harder to think past the sharp, immediate weight of what has just happened.
Guilt settles first. It comes quickly, flooding through you in a way that leaves no room to steady yourself, no space to pretend that this is anything less than what it is. It coils tightly in your chest, in your throat, in the way your hands still feel the echo of him, in the way your lips still remember.
You cannot hide it. Not from yourself. And certainly not from him.
Aurelian.
He stands where you left him, though something about him has shifted. Not dramatically, not in a way that would draw immediate attention, but enough that it is unmistakable. The quiet warmth he carried before has been pulled back, replaced with something more composed, more distant- not cold, but controlled in a way that feels deliberate.
Measured. Careful.
He steps forward. The movement is enough to pull you from the haze you had fallen into, your thoughts snapping back into place all at once, the reality of the moment crashing in with it. Your posture straightens instinctively, your hands dropping from where they had lingered, your breath catching just slightly before you force it to steady.
You clear your throat. The sound feels too loud in the quiet that follows.
“This is…” you begin, your voice not quite as smooth as you would like, the edges of it betraying the uncertainty you cannot fully hide. Your gaze flickers briefly toward Mingi before returning to Aurelian, as though trying to bridge something that refuses to connect cleanly.
“This is Mingi.” The name feels different spoken here. Heavier. More exposed.
You hesitate for the briefest moment, your fingers curling lightly against the fabric of your dress as you try to gather the rest of what should be said, what is expected of you in a moment like this.
“And–” you start again, though the words falter slightly, awkward in a way that feels painfully out of place in a setting that demands composure. “Mingi, this is–”
“Aurelian.”
He finishes it for you. Calmly. There is no sharpness in his tone, no outward display of anything that might suggest what he has just witnessed, but there is something beneath it, something quieter and far more telling. His gaze shifts fully to Mingi now, studying him not with curiosity, but with recognition. Understanding. It settles in the space between them without needing to be spoken aloud. He knows. Not everything. But enough.
“You are the one,” Aurelian says, his voice even, though the weight of it lands clearly, “she spoke of.” It is not a question.
Mingi does not deny it. There is a brief tension in the way he holds himself, subtle but present, his shoulders squared slightly as though bracing for something, though his gaze does not waver as he meets Aurelian’s. “I am,” he replies, his voice steady despite everything.
The silence that follows is not long. But it stretches. Just enough to make it feel like more.
Aurelian’s attention shifts back to you then, and something in his expression softens- not in the same way it had before, not with warmth, but with something more careful, more deliberate.
“I would like to speak with you,” he says. The words are directed at you, though their meaning reaches further. “Privately.” There is no room to misunderstand it.
Your breath catches slightly, though you nod before the hesitation can fully form, your gaze flicking briefly toward Mingi as though seeking something there, reassurance or permission or something you cannot quite name.
He does not move. But there is a tension in him now that had not been there before, something protective, something uncertain. His eyes linger on you, searching, weighing the request against something deeper, something instinctive that does not sit easily with letting you walk away.
For a moment, it seems like he might protest. Like he might step forward instead.
But you speak first. “It’s okay,” you say softly, the words meant for him alone, though they carry in the quiet all the same. Your expression steadies just slightly, enough to reassure him, enough to ask without asking.
“I’ll be fine.”
He holds your gaze for a second longer.
Then, slowly he turns fully to you, he nods. Not because he is entirely at ease with it. But because he trusts you. And that is enough.
You turn back to Aurelian, drawing in a quiet breath as you step toward him, the space between you shifting once more as the moment moves forward into something neither of you can avoid now.
The walk back is filled with existential dread and feels longer than it should.
You are aware of every step you take, of the way the gravel beneath your shoes gives way to stone as you pass through the gardens and toward the castle doors, of the guards who glance your way and then quickly look elsewhere, sensing something in the air that does not invite questions. Aurelian walks beside you, not rushing, not faltering, his pace steady and composed in a way that makes it impossible to ignore the contrast between him and the storm building quietly within your chest.
Neither of you speaks. The silence is not empty. It is heavy.
It presses into the space between you, filling every moment that would usually be softened by conversation, by familiarity, by the ease you had only just begun to build together. Now, that ease feels distant, replaced by something far more fragile, something that has not yet broken but feels dangerously close to it.
You step inside the castle. The shift is immediate.
Cooler air meets your skin, though it does little to settle you, the warmth from outside still clinging faintly as though unwilling to let go. The corridors stretch ahead, long and familiar, though they feel different now, sharper somehow, as though every detail has been heightened by the weight of what is about to happen.
Aurelian does not slow.
He leads you through the halls with quiet certainty, his posture unchanged, his expression unreadable from where you stand beside him. Servants pass, bowing their heads as you move by, though their presence barely registers. The world has narrowed, focused entirely on the path ahead, on the closed doors waiting at the end of it.
He stops there. A private room. The kind used for meetings, for matters that require discretion, for conversations that are not meant to be overheard.
The door opens. Inside, a small group stands gathered - advisors, perhaps, or attendants waiting for instruction - but they do not remain for long.
“You may leave us.” His voice is calm;not sharp, and never ever raised. And yet it carries enough authority that no one questions it.
There is a brief shuffle of movement, heads bowing, papers gathered, footsteps retreating quickly as they file past you and into the corridor without a word. The door closes behind them with a soft but final sound, the echo of it settling into the room like a line drawn between what came before and what comes now.
You are alone. The silence that follows is heavier than before. Contained.
There is nowhere for it to escape.
Aurelian stands a few steps away from you, his back partially turned at first as though allowing the last of the moment to settle, as though giving himself a second before facing you fully. When he does turn, his expression is composed, carefully held in place, though there is something beneath it that has not yet been addressed.
You cannot bear the silence. “I’m sorry.” The words come quickly, breaking through the stillness before you can reconsider them, your voice softer than you intend but steady enough to carry.
His gaze lifts to you. He does not interrupt. He does not respond, he simply looks. And that, somehow, is worse.
“I didn’t know he would be here,” you continue, the explanation following almost immediately, as though you need him to understand before anything else can be said. “I didn’t know he would come back at all.”
Your hands draw together lightly in front of you, fingers twisting just slightly against one another, grounding yourself in the motion as you try to make sense of something that had never been part of the plan.
“If I had known…” you start, though the words falter, because you are not entirely sure how to finish that sentence.
Because what would you have done? Would you have stopped him? Would you have turned him away?
The answer does not come easily. “I wouldn’t have let this happen like that,” you say instead, your voice quieter now, though no less honest.
The room remains still. And he remains silent.
He watches you for a moment longer before he speaks.
Not with impatience, not with anger, but with a quiet deliberation that feels far more difficult to stand beneath. His gaze does not waver, though it softens just slightly as it settles on you, as though he is trying to understand rather than judge, even now.
When he finally moves, it is subtle. He steps closer, just enough that his presence feels more immediate, more impossible to ignore, and when he speaks, his voice is calm, measured in a way that makes every word land with quiet precision.
“Who is he to you?”
The question is simple. But it carries everything.
It is not about names, not about titles or roles, not about what Mingi is in the world beyond this room. It is about you. About what he means to you. About the truth you have not yet spoken aloud in full.
Your breath catches slightly. You had known this would come. Still, it does not make it easier.
You draw in a slow breath, letting it settle in your chest, steadying yourself before you answer, your gaze lowering for only a brief moment before returning to him. There is no use in avoiding it now. No use in softening it into something less than it is.
“I’m not entirely sure,” you admit, your voice quiet, though it does not falter. The honesty of it lingers between you, fragile and exposed. “But I know he isn’t just… nothing.”
Your hands tighten slightly together, your fingers pressing into your palms as though grounding yourself in something tangible while your thoughts move through memories that feel suddenly too close, too vivid.
“We didn’t start like this,” you continue, more steadily now, your gaze drifting slightly as though you can see it all again, piece by piece. “When I first met him, I didn’t know who he was. Not really. He was just… there.”
Your lips press together faintly, the memory shifting, sharpening. “And then everything changed.”
Your eyes lift again, meeting Aurelian’s as you speak, needing him to understand, needing him to see that this was not something simple, not something careless.
“He stepped in,” you say, your voice softening, though the weight of it only grows. “When he didn’t have to. When it would have been easier not to.”
There is a quiet pause, not because you are unsure, but because the truth of it settles deeper the more you speak it.
“He kept me safe,” you add. “Not because it was expected of him, not because anyone told him to, but because he chose to.”
The room feels smaller. More contained.
“And he brought me here,” you continue, your voice quieter now, more personal, as though each word is something you are offering rather than simply stating. “All the way from Eirendale.”
Aurelian does not interrupt. He listens. Every word.
“He left,” you say, your brows drawing together slightly as the memory shifts again, something more complicated threading through it. “He abandoned his post as Edrea’s knight.”
The admission sits heavy in the air. “I thought…” you hesitate for just a second, your gaze flickering away before returning. “I thought he left to join the fight. That whatever was coming, he had gone to face it.”
Your voice softens further. “I didn’t know he left because of me.”
That truth lands differently. Not loud. But deep.
For a moment, the room is quiet again. Aurelian’s expression does not change dramatically, but there is something in the way his gaze sharpens just slightly, something thoughtful settling behind it as he considers everything you have said.
When he speaks again, his voice remains calm. Controlled. “He must have had one final battle to get through.” The words are simple. But the way he says them is not.
His gaze holds yours as he speaks, steady, knowing in a way that does not need to be explained. Because it is not about war. Not really. It is about you.
“I truly am sorry.”
The words come softer this time, not rushed, not forced out of obligation, but carried by something deeper, something that settles into the space between you with quiet sincerity. Your gaze does not leave his as you say it, as though looking away would lessen the meaning behind it, as though you need him to understand that this is not something you take lightly.
“I never meant for any of this to happen,” you continue, your voice steady despite the weight behind it. “Not like this. Not… here.”
Your hands remain loosely held together, though the tension in them has softened, replaced now with something more vulnerable, something that does not try to hide what you are feeling.
“I would never have wanted to hurt you.”
The room is still. Aurelian does not respond immediately, though the shift in him is unmistakable. His gaze lowers slightly, not in avoidance, but in thought, as though he is taking in every word you have given him, turning it over carefully before deciding what to do with it.
He draws in a slow breath. It fills the silence more than anything else has, the controlled rise and fall of his chest marking the moment before he speaks again.
“I am upset.” The admission is quiet, but it does not waver.
Your chest tightens slightly at the words, though you do not interrupt him.
“And I am angry,” he continues, his voice remaining calm, though there is something firmer beneath it now, something more grounded in truth than in composure.
His gaze lifts back to you. “But not at you.” There is no hesitation in that part. It is said with certainty, as though he has already made that decision, as though it is not something he needs to question.
A faint, almost rueful breath escapes him, the corner of his mouth shifting in something that is not quite a smile, not quite anything easily defined.
“I believed I had a chance,” he admits, more quietly now. “That, given time… things might have grown into something more.”
The honesty of it settles heavily between you.
“I thought I could earn that,” he adds, though there is no bitterness in it, only a quiet acknowledgment of something that did not come to pass.
His gaze flickers briefly, not away from you entirely, but enough to show the weight of what he is choosing not to hold onto. “But I cannot hate a man who saved your life.”
The words are steady. Uncompromising in their truth.
“And I cannot force you to feel something that is not there,” he continues, his voice firming slightly, though it does not lose its calm. “That is not the kind of ruler I am. Nor the kind of man I wish to be.”
There is something resolute in the way he says it. Something that makes it clear this is not a decision made in the moment, but something that has always been part of him.
You feel it. The respect in it. The restraint. And that, somehow, makes everything harder.
There is a brief pause before he continues, though this time there is a subtle shift in his tone, something more deliberate settling into place. “However…” The word is quieter. But it carries more weight than anything before it.
His gaze sharpens slightly as it meets yours, the softness from before giving way to something clearer, something that does not leave room for misunderstanding.
“The wedding will go on.” There is no uncertainty in it. No room for negotiation. His voice does not rise, but it does not need to. It is firm enough to hold.
It is a statement of duty, of responsibility, of everything that exists beyond the two of you and the feelings that have just been laid bare.
You feel it settle. And you nod. “I understand,” you say, your voice steady, though softer now, shaped by the acceptance of something you already knew. “And I agree.”
The words come easier than they should. Perhaps because they are not new. Perhaps because, despite everything, you had never truly allowed yourself to believe otherwise.
The moment lingers. Not as sharp as before, but no less significant. Aurelian exhales slowly, some of the tension leaving him now that the decision has been spoken aloud, now that the line has been drawn clearly between what could have been and what must be.
“Tomorrow will be… demanding,” he says after a moment, his tone shifting slightly, not away from the truth of what has just passed, but toward something more practical, something that allows both of you to stand again.
“There will be many watching,” he continues. “Many expecting everything to proceed without fault.”
You nod again, your posture straightening just slightly, slipping back into something more composed, more prepared for what is expected of you.“I won’t let it falter,” you assure him.
“I know you won’t,” he replies, the faintest hint of warmth returning to his expression, though it is more subdued now, more carefully placed.
There is a quiet understanding between you then. Not untouched by what has happened. But shaped by it. And held together, still, by something that refuses to break completely.
The tension that follows is not as heavy as before, though it does not feel entirely settled either.
Something lingers beneath it, something unspoken that neither of you reaches for again, not because it has been resolved, but because it has been placed carefully to one side, acknowledged without being undone. The air in the room feels easier to breathe, though still touched by the weight of everything that has passed through it.
You draw in a quiet breath, allowing yourself a moment to steady. And that is when you hear it.
A voice.
Faint at first, carried through the open window from the gardens beyond, but unmistakable in its tone. It cuts cleanly through the quiet, threaded with a kind of dry sarcasm that feels entirely out of place within the composed structure of the castle.
“Well, this has gone brilliantly, hasn’t it?”
The words are not meant for you, not spoken with any awareness of who might overhear them, but you would recognise that voice anywhere.
It is enough to pull something lighter from you before you can stop it.
A soft laugh escapes, quiet but genuine, the sound almost surprising in the aftermath of everything else. It lifts the tension just slightly, if only for a moment, the familiarity of it grounding in a way that nothing else has been.
Aurelian’s gaze shifts toward you immediately. There is a flicker of confusion in his expression, subtle but present, as though the reaction is not what he expected, as though he cannot quite place what could have drawn something like that from you so quickly.
“Who is that?” he asks, his tone measured, though there is a quiet curiosity beneath it now.
You shake your head lightly, the faint trace of that smile still lingering as you glance toward the window, toward the source of the voice.
“You’ll have to see for yourself,” you reply, your voice softer now, touched with something that feels almost familiar again. “I don’t think you’d believe me otherwise.”
There is a brief pause. Aurelian studies you for a moment, as though weighing the request, as though considering whether this is something worth stepping into after everything that has just been said.
And then he nods. “Very well.” The decision is simple.
Without further hesitation, he turns toward the door, moving with the same quiet composure as before, though something in the moment has shifted, just enough to make this feel different from the conversation you are leaving behind.
You follow beside him. The door opens once more, the corridor beyond stretching out ahead, though this time the air feels lighter, the tension from before no longer pressing quite so tightly against your chest.
Together, you make your way back through the castle, toward the gardens once again– Toward the voice that has already begun to unravel the quiet you had only just tried to rebuild.
The doors open once more, and the air shifts again as you step back into the gardens.
The warmth greets you first, softer now than before, though still lingering in a way that feels just slightly out of place. The quiet beauty of the space remains untouched- the pond still glimmers beneath the sunlight, the flowers still sway gently in the breeze- but the stillness you had left behind has been replaced with something far more animated.
Voices carry across the garden. Not hushed. Not careful.
Argumentative.
“You cannot simply decide to walk in,” a familiar voice snaps, sharp with frustration, though still edged with that same dry wit you recognise immediately. “There are guards, there are eyes everywhere, and - might I remind you - you are not exactly inconspicuous.”
Mingi stands a few steps from the pond, his posture tense, shoulders squared as though bracing against the words being thrown at him. The helm is back in place, concealing everything that had been laid bare only moments before, returning him to something more guarded, more distant, though the tension in his stance betrays the storm that still sits beneath it.
“I said I’ll handle it,” he replies, his voice more controlled, though there is a tightness to it that suggests restraint rather than calm.
Mr. Bramble stands in front of him, tail flicking sharply behind him, ears pinned back just enough to show his irritation as he looks up at him.
“Yes, and I am saying your definition of ‘handling it’ is deeply concerning,” the fox retorts, his tone cutting but not unkind, as though this argument has already gone in circles more than once.
They do not notice you at first. Not until you step further into the garden, the sound of your movement just enough to shift the moment.
Bramble’s ears twitch. His head turns.
And the change is immediate.
“Well - finally,” he says, the irritation in his voice softening almost instantly into something far more relieved, far more familiar. His tail lifts slightly, the sharp edge of his earlier tone giving way to something warmer. “I was beginning to think he had entirely lost what little sense he had left.”
You cannot help the small smile that forms as you step closer, the tension in your chest easing just slightly at the sight of him. “It’s good to see you too,” you reply softly.
Mr Bramble lets out a quiet huff, though there is no bite to it now. “Yes, well, someone around here has to remain reasonable,” he mutters, though his eyes remain on you, sharp but softened in a way that makes it clear he is just as relieved.
Mingi does not speak. But you can feel his attention shift.
Even without seeing his face, without seeing his eyes, there is no mistaking it - the way his body stills just slightly, the way everything in him seems to orient toward you again without conscious thought.
For a moment, the space settles. You look between them, the familiarity of it grounding in a way that cuts gently through everything that came before. “I didn’t expect you to be here,” you say, your voice quieter now, though the warmth remains.
“Neither did I,” Mr Bramble replies dryly. “And yet, here we are, defying all sensible decisions.”
There is a faint hint of amusement in it, enough to pull a quiet breath of laughter from you, something lighter than what you had carried with you moments ago.
Then- You remember. Your gaze shifts. Aurelian stands just behind you, though he has not moved further into the space, his posture still, his attention fixed entirely on the scene before him.
On Mr Bramble.
There is no mistaking the expression that crosses his face. Surprise. Not loud, not exaggerated, but clear enough to be undeniable, his composure faltering just slightly as he takes in what stands before him.
A talking fox.
You turn slightly, the faint smile still lingering as you gesture gently toward them. “Aurelian,” you say, your tone soft but steady, “this is Mr. Bramble.”
There is a brief pause. “And Mingi,” you add, though that part needs no real introduction.
Bramble steps forward just slightly, his posture straightening in a way that almost resembles something formal, though the glint in his eye suggests he is enjoying this far more than he should. “A pleasure,” he says, his tone smooth, though still unmistakably edged with that same dry wit. “Though I imagine the feeling is currently one-sided, given the circumstances.”
Aurelian blinks once. Slowly. “I…” he begins, though the word falters, his gaze still fixed on Bramble as though trying to reconcile what he is seeing with what he knows to be possible. “You–”
“Yes, I speak,” Bramble interrupts lightly, sparing him the effort of finishing the thought. “I find it saves a great deal of time, particularly when attempting to prevent certain individuals from making catastrophically poor decisions.”
His tail flicks once, pointedly. Mingi does not respond.
Aurelian exhales quietly, some of his composure returning, though the faint trace of disbelief does not entirely leave his expression. “I see,” he says, though it is clear he is still adjusting to the reality of it.
Bramble tilts his head slightly, studying him in return. “Yes,” he replies. “Most people say that when they very much do not.”
And for the briefest moment, despite everything, the tension shifts.
For another moment, the strangeness of it all simply hangs there.
Aurelian’s composure gathers itself again piece by piece, though it is clear that this is not a situation he has ever been prepared for. His gaze lingers briefly on Bramble, as though committing the reality of him to memory, before he straightens slightly, the familiar structure of his role settling back into place.
He clears his throat. The sound is quiet, but it draws the moment back into something more controlled, something more aligned with what is expected.
“It is… quite warm today,” he says, the words measured, though there is still the faintest hesitation beneath them, as though he is choosing the most neutral thing he can say to bridge what has just occurred. “You are welcome inside.”
It is not overly formal. But it is deliberate. An offer extended with care.
Mr Bramble’s ears perk slightly at that, his tail giving a pleased flick as he lets out a soft huff. “Well, it’s about time,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the setting, the tone, or the weight of the invitation itself. “I was beginning to think I might roast where I stand.”
Without waiting for further acknowledgement, he moves. Not cautiously, not respectfully in the way most would, but with an ease that borders on audacity, trotting past as though the castle had always belonged to him, as though doors like these had always been open.
Mingi lingers for only a moment longer. There is a subtle tension in him, something restrained but present, his gaze flicking briefly toward you before shifting back to Aurelian. The helm hides his expression, but the set of his shoulders gives enough away.
Still, he nodded. A small, controlled gesture. And follows.
You move with them. Back through the doors, into the cool hush of the castle once more, though the atmosphere has changed entirely from when you last passed through. What had once felt structured and steady now carries something else beneath it, something more fragile, as though everything is holding together just enough to continue.
Servants pass by, their movements uninterrupted, their attention focused on the preparations still underway, though a few glances linger just a second too long at the sight of unfamiliar figures entering beside you.
No one speaks of it. But it is noticed.
Aurelian leads the way for only a short distance before he slows, his attention shifting as he turns slightly, his gaze settling on Mingi.
“Walk with me,” he says. It is not a request.
Mingi pauses. Just briefly. Then steps forward.
They move a short distance ahead, just enough to create space, just enough that the conversation cannot be easily overheard. You remain where you are, Bramble settling beside you with a quiet flick of his tail, though his ears remain angled forward, listening despite himself.
Aurelian does not waste time.
When he speaks, his voice is low, controlled, carrying the same calm authority as before, though there is something firmer beneath it now.
“You may stay,” he says, his gaze steady on Mingi. “But you will not interfere with anything that is to take place here.”
There is no ambiguity in his words.
“This wedding will proceed without disruption,” he continues, more deliberately now. “Every preparation has been made. Every detail accounted for.”
His gaze sharpens just slightly. “And you will not get in the way of that.”
There is a pause. Short. But heavy.
“For her.”
That is the part that lands the hardest.
Mingi’s shoulders tense, the reaction subtle but unmistakable, something sharper flickering beneath the surface. There is a brief moment where it seems like he might push back, might say something more than what is expected, the frustration sitting just beneath his restraint.
But he doesn’t. Because he understands. Even if he doesn’t like it.
“I won’t,” he says, his voice steady, though there is a tightness to it that does not fully fade. “I’m not here to ruin anything.”
Aurelian studies him for a moment longer, as though weighing the truth of that, as though deciding whether the words are enough.
Eventually, he nods. “Good.” The tension does not disappear. But it settles.
“There is a guest room prepared,” Aurelian continues, his tone shifting slightly back toward something more practical, more structured. “You and your… companion may stay there.”
Bramble’s tail flicks faintly at that. “Generous,” he mutters under his breath.
Aurelian ignores it. “You are not to enter her quarters,” he adds, more firmly now, ensuring that part is understood without question.
Mingi’s jaw tightens beneath the helm, though the movement is slight. “I understand,” he replies.
The words come easier this time. Not because he agrees with them. But because he has already chosen to accept them.
You barely have time to look back toward Mingi, to take in the way he stands there now - contained once more behind the helm, distant in a way that feels almost jarring after everything that had just passed between you - before movement gathers around you again.
“Your Highness.” The voice is gentle, but urgent enough to pull your attention away.
Two maids approach, their steps quick but careful, their expressions composed though there is a clear awareness of time pressing forward. One carries folded fabric over her arms, the other already reaching for you as though guiding you back into the rhythm you had momentarily stepped out of.
“They need you,” one of them says softly. “There are still preparations to be finalised.”
Of course there are. There always are.
You hesitate. Only for a second. Your gaze flickers back to Mingi, to the quiet stillness of him, to the space that now exists between you despite everything that had just closed it. There is so much left unsaid, so much you want to hold onto before it is taken from you again.
But there is no time. Not now.
You offer a small, fleeting smile instead, something soft and quiet that does not quite reach your eyes, but is enough to bridge the distance for a moment longer.
“I’ll see you soon,” you say, your voice low, meant only for him.
And then you are pulled away.
Not forcefully, but firmly enough that the moment cannot linger, the maids guiding you back down the corridor, back into the movement of the castle, back into the role you cannot step away from.
The space feels different without you. Quieter. Heavier.
Mingi does not move at first. He stands where you left him, his gaze fixed on the place where you disappeared, as though the absence of you is something he has not yet adjusted to.
Beside him, Mr Bramble lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “Well,” the fox mutters, his tone softer now, though the edge of his usual sarcasm still lingers faintly beneath it. “That went… about as well as it could have, all things considered.”
Mingi doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. The silence between them says enough.
Aurelian steps forward once more, his presence returning to the forefront now that the moment has passed, his composure fully settled back into place.
“This way.” The words are simple. Final.
Mingi follows without question, Mr Bramble padding along beside him, his tail brushing lightly against the floor as they move through the corridors once more. The castle feels different now, not just because of what has happened, but because of what is about to.
Servants pass. Preparations continue.
Everything moves forward as though nothing has changed. And yet… Everything has.
They are led away from the main halls, further into the quieter sections of the castle, where the noise softens and the corridors narrow slightly. The grandeur of the main spaces gives way to something more functional, more contained, until Aurelian finally stops before a small door set into the stone.
He opens it. The room beyond is modest.
A single bed, narrow and plainly made, pushed against one wall. A small table sits beneath a window that lets in just enough light to keep the space from feeling entirely closed in. There is little else- no excess, no decoration beyond what is necessary.
It is enough. But only just.
Mingi steps inside, his gaze sweeping the room once before settling, his shoulders tightening ever so slightly as he takes in the space.
Mr Bramble follows, stepping in with far less concern, his eyes flicking around with quick, assessing interest before he lets out a small hum. “Well,” he says lightly, though there is a faint dryness to it. “Cozy.”
Aurelian remains at the doorway. He does not step inside. “You will find everything you need here,” he says, his tone calm, though there is a quiet finality to it now, something that draws a line beneath the moment.
His gaze shifts briefly to Mingi, holding it for just a second longer. “Rest while you can.” The words are not unkind. But they are not without meaning.
Tomorrow is coming. Whether they are ready for it or not.
Without waiting for a response, Aurelian inclines his head slightly, a gesture that is both respectful and distant all at once, before turning and stepping away.
The door closes behind him. And they are left alone. The quiet settles slowly once the door closes.
Not immediately, not in a way that feels abrupt, but in a gradual sinking, as though the room itself is adjusting to their presence, to the weight of everything they have brought in with them. The sounds of the castle remain just beyond the walls- distant footsteps, muffled voices, the constant movement of preparation - but here, inside this small space, it feels contained.
Still.
Mingi does not remove his helm. He stands for a moment longer near the centre of the room, his posture rigid in a way that suggests he is holding something in place, something that has not yet found where to settle. The air feels tighter around him, heavier than it had in the garden, as though stepping back into these walls has reminded him of everything he does not belong to here.
Bramble watches him. For a while, neither of them speaks.
The fox moves first, padding further into the room, his claws clicking softly against the stone as he circles once near the bed before settling himself beside it. His tail curls loosely around his paws, though his eyes remain fixed on Mingi, sharp and observant as always.
“You’re going to have to breathe at some point,” he says after a moment, his tone quieter than before, though the familiar edge of it still lingers faintly.
Mingi exhales through his nose. It is not quite a laugh, not quite anything light, but it breaks the silence enough to shift it slightly. “I am breathing,” he replies, though the tension in his voice betrays him.
Bramble tilts his head, unconvinced. “Barely.”
That earns him a faint huff, though it carries no real irritation. The room settles again. But this time, it doesn’t stay silent.
Mingi moves at last, stepping further into the space before lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. The movement is slow, deliberate, as though he is still half somewhere else, still caught in the garden, in the moment he has not yet fully left behind.
His hands rest loosely against his thighs, fingers flexing once before stilling.
“I didn’t plan any of this,” he says finally. The words come low, almost absent, but they carry enough weight to fill the room.
Mr Bramble does not respond immediately. He lets the words sit. “I know,” he says after a moment, his voice softer now, less pointed than before.
Mingi leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as his head dips just enough to suggest the weight of everything pressing down on him.
“I thought…” he begins, though the thought falters before it can fully form. “I thought if I just saw her- ” He stops. Because even he knows how incomplete that sounds.
Bramble watches him carefully. “You thought it would be enough,” the fox finishes for him, not unkindly.
Mingi lets out a slow breath. “Maybe,” he admits. There is a pause. Longer this time. Because the truth of it is not simple.
“I didn’t expect…” he continues, quieter now, his voice roughened by something deeper than frustration. “I didn’t expect her to say it back.” The admission sits heavily between them.
Mr Bramble’s ears flick slightly at that, though he says nothing, allowing the moment to stretch just long enough for it to settle.
Mingi shifts again, his hands tightening briefly before relaxing. “When I first saw her,” he says, his voice more distant now, as though he is pulling the memory from somewhere far behind him, “I didn’t think any of this would happen.”
There is no need to explain what he means. Bramble knows. “You looked at her like she was a problem,” the fox replies, a faint trace of dry humour returning, though it is softened by something more reflective beneath it.
Mingi huffs quietly. “I thought she was,” he admits. “At first.”
“And now?” The question is simple.
Mingi doesn’t answer it straight away. He leans back slightly, his gaze lifting just enough to fix on nothing in particular, as though the answer is not something he needs to search for.
“You know what she is,” he says instead.
Bramble’s tail flicks once. “Yes,” he replies. “I do.”
The room falls quiet again, though it feels different now. Less strained. More… understood.
Mingi exhales slowly, his shoulders easing just slightly as the tension shifts into something more manageable, something that can be spoken rather than simply carried.
“I watched her,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now, though steadier. “Before any of this.”
Mr Bramble glances up at him. “You mentioned.”
“She didn’t know,” Mingi continues. “She couldn’t have.” There is no pride in it. No sense of accomplishment. Just fact.
“I used to think…” he pauses, his jaw tightening faintly beneath the helm. “That she had everything I didn’t. That she didn’t understand anything beyond those walls.” His hand lifts slightly, gesturing vaguely to the space around them. “And then I met her.”
Bramble lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “Yes,” he says. “That tends to change things.”
Mingi nods once, faintly. “She wasn’t what I thought,” he continues. “Not even close.” The memory lingers in his voice now, softer, more grounded. “She was angry,” he adds. “Restless. Trapped in a way I didn’t understand at the time.”
Mr Bramble’s ears tilt slightly forward. “And that surprised you.”
“It shouldn’t have,” Mingi admits. “But it did.” There is a small pause. “And then she left.” The words come quieter now. More final.
“I told myself it didn’t matter,” he continues. “That it was better that way.”
Bramble hums faintly. “And that worked wonderfully, didn’t it?”
Mingi lets out a breath that almost resembles a laugh, though it carries no real humour. “No.” The honesty of it settles easily. “I couldn’t stop thinking about her,” he admits. “No matter what I did.”
Mr Bramble watches him for a moment, his expression unreadable in the way only a fox’s can be, though the understanding in his gaze is clear enough. “And now you’re here,” he says.
Mingi nods. “And now I’m here.” The repetition feels heavier. Because it means something different now.
Mr Bramble shifts slightly, stretching out before settling again. “You realise,” he says after a moment, his tone returning to something a little sharper, though not unkind, “that none of this has made things easier.”
Mingi exhales slowly. “I know.”
“And you’re still going to stay.” It isn’t a question.
Mingi doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Bramble studies him for a second longer before letting out a quiet huff. “Of course you are,” he mutters.
There is a pause. Then- “For what it’s worth,” he adds, more quietly now, “I don’t think you were wrong to come.”
Mingi’s head tilts slightly, just enough to acknowledge the words. “That’s a first,” he says.
Mr Bramble’s tail flicks. “Don’t get used to it.”
The tension eases. Not entirely. But enough. And for the first time since stepping into the castle… The silence feels like something they can sit in, rather than something they need to escape.
The castle does not slow. If anything, it gathers pace.
Time seems to fold in on itself, each moment slipping too quickly into the next, until it becomes difficult to tell where one part of the day ends and another begins. You are moved through it all with careful hands and steady guidance, every step already decided before you have the chance to question it, every detail waiting for your approval, your presence, your final word.
Your chambers are no longer your own. They have become a place of preparation, of transformation, of expectation.
You sit once more before the mirror, though it does not feel the same as it had that morning. The light has shifted, softer now, deeper as the day moves toward evening, catching against glass and gold and the delicate shimmer of everything laid out around you.
“Turn slightly,” one of the maids murmurs, her hands already adjusting your posture before you can fully respond.
You do. Without resistance.
Your reflection changes with every movement they make, each small adjustment layering something new over what was already there. Your hair is no longer being experimented with, it is being decided. Sections are drawn together, smoothed, shaped with care that borders on reverence, every strand placed with intention rather than curiosity.
“This will hold through the entire ceremony,” another says, her fingers working quickly but gently, securing what has been chosen at last. “There will be no need to adjust it again.”
Jewellery is brought forward next.
Delicate pieces, each one selected not just for beauty, but for meaning, for what they represent, for how they will be seen. A necklace is lifted, held just beneath your throat as they consider the way it sits against your skin, how it catches the light, how it completes something that feels almost too carefully constructed.
“This one,” someone decides softly. And just like that, it is chosen.
Your reflection shifts again. Piece by piece, you are assembled into something that feels both entirely you and not at all.
“Your Highness, your speech.” The words pull you from your thoughts.
A parchment is placed gently into your hands, already worn at the edges from repetition, from the number of times you have read it, spoken it, adjusted it until there is nothing left to change.
You know it. You do not need to look. Still, you do.
Your voice fills the room again, steady and practiced, each word shaped carefully as you speak them aloud, the tone refined, the pauses intentional, every part of it crafted to carry exactly what it is meant to.
You repeat it. Again. And again.
Until it no longer feels like something you are saying, but something that exists on its own, something that will come whether you think about it or not.
“That was perfect,” one of them says softly.
You nod. Because it has to be.
Time moves. Faster now.
Fabrics are brought in and taken away, final fittings adjusted, the dress checked and checked again until there is nothing left to question. Every detail is accounted for, every possibility considered, every flaw smoothed out before it can exist.
And through it all… You move. You answer. You decide. Without pause. Without space to think beyond what is directly in front of you.
Until finally… It stops. Not all at once. But enough.
The room empties gradually, the maids stepping away one by one as their tasks are completed, their presence no longer required for the moment. The noise fades with them, the constant hum of preparation slipping quietly out of the space until what remains is something far softer.
Something still. You are alone again.
A cup of tea sits waiting on the small table by the window, steam rising gently from its surface, curling into the air in slow, delicate movements. You move toward it without thinking, your steps quieter now, your body finally allowed to slow after being carried so quickly through everything else.
You finally sit down. The chair feels unfamiliar beneath you, not because it has changed, but because you have not been still in it for long enough to remember what it feels like.
Your fingers curl around the cup, the warmth grounding, real in a way that nothing else has been for hours. You lift it slowly, taking a small sip. The taste is soft. Calming.
For a moment, you do nothing else.
No voices. No instructions. No expectations pressing in from all sides. Just the quiet. Just the warmth of the tea in your hands. Just the sound of your own breath, steady at last.
And in that stillness… Everything begins to catch up.
The quiet settles just enough for you to begin to feel it.
Your shoulders ease slightly as you sit there, the warmth of the tea grounding you in a way nothing else has managed to all day. The constant movement, the voices, the expectations- they have all faded, leaving you with something softer, something almost fragile in its stillness.
You take another slow sip. And for a moment, it almost feels peaceful.
The sound breaks it.
Sharp. Sudden.
The cup beside you slips from the table and shatters against the floor.
The noise cuts cleanly through the quiet, porcelain cracking on stone in a way that makes your breath catch, your body tensing instantly as your gaze snaps toward it. Tea spreads quickly across the floor, the liquid pooling around the fragments in uneven shapes, steam still rising faintly from the spill.
You stare at it for a second. It doesn’t make sense.
The cup had not been near the edge. You had not touched it. There had been no movement, no shift in the table that might explain it. The stillness of the room had been complete- too complete for something like this to happen on its own.
Your brows draw together slightly as you rise, setting your own cup aside as you move toward the mess, your steps cautious now, your mind already trying to make sense of something that does not quite fit.
You crouch down, careful as your fingers begin to gather the larger pieces, lifting them one by one from the spreading pool of tea. The shards catch the light as you move them, small reflections flickering across their edges.
And then… You feel it. That quiet sense of not being alone.
Your head lifts. And across the room– A grin. Wide. Unmistakable.
PJ.
He stands near the far wall as though he has always been there, his small form half-shadowed but entirely visible now that you are looking for him. His expression is bright, mischievous, entirely pleased with himself, as though the chaos he has just caused is something to be admired rather than explained.
For a moment, you simply stare. Then the disbelief breaks.
A laugh escapes you, soft at first, then fuller, the sound spilling into the room as the tension of the past hours cracks just enough to let something lighter through. “How did you even get in here?” you ask, though you already know there will be no answer.
He cannot give you one. PJ only grins wider, lifting his hands slightly in a gesture that suggests both pride and innocence all at once, as though the question itself is unnecessary.
You rise quickly, the broken porcelain momentarily forgotten as you move toward him, the warmth of the moment overtaking the strangeness of it.
“I’ve missed you,” you say, your voice softer now, genuine in a way that slips easily into place.
He beams in response, his entire posture lighting with it, as though that alone is enough.
You are only a few steps away when the door opens. Quickly. Not carefully.
“PJ–!”
Kayleigh’s voice cuts through the room before she fully enters, her tone edged with urgency, her breath slightly uneven as though she has been searching for longer than she would like to admit. She steps inside quickly, her gaze sweeping the room until it lands on him.
Relief floods her expression almost instantly.
“There you–” She stops. Because she sees you.
For a second, everything stills again, though this time it is not heavy, not tense in the same way as before.
It is something else. Recognition. Relief. Emotion that has not had time to settle.
“-are,” she finishes, though the word softens as her focus shifts entirely to you.
Your name leaves her lips more quietly, though no less full. You do not hesitate.
The distance between you closes quickly, your steps faster now as you move toward her, and when you reach her, there is no pause, no uncertainty- you pull her into an embrace without thinking.
She holds onto you just as tightly. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
There is only the feeling of it- the familiarity, the relief, the quiet confirmation that despite everything, despite how much has changed, some things have remained exactly the same.
“I missed you,” she murmurs against you, her voice softer now, steadier than when she entered.
You let out a small breath, something close to a laugh but gentler, your grip tightening just slightly before you pull back enough to look at her. “I missed you too.”
Behind her, PJ watches, still grinning, entirely satisfied with the outcome of his unannounced entrance.
And for the first time in what feels like far too long, the room feels warm again.
As you pull back from the embrace, the warmth of it still lingering in your chest, your attention shifts just slightly, drawn not by anything said, but by the quiet presence that has remained just behind Kayleigh.
You hadn’t noticed at first. Not properly.
But now, you see her.
She stands just beyond the doorway, not stepping forward, not intruding on the moment, but present all the same in a way that is impossible to ignore once your gaze finds her. There is a stillness to her, something composed and watchful, as though she is used to observing before acting, to understanding before speaking.
She is… different.
Not in a way that feels unsettling, but in a way that draws your attention, that makes it difficult to look away.
Her skin carries the faintest tint of green, so subtle it might be missed in passing, but unmistakable when seen in full light. She is tall- taller than most women you have known- with a frame that is slender without seeming fragile, every movement held with a quiet precision that suggests control rather than delicacy.
And then there are her features. Sharp. Refined.
Her ears taper into gentle points, just enough to confirm what your mind has already begun to piece together, while her eyes hold a clarity that feels almost otherworldly, their shape slightly different, their focus steady in a way that feels… aware.
Her hair falls long and pale, strands of soft blonde catching the light as it spills over her shoulders, untouched by the rush that brought Kayleigh here.
An elf. The realisation settles quietly.
You have heard of them, of course. Stories, passing mentions, glimpses in texts that never quite captured what they truly looked like.
But seeing one, standing here is something else entirely.
Your gaze lingers, not out of rudeness, but out of quiet curiosity, something you do not quite manage to hide.
Kayleigh notices immediately. Of course she does.
She glances back over her shoulder, following your line of sight, and a small, knowing smile tugs at her lips as she steps slightly aside, making space, bridging the moment before it can grow awkward.
“Oh- right,” she says, the faintest hint of amusement in her voice, as though she had almost forgotten this part. “I should probably explain.”
She gestures lightly toward the woman behind her. “This is someone I met at the encampment,” she continues, her tone softening just slightly. “We… ended up working together more than I expected.”
There is something in the way she says it, something that suggests more behind the words, though she does not elaborate, not yet.
The elf steps forward then. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Simply… composed.
She inclines her head slightly, the gesture graceful without feeling rehearsed, her gaze settling on you with a calm attentiveness that feels both respectful and quietly assessing all at once.
“Nalia,” she says, her voice smooth, even, carrying a quiet confidence that does not need to be proven. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
There is no stiffness in her introduction. No unnecessary formality. Just clarity. Just presence.
And as she stands there, framed by the doorway, the light catching faintly against her features, it becomes clear, this is not someone easily overlooked.
The words come easily, carried by something warmer than anything you have felt since stepping back into the castle, something that softens the edges of everything else waiting beyond this room. Your gaze moves between them—Kayleigh, still catching her breath, Nalia, composed and observant, and PJ, who looks entirely pleased with himself as though this entire reunion had been his idea all along. No, it definitely was.
“You made it all the way here,” you add more quietly, a small shake of your head following as though you are still adjusting to the reality of it. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again like this.”
Kayleigh smiles faintly at that, though there is something more in her expression- relief, perhaps, or something that has not yet fully settled. “Well,” she says lightly, though her tone carries something genuine beneath it, “you’re not getting rid of us that easily.”
You let out a soft breath of laughter, the sound grounding in a way that feels almost unfamiliar after everything else. Then something occurs to you.
“The wedding,” you say, your gaze lifting again, a flicker of something hopeful threading through your voice. “Will you stay? You’re… more than welcome to.”
You don’t need to ask twice.
“Yes,” Kayleigh answers almost immediately, the word leaving her without hesitation, her expression softening just slightly as though the idea itself is something she had already decided on.
“Of course,” Nalia adds, her voice calm, though there is a quiet certainty in it that matches Kayleigh’s without needing to mirror her tone.
PJ, of course, offers no words, but the way he nods eagerly- his grin widening just a fraction- is more than enough.
Something in your chest eases at that. “Good,” you say softly. Because it matters. More than you expected.
The room, however, begins to feel smaller the longer you remain in it, the earlier quiet now replaced with something that presses in rather than comforts. Too many thoughts. Too many emotions layered too closely together.
You glance toward the door. “Come with me,” you say after a moment, your tone light but purposeful. “I think I need… a little more space than this.”
They follow without question.
You step out into the corridor once more, the movement of the castle continuing around you, though this time it feels different, less suffocating with familiar faces beside you. The halls stretch ahead, and you guide them through without thinking, your pace unhurried now, your steps leading not toward anything specific, but simply away.
Away from the stillness. Away from the weight.
PJ is in your arms before you even realise it has happened, his small form settling easily against you as though it is the most natural thing in the world. You hold him without hesitation, one arm supporting him as you walk, your hand resting lightly against his back. He seems entirely content there, his earlier mischief replaced with something quieter, something that lingers in the way he leans into you.
It steadies you.
Kayleigh walks beside you, her presence easy, though her attention shifts toward you more fully as the silence stretches just long enough to invite something deeper. “So,” she says after a moment, her tone careful but curious, “what exactly has been happening here?”
You let out a small breath at that. Because there is only one place to begin. “He came back,” you say.
Kayleigh’s steps falter slightly. “What?”
You glance at her, the faintest hint of disbelief still lingering in your own expression as though saying it aloud has not made it any more real.
“Mingi,” you continue. “He’s here.”
That is enough.
Kayleigh stops entirely for a second, her eyes widening just slightly before she lets out a quiet breath, something caught between surprise and something that almost resembles understanding. “You’re serious.”
You nod. “He just… appeared,” you say, your voice softening, though the memory of it is still sharp. “In the gardens. I didn’t even know he was back, let alone here.”
Kayleigh shakes her head faintly, a small, disbelieving laugh leaving her. “That doesn’t surprise me,” she admits, though there is no judgment in it, only a quiet recognition of something she had perhaps already suspected.
You glance at her. “It doesn’t?”
She exhales, her gaze dropping briefly before lifting again. “He wasn’t right at the encampment,” she says, her voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “I could tell something was… off. He was there, but not really there.”
Her eyes flick toward you meaningfully. “I didn’t know it was this,” she adds. “But I knew it was something.”
The words settle. You look ahead again, your grip on PJ tightening just slightly, not out of tension, but out of something that feels grounding, something that reminds you that this moment is real, that you are not standing alone in it.
Nalia remains quiet as she walks with you, though her gaze shifts occasionally, taking in the castle, the structure, the movement, everything with a quiet attentiveness that suggests she is absorbing more than she is showing.
The four of you move together through the halls, the space opening around you as you walk, and for a brief moment, despite everything that waits ahead, it feels almost… normal.
The corridors open wider as you continue through them, the quiet of your chambers giving way once more to the steady movement of the castle. Servants pass with purpose, carrying fabrics, trays, arrangements of flowers that fill the air with soft fragrance as they move by. The world continues, unchanged on the surface, despite everything that now sits just beneath it.
You round a corner and Nalia collides lightly with someone coming the opposite way.
It is not forceful, not enough to unbalance either of them, but enough to halt both in their steps, the moment catching just long enough to draw attention.
“My apologies,” the voice comes immediately, calm and reflexive, the words offered before the situation has even fully settled.
Aurelian. He steps back slightly, giving space, his gaze lifting as he prepares to continue and then he pauses.
Because he sees you. And then… The others.
His expression shifts, not dramatically, but enough to show the flicker of surprise that follows, his composure adjusting once more as he takes in the unfamiliar faces now gathered around you.
“I seem to be encountering more unexpected developments today than usual,” he says lightly, the faintest hint of humour threading through his tone as his gaze moves between Kayleigh, PJ nestled in your arms, and finally settling on Nalia.
There is a brief pause there. Subtle. But noticeable.
You step forward slightly, bridging the moment before it lingers too long. “Aurelian,” you say, your voice soft but steady, “these are my friends. Kayleigh… PJ… and Nalia.”
Kayleigh offers a small nod, her posture easy despite the setting, while PJ simply lifts a hand in something that resembles a cheerful acknowledgement, still entirely comfortable where he rests against you.
Nalia inclines her head slightly, her expression composed, though her gaze meets Aurelian’s directly, unflinching in a way that feels deliberate rather than bold. “It’s a pleasure,” she says, her voice smooth, measured.
Aurelian returns the gesture with equal composure, though the faint trace of curiosity in his expression has not entirely faded. “The pleasure is mine,” he replies.
Then, with the faintest shift in tone, something lighter, something closer to ease than before “Though I must admit, this is quite the gathering,” he adds, a small, almost amused breath following. “More unexpected guests.”
The corner of your lips lifts slightly at that. “Well,” you reply gently, “I was hoping they might stay.”
There is no hesitation. “They are more than welcome,” Aurelian says immediately, his voice steady, certain in a way that does not need to be questioned. “It is your wedding as much as it is mine.”
The words are simple. But they carry something deeper.
You feel it. And you nod, something soft settling in your chest at the ease of his answer.
His gaze shifts again. Back to Nalia.
There is something in the way he looks at her now - not intrusive, not overly curious, but drawn in a way that is difficult to ignore. It is subtle, held carefully within the composure he carries so naturally, but present all the same.
Nalia does not look away. If anything, her attention sharpens slightly, meeting his in a way that feels equally intentional, equally aware.
The moment stretches just long enough to be noticed. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. But… something. Something that lingers.
You glance at Kayleigh. She has already noticed. Of course she has. Her lips curve faintly, a knowing smile that she does not attempt to hide, her eyes flicking between the two of them before settling back on you. You return it. Just as quietly. Just as knowing.
Because even here, even now, some things are impossible to miss.
For a moment, the air settles into something unexpectedly light.
Aurelian’s gaze lingers just a fraction longer than necessary before he seems to catch himself, the composure returning to him as naturally as breath. He clears his throat softly, though there is no discomfort in it- only a quiet shift back into something more measured.
“If you do not mind,” he says, his tone even, though softened slightly now, “I find myself with a rare moment of free time. May I join you?”
There is no hesitation. “Of course,” you answer first, the warmth in your voice coming easily now, the earlier tension fading just enough to allow something gentler to take its place.
Kayleigh nods almost immediately, a small smile tugging at her lips, while Nalia inclines her head once more in quiet agreement. Even PJ lifts a hand in what could only be described as an enthusiastic acceptance.
Aurelian allows himself a faint smile at that. “Then I will consider myself fortunate,” he says lightly.
And so, you continue.
The five of you move together through the castle, the space opening around you in a way that feels different now- not empty, not suffocating, but shared. The corridors seem less rigid, the structure of them softened by the quiet presence of those beside you.
Conversation comes slowly at first. Not forced. Just… finding its place.
Kayleigh fills the space easily, as she always does, her tone lighter now that the urgency has passed, though still threaded with her usual sharp observations. She gestures as she speaks, recounting small moments from the encampment, pieces of time that feel distant from where you stand now, yet still close enough to understand.
PJ remains in your arms, though not entirely still, shifting occasionally, his small hands moving as though he is adding his own silent commentary to the conversation, his expressions animated enough to carry meaning even without words.
Mr Bramble would have fit perfectly here. The thought flickers briefly, though it does not linger long.
Aurelian listens more than he speaks at first, though when he does, it is with that same quiet precision, his words measured but never distant. There is a warmth in it now, something that had not been present earlier, something that has returned despite everything.
And then, Nalia speaks. Not often. But when she does, it draws attention. There is something about her voice, something calm and grounded, that cuts cleanly through the movement of conversation, her words thoughtful in a way that invites response rather than demands it.
Aurelian notices. Of course he does.
Their exchanges begin subtly, small at first- brief comments, quiet responses that pass between them without interrupting the flow of the group. Yet with each passing moment, it becomes more apparent that something has shifted, something has found its place without either of them needing to acknowledge it directly.
They are different. Completely.
Aurelian, shaped by structure, by duty, by the careful balance of leadership.
Nalia, untouched by it, her presence guided by something more instinctive, more fluid, though no less controlled.
And yet, they meet in the middle. In the space where curiosity replaces caution.
“Valemere is… warmer than I expected,” Nalia says at one point, her gaze lifting slightly as though feeling the air itself.
Aurelian lets out a soft breath, something close to amusement. “It is warmer than it should be,” he replies. “Even for us.”
Her eyes shift to him at that. “You noticed it too.” It is not a question.
Aurelian inclines his head slightly. “I make it a point to notice what does not align.” There is something in the exchange.
Something quiet. But present. You see it. Kayleigh sees it too.
The brief glance she gives you says enough, her expression softening into something knowing, something that does not need to be spoken aloud.
Time moves. Faster than before.
The light shifts gradually through the windows, stretching longer across the floors as the day begins to lean toward its end. The castle continues its quiet hum around you, though it feels distant now, secondary to the small world that has formed between you all.
Eventually, it slows.
The conversation fades naturally, not because there is nothing left to say, but because the day has caught up to you all at once.
Aurelian is the first to step back.
“There is still much to be done,” he says, though his tone is not heavy, not burdened, only acknowledging what waits beyond this moment.
You nod. You all do.
Kayleigh exhales softly, stretching slightly as though only now realising how much time has passed. “I suppose we should let you prepare for your grand day,” she says, her tone lighter again, though her gaze lingers on you just a moment longer.
You hesitate. Just briefly. Before nodding.
Aurelian gestures toward one of the side corridors, already prepared. “There are rooms available,” he says, his attention shifting to Kayleigh, to Nalia, to PJ. “You will be shown to them.”
A servant appears almost immediately, as though waiting for the cue, bowing slightly before stepping forward to guide them. Kayleigh steps closer to you for a moment, her hand brushing lightly against your arm, grounding.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says softly.
You nod. “Tomorrow.”
PJ lifts his hand again, offering a small, enthusiastic wave before settling back into Kayleigh’s arms as she takes him from you, while Nalia offers one final, composed incline of her head.
Aurelian’s gaze flickers briefly to her once more. It does not linger. But it does not need to.
Then, they are gone. The corridor feels quieter again. Not empty. But different.
And as you stand there, the echoes of their presence still lingering in the air, the weight of tomorrow settles just a little heavier in your chest. Because now, there is nothing left to prepare for.
The corridor settles into quiet once more after the others disappear from view, their footsteps fading into the distance until there is nothing left but the soft hush of the castle around you.
You remain where you are for a moment.
Aurelian stands beside you, his posture composed as always, though there is a subtle shift in him now, something less guarded than before, something that lingers quietly beneath the surface after everything that has passed.
You glance at him. “Nalia seems… nice,” you say, your tone light, though there is something deliberate in it, something just pointed enough to carry more than the words alone. Your gaze lingers on him for a fraction longer, the faintest curve of a knowing look settling into your expression.
He notices. And for the briefest moment, he falters. It is subtle, almost imperceptible, but it is there. The steady composure he carries so effortlessly shifts just slightly, his attention flickering away before returning, as though caught off guard by something he had not expected to be acknowledged.
“I–” he begins, his voice catching just enough to betray the shift, “I did not mean to–”
You stop him gently. A small shake of your head, a soft lift of your hand, enough to interrupt without dismissing him entirely. “It’s okay,” you say, your voice quieter now, though warm in a way that feels entirely genuine. “More than okay.”
He stills.
Your gaze softens slightly as you look at him, something more thoughtful settling into your expression. “You deserve happiness," you continue, the words coming slowly, deliberately, as though you need him to understand them fully. “More than anyone I know.”
There is no pity in it. No sadness. Just the truth. A quiet encouragement.
“If there’s something there…” you add, the faintest hint of a smile touching your lips now, something softer than before, “you should follow it.” You hold his gaze as you say it. Not pushing. Not expecting. Just offering.
For a moment, he does not respond. Not because he does not know what to say, but because the words seem to settle deeper than he had anticipated. His expression shifts again, though this time it softens, something quieter taking its place, something that feels almost unfamiliar on him.
Then, he smiles. It is small. But real. “Perhaps,” he says, his voice steadier now, though still touched by something lighter than before. He does not say more. He does not need to.
Instead, he exhales softly, the moment easing into something simpler, something easier to carry. “You should rest,” he adds after a moment, his tone returning gently to something more grounded, more practical, though the softness remains. “Tomorrow will come quickly.”
You nod. “I know.” The silence that follows is not uncomfortable. It is quiet in a way that feels complete.
You step closer. The movement is natural, unforced, and when you reach him, your arms lift just slightly, offering something small, something simple. He accepts it. The embrace is brief. Not lingering. But warm. A quiet acknowledgment of everything that has been said without needing to speak it again.
When you pull back, there is no tension in it. Only understanding.
“Goodnight, Aurelian,” you say softly.
“Goodnight,” he replies, his voice just as quiet.
You hold his gaze for a moment longer. Then you turn. And this time, you walk in opposite directions.
It breaks over the castle in a rush of movement, of voices, of footsteps that echo through every corridor before the light has even fully settled across the stone. The stillness of the night is swept away almost instantly, replaced by a current of urgency that runs through the entire place, pulling everyone into it whether they are ready or not.
Doors open and close in quick succession, the soft hush of fabric and the sharper clatter of trays carried through the halls. Maids move swiftly between rooms, arms filled with flowers and ribbons, their hands already working as they walk, weaving decorations into place with practiced ease. Garlands are draped along bannisters, their colours bright against the pale stone, while lengths of silk are tied carefully around pillars, catching the early light as it spills through the high windows.
The scent of fresh blooms fills the air. Roses. Jasmine. Something sweeter beneath it all. It follows every step.
Further in, the kitchens are alive.
Heat spills out into the corridors, carrying with it the rich, comforting smell of bread still warm from the ovens, of sugar melting into glaze, of spices carefully measured and stirred into dishes that will never be tasted this early, yet prepared with the same care all the same. Bakers move with flour-dusted hands, trays sliding in and out of ovens in quick rhythm, while chefs call instructions across the room, their voices overlapping in a way that somehow still makes sense.
Outside, more arrive.
Carts roll through the courtyard, wheels grinding softly against stone as they are guided into place. Crates are lifted, fabrics covered and carried inside, the scale of it all becoming clearer with every passing moment.
Everything is readying. Everything is building. And at the centre of it- You.
Your chambers feel different this morning.
Quieter than the rest of the castle, but not untouched by the movement beyond the walls. The energy reaches you even here, threading through the air, settling into the way your breath feels just slightly too shallow, just slightly too aware.
You stand before the mirror. The dress has already been placed upon you.
It feels heavier than anything you have worn before, though not in a way that burdens, but in a way that reminds you of its presence with every small shift you make. Layers of soft fabric fall around you, each one catching the light differently, subtle details revealing themselves the longer you look- delicate stitching along the bodice, fine patterns woven into the skirts, threads that shimmer faintly as you move.
Your reflection feels… distant. Not unfamiliar. Just… different.
Hands move around you again, though slower now, more careful. Final touches. Nothing left to change, only to perfect. “Just a little here,” one of the maids murmurs, her fingers adjusting a loose strand of hair, smoothing it back into place with gentle precision.
Another steps closer, fastening the final piece of jewellery at your throat, the cool touch of it settling against your skin before warming slightly, becoming part of you. “There,” she says softly, stepping back just enough to take in the full picture. “Perfect.”
The word lingers. You do not respond immediately.
Your gaze remains on your reflection, taking in every detail as though trying to memorise it, as though this version of you exists only in this moment and will not be seen again quite like this.
Behind you, the room continues its quiet movement, though it is more subdued now, the earlier rush giving way to something more focused, more deliberate.
“It won’t be long,” another maid says gently, her voice careful not to disturb the stillness that has settled. “They are preparing the final arrangements now.”
You nod. Your hands rest lightly at your sides, fingers brushing faintly against the fabric of your dress, grounding yourself in something real as the anticipation builds quietly in your chest.
Waiting. That is all that is left now. Waiting for the signal. Waiting for the moment when everything shifts from preparation to reality.
Outside, the castle continues to move, the sound of it rising and falling like a tide that refuses to settle.
And you stand at the centre of it all. Poised. Ready. Just waiting for the word.
Time stretches in a way that feels almost unnatural.
What should have been minutes feels like something far longer, each second folding into the next until it becomes difficult to measure how much of it has truly passed. The quiet of your chambers, once a welcome reprieve, now presses in around you, amplifying every small sound, every distant movement echoing through the walls as though reminding you that the world beyond this room has already begun without you.
You remain still. Collected, waiting. Until- A knock. Soft, but firm enough to break the moment cleanly in two.
“Your Highness.” The voice follows, steady, respectful, carrying with it the weight of something final. “It is time.”
Your breath catches. Not sharply. But enough.
The words settle into your chest, heavier than anything that has come before them, because they do not ask anything of you- they simply tell you that everything is ready, that there is nothing left to prepare, nothing left to delay.
It has begun.
You lower your gaze for just a moment, your hands smoothing lightly over the fabric of your dress, grounding yourself in the feel of it, in something real, something steady.
Everything is ready. Which means- Everyone is already there.
The grand hall will be full. Every seat taken. Every eye waiting. Watching.
And among them- Your thoughts shift before you can stop them.
Mingi.
The name settles into your mind uninvited, quiet but insistent, threading through everything else you are trying to hold together. You picture him there, somewhere in the crowd, hidden behind the helm once more, standing apart even when surrounded.
Watching. You wonder what he will be thinking.
Whether he will look at you the way he did yesterday, when there had been nothing between you but truth and something far too fragile to survive what comes next. Whether he will see you now and- Will he think you look beautiful?
The thought comes softer. More dangerous. Will he be happy?
No.
Your breath steadies as you lift your gaze again, the flicker of something in your chest quickly pushed aside, tucked away before it can take root.
Not now. You cannot think like that now. There is no space for it.
You rise slowly, the movement careful, deliberate, the weight of the dress shifting with you as you stand, settling into place as though preparing you for what comes next.
The door opens.
Light spills in from the corridor, brighter than the stillness of your room, and with it comes the quiet presence of those waiting to guide you forward.
A guard steps inside. Not just any guard. One of the highest-ranking, his posture straight, his expression composed in a way that reflects the importance of the moment he now carries.
He inclines his head slightly. “Your Highness.”
His arm lifts, offered to you with practiced ease, a gesture that is both formal and steadying, something meant to guide rather than control.
You accept. Your hand rests lightly against his arm, your fingers curling just enough to anchor yourself as he turns, leading you out of the room and into the corridor beyond.
The doors close behind you. And with that- There is no going back.
Each step echoes softly against the stone beneath you, the sound muted by the layers of your dress, by the steady rhythm of the guard beside you. The corridors you have walked countless times now feel unfamiliar, stretched by anticipation, by the quiet knowledge that they are leading you somewhere you cannot return from unchanged.
The castle has shifted. It is quieter here.
Not empty, but expectant, as though everything has been drawn toward one place, leaving these halls in a strange, suspended stillness. The decorations you passed earlier now feel distant, glimpsed only in fragments as you move forward- ribbons tied neatly along the walls, flowers arranged with care, their scent lingering faintly in the air.
Everything is ready. Everything is waiting.
You feel it with every step.
The guard does not speak as he guides you, his pace steady, unwavering, his presence grounding in a way that keeps your own from faltering. His arm remains firm beneath your hand, a quiet anchor as the weight of the moment builds around you.
You finally reach them. The doors. Tall. Grand. Unyielding.
They stand before you like a threshold between two worlds, their carved surfaces catching the light in soft patterns, the detail etched into them more intricate than you have ever truly noticed before. You have seen these doors countless times, passed through them without thought, without pause.
But not like this. Not when everything beyond them has already begun.
The guard slows. Stops. You do the same.
The space feels still again, though this time it is different from before. Not empty. Not quiet in the same way. There is something behind the doors now, something you can almost feel pressing against them, waiting to be revealed.
Your breath comes slower. Deeper. You draw in the fullest breath you have taken all morning, your chest rising as you steady yourself, as you gather everything you need to step forward.
The guard shifts slightly beside you. “Are you ready, Your Highness?”
His voice is low, respectful, though there is something in it that does not quite sit right. Not wrong- just… different. A faint edge you cannot quite place, something that brushes against your awareness for only a moment before slipping away again.
You glance at him briefly. His expression is composed, as it should be, though there is a look in his eyes that lingers just a second too long, something unreadable, something you cannot quite name.
Your nerves. That must be it. Everything feels heightened. Everything feels sharper than it should.
You nod. “Yes.” The word is quiet. But certain.
The guard inclines his head once more, stepping forward as his free hand lifts toward the doors. There is a pause.
Just long enough to feel the weight of it. Then… The doors open.
Light spills through first, bright and warm, flooding the space before you in a rush that makes your breath catch again. And with it, music.
It fills your ears instantly, rich and full, the sound of it wrapping around you as though it has been waiting for this exact moment to begin.
And beyond it… Everything waits.
The sound of the music carries you forward before your feet even begin to move.
It wraps around you, rich and steady, filling the vastness of the hall in a way that feels almost overwhelming at first, as though it is guiding every step you are about to take, as though it knows the rhythm you must follow before you do. The light spills across the polished floor ahead, stretching in long, golden lines that lead directly down the aisle, drawing your gaze forward, pulling you into the moment whether you are ready or not.
You step through the doorway. The change is immediate.
The entire hall rises.
Not slowly, not hesitantly, but all at once, a collective movement that sweeps through the crowd as every person present stands in your presence. The shift of fabric, the quiet scrape of chairs, the soft rustle of bodies turning toward you blends into the music, into the weight of the moment, until it becomes something larger than any single part of it.
Every eye finds you.
You feel it before you fully see it, the attention settling over you like something tangible, something that presses gently but firmly against your shoulders, your spine, your breath. It does not falter. It does not waver. It simply exists, constant and undeniable, as you begin to walk.
The aisle stretches long before you. Longer than it has ever seemed.
Each step is measured, careful, guided by the rhythm of the music and the steady presence of the guard at your side. The fabric of your dress moves with you, soft layers brushing against the floor in quiet harmony, catching the light with every shift, every subtle movement revealing the careful detail woven into it.
Whispers ripple through the hall.
Not loud enough to disrupt the ceremony, not bold enough to be called out, but present all the same, threading between the gathered crowd like a quiet current.
“She looks–”
“Beautiful…”
“Radiant…”
The words reach you in fragments, carried on breath and movement, never fully formed but understood all the same. They follow you as you walk, trailing behind you, surrounding you in a way that feels both distant and impossibly close.
Your gaze lifts. Not searching. Not at first. But taking in what stands before you.
Rows of faces, familiar and unfamiliar, lined with expectation, with admiration, with something that feels almost reverent. The court stands in full attendance, their posture composed, their attention unwavering, while beyond them, the townspeople fill the space with a quieter presence, their expressions softer, but no less engaged in the moment unfolding before them.
Everyone is here. Everyone who matters.
You see them.
Kayleigh stands among them, her expression bright, unguarded in a way that makes something in your chest ease just slightly. She watches you with pride, with warmth, her gaze unwavering as though she is willing you forward with nothing but the strength of it. Beside her, PJ shifts in place, his small form animated, his excitement impossible to hide even without words, while Nalia stands just beyond them, composed but not distant, her eyes following you with a quiet intensity that feels grounding in its own way.
They are here. They are real. And for a moment, that is enough.
Your gaze continues. It moves further. Drawn. Not by intention. But by something that feels inevitable. Toward the back.
Toward the far edge of the hall where the crowd thins just slightly, where the light does not reach as fully, leaving parts of the space touched with shadow rather than gold.
That is where you find him.
Mingi.
He stands apart, not removed entirely, but distant enough to feel separate from everything else unfolding around him. The helm is in place once more, covering everything that might have been seen, everything that had been laid bare only yesterday. There is nothing visible now. No expression. No hint of what sits beneath.
Only stillness. Rigid. Unmoving.
Beside him, Mr. Bramble sits with far more ease, though even he seems quieter here, his usual sharp presence softened slightly by the weight of the moment.
You look at Mingi. Truly look. Searching for something that is no longer there. You cannot see his eyes. You cannot read his face. You cannot know. What he is thinking. What he is feeling. Whether the moment has reached him in the same way it has reached you. Whether he is standing there with the same weight pressing against his chest, the same thoughts threading through his mind.
He gives you nothing. Not a single movement. Not a single shift. And somehow, that makes it harder. Because you will never know.
Not like this. Not now. The distance between you remains. Fixed. Unchanging.
As you continue forward, step by step, carried toward the front of the hall, toward everything that waits there, toward everything that has already been decided.
The music swells around you. The voices fade. And still.. You walk.
The distance closes.
Step by step, the length of the aisle falls behind you until the space that once seemed endless narrows into something immediate, something real. The weight of every gaze softens at the edges as your focus shifts forward, drawn toward the one place where everything converges.
Aurelian.
He stands waiting at the end, exactly where he should be, framed by light and stone and the quiet expectation of the moment. His posture is steady, composed as ever, though there is a softness to him now that had not been there before, something warmer that settles into his expression the moment his eyes meet yours.
He smiles. Not for the room. Not for the ceremony. But for you.
You feel it. That small shift in the air, that quiet grounding that comes with it, something that steadies your steps as you reach him, as the final moments of the walk fall away behind you.
The guard slows, then stops.
Your arm is gently passed from one to the other, the transition smooth, practiced, though it feels far more significant than the movement itself suggests. Aurelian’s hand closes around yours with quiet care, his touch warm, firm enough to reassure without ever holding too tightly.
For a moment, the world seems to narrow. Just the two of you. Just this space.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his voice low, meant only for you, though it carries a sincerity that needs no audience to exist. The words settle softly.
You meet his gaze, the faintest breath catching in your chest before it steadies again, before everything that surrounds you begins to return. Because the moment does not pause. It cannot.
The ceremony begins. A voice rises, calm and commanding, cutting gently through the air without disrupting it.
“Please,” the priest says, his tone measured, practiced in a way that carries both authority and reverence, “be seated.”
The movement follows immediately.
The crowd settles once more, the soft rustle of fabric and the quiet shift of bodies returning to their places blending into the music, which begins to fade, the orchestra lowering itself into a gentle undercurrent rather than a guiding force. The instruments do not stop entirely, but they soften, their presence now something that supports rather than leads.
The hall quiets. Not completely. But enough. Enough that every word spoken from this point onward will be heard.
The priest steps forward, his gaze moving between you and Aurelian, his expression composed, though touched with the significance of the moment he now holds in his hands.
“We gather here today,” he begins, his voice steady, carrying easily through the space without the need to rise, “to witness the union of two lives, two paths brought together by purpose, by duty, and by choice.”
The words settle into the air, filling the space left behind by the music, by the movement, by everything that has led to this moment.
You stand beside Aurelian, your hand still resting in his, the weight of the dress, the room, the eyes, the expectations- all of it present, all of it real. And yet, somewhere beyond it, something else still lingers.
The priest’s voice continues, steady and unwavering as it carries through the hall, weaving words that have been spoken countless times before and yet feel entirely new in this moment. He speaks of unity, of responsibility, of the joining not only of two people, but of two paths that will now move forward as one. His tone is calm, deliberate, allowing each word to settle fully before the next follows, giving the moment the weight it deserves.
You listen.
You stand beside Aurelian, your hand still resting in his, the warmth of his touch grounding in a way that keeps you present, even as your thoughts threaten to drift, even as the enormity of what is happening presses gently but persistently against your chest.
“…and so,” the priest continues, his gaze lifting toward the two of you, “we come to the vows.”
The words shift something in the air. The ceremony tightens. Focus sharpens.
Aurelian’s hand adjusts slightly around yours, not tightening, not restraining, but steadying, as though he understands the weight of this moment just as clearly as you do.
“You may begin,” the priest says softly.
Aurelian does not hesitate. He turns to you fully, his posture still composed, though there is something more open in his expression now, something that does not belong to duty alone.
“My vows are not built on illusion,” he begins, his voice clear, carrying easily without needing to rise, “nor on promises I cannot keep.”
The hall remains silent. Every word is heard.
“I stand before you not as a man untouched by doubt, but as one who understands it, who has faced it, and who chooses to stand here regardless.”
His gaze does not leave yours. “There is much I cannot offer you,” he continues, his tone steady, honest in a way that does not seek to impress, “but what I can give, I will give fully.”
His hand shifts slightly, a subtle movement that anchors the words more firmly. “My loyalty. My protection. My respect.”
The weight of each promise settles between you. “I will not claim what is not freely given, nor will I ever force you into a place that does not feel like your own.”
There is something gentle in that. Something deeply intentional.
“But I will stand beside you,” he adds, quieter now, though no less certain. “Through whatever comes. Not as someone who owns your path, but as someone who walks it with you.”
A brief pause follows. Not empty. But complete.
“That, I vow.”
The words linger. They do not need embellishment. They simply exist.
The priest inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the vow before his gaze shifts to you. “And you?”
The question settles softly. You draw in a breath. It steadies you.
Your gaze lifts fully to Aurelian, meeting his with the same quiet certainty, though the weight in your chest feels different, layered with everything that has led to this moment, everything that exists just beyond it.
“I stand here knowing that this path was not one I chose freely at the start,” you begin, your voice calm, though threaded with something deeper, something more honest than expected.
A faint ripple moves through the room. But you continue.
“And yet… I choose it now.” The words are deliberate. Clear.
“I choose to stand beside you,” you say, your voice softening slightly, though it does not waver, “not because I am told to, but because I understand what you have offered, and what you have not demanded.” Your hand shifts just slightly within his.
“You have given me space where others would have taken it, and for that… I will not meet you with less.” There is a quiet strength in your tone now.
“I will be honest with you,” you continue. “Even when it is difficult. I will stand with you when the weight of this crown feels too heavy to carry alone.”
The words settle deeper now.
“I will not promise perfection,” you add, a faint breath leaving you, though your gaze remains steady. “But I will promise truth.”
A small pause follows. And then… “I will walk this path with you,” you finish softly. “As your partner. As your equal.”
The silence that follows is heavier than before. Not uncomfortable. But full.
The priest nods once more, satisfied, the ceremony moving forward without hesitation. “Then let the symbols of this union be brought forth.”
A small cushion is presented, held carefully as the rings are revealed- simple, elegant, their design refined rather than ornate, their meaning carried in what they represent rather than how they appear.
Aurelian takes one first. His movements are steady, precise as he lifts your hand, his fingers warm against yours as he slides the ring into place. “With this ring,” he says quietly, “I honour the vow I have made.”
You follow. Your hands do not tremble as you take the second ring, though the weight of the moment presses more firmly now as you guide it onto his hand, your voice just as steady.
“With this ring, I honour mine.”
The priest steps forward once more, his presence reclaiming the centre of the moment. “Then by the authority vested in me,” he declares, his voice carrying through the hall with renewed strength, “I pronounce you King and Queen of Valemere.”
The words echo. Settle. Become real. A shift moves through the crowd, quiet but undeniable, the significance of it rippling outward in a way that cannot be undone.
The priest turns to Aurelian, the faintest hint of a smile touching his expression. “You may seal this union.”
The meaning is clear. The space holds its breath. And you are prompted to kiss.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
The words still linger in the air, the weight of them settling over the hall, over the gathered crowd, over the space between you. The expectation is clear, unspoken but understood by every person watching, by every breath held in quiet anticipation.
Aurelian looks at you. Not as a king. Not as a figure before his people. But as himself.
There is a flicker of something in his gaze, something careful, something that asks without asking, that waits rather than takes.
You meet it. And for a second, the world narrows again, the noise, the presence of everyone around you fading just enough to leave only this moment, suspended and fragile.
You give the smallest nod. It is subtle. But it is enough.
He understands.
He leans in slowly, his movement deliberate, his hand remaining steady around yours as the distance closes. You follow, your breath soft, your focus fixed on the simplicity of what this is meant to be.
The kiss is brief. Soft.
Measured in a way that honours the moment without claiming more than what has been given. It lingers only for a second before it ends, the space between you returning just as quickly, the world rushing back in around you with all its sound and presence.
The hall breathes again. A murmur rises, quiet but filled with approval, with celebration, with the confirmation of something now complete.
But beyond it- at the far edge of the room… He watches.
Mingi stands exactly where he had been before, unmoving, untouched by the shift that has just passed through the hall. From the outside, there is nothing to betray him, nothing to suggest that anything within him has changed.
The helm conceals everything. Every thought. Every fracture. Every break. But beneath it– Something shatters.
The moment plays over and over in his mind, the image of it refusing to settle, refusing to soften, cutting deeper with every passing second. The vows. The ring. The way she had looked at him, not with resistance, not with hesitation, but with something that felt… accepting.
Final.
He had known this would happen. He had stood there knowing.
And still- It does not lessen the weight of it. It does not prepare him for the way it feels.
For the way something in his chest tightens until it is almost unbearable, until breathing itself feels like effort, until the space around him seems too small to hold what sits inside him.
He has lost her. The thought comes quietly. But it is absolute.
Beneath the helm, unseen, unnoticed, a tear slips free. It traces slowly down his skin, warm against something that feels suddenly too cold, too empty.
No one sees it. No one knows.
And no one ever will.
The moment does not have time to settle.
The quiet approval of the hall, the soft murmur of voices rising in celebration, the fragile sense of completion that had only just begun to take shape- It is torn apart.
The grand doors slam open.
The sound is deafening, echoing violently through the vast space, the impact reverberating off stone and glass and every polished surface until it feels as though the entire hall has been struck. The music cuts abruptly, instruments falling silent mid-note, the final sound lingering in the air like something broken.
Every head turns. Every body stills.
And then.. They pour in.
Men.
Dozens of them.
They move fast, too fast for the guards at the entrance to react in time, their formation tight, their purpose clear in the way they spread into the hall without hesitation. Steel flashes in the light, blades drawn and ready, the sound of boots striking the floor sharp and relentless as they advance.
They are not dressed as soldiers of Valemere.
Their clothing is darker, harsher, designed for movement rather than ceremony- but there is one detail that binds them together unmistakably.
A symbol. Embroidered into their garments. Bold. Unhidden. Recognisable.
Edrea.
The sight of it sends a ripple through the hall, not of confusion, but of recognition, of something far more dangerous settling into the air all at once. Gasps break from the crowd, whispers turning to fear as the reality of what is happening begins to take hold.
This is not an intrusion. This is an attack.
One of them steps forward. He moves with confidence, with a calm that feels almost cruel in the chaos that is beginning to unfold around him. His gaze lifts, scanning the room, finding exactly what he is looking for without effort.
You.
A slow smile spreads across his face. Mocking. Satisfied.
“My lady sends her regards,” he calls, his voice cutting cleanly through the rising panic, loud enough to command attention, to demand it. His eyes do not leave you.
“A wedding gift,” he continues, the words laced with something that borders on amusement, “for her dear sister.”
The meaning lands before the words have fully settled. Your breath catches.
And then suddenly, everything breaks.
Screams erupt from the crowd as the men surge forward, their movement no longer controlled, no longer measured. They spread through the hall like a storm, cutting through the gathered guests, striking down anyone who dares to stand in their way.
Guards rush in response, weapons drawn, their formation breaking apart as they try to intercept, to contain, but it is too sudden, too overwhelming.
Steel meets steel. The sound of it rings through the hall. Clashing. Shouting. Chaos.
People scatter, the once orderly rows dissolving into panic as bodies push past one another, desperate to escape, to find safety where there is none. The decorations that had been placed so carefully are torn aside, flowers crushed beneath hurried steps, ribbons pulled loose as the space is overtaken by something violent and unforgiving.
Aurelian moves instantly.
His hand finds yours again, tighter this time, no longer gentle but urgent, his composure shifting into something sharper, something driven by instinct rather than ceremony.
“Stay with me,” he says, his voice firm, cutting through the noise, through the fear.
Guards close in around you, forming what little protection they can as the attackers push forward, their focus narrowing, their movements beginning to align with a single, unmistakable goal.
You.
They are not here for the crowd. They are not here for the kingdom. They are here for you. And they are not slowing down.
The moment fractures completely. There is no space left for ceremony, no place for stillness, no time to think beyond what must be done. The hall that had been filled with light and music is overtaken in seconds, the air turning sharp with the clash of steel and the cries of those caught in the chaos.
Mingi moves before the thought has time to form.
The sword is in his hand almost instantly, drawn in one clean motion that feels as natural as breathing. The helm hides his face, conceals whatever remains of the man who had stood there only moments ago, leaving behind something far more dangerous in its place.
A fighter. A protector.
The first attacker reaches him too quickly, blade raised, intent clear- but Mingi is faster. Steel meets steel with a sharp crack that cuts through the noise, the force of it sending the man stumbling back before he can recover. Mingi does not hesitate. He steps forward, closing the distance, his movements precise, controlled, ending the threat before it has the chance to become anything more.
There is no pause.
No time to take in what he has done, or who he had killed. Because there are more.
They come at him from both sides, their movements coordinated, trained, but it does not matter. He meets them head-on, his body shifting with instinct rather than thought, each strike deliberate, each movement driven by something deeper than skill alone.
Around him, the chaos spreads.
Mr. Bramble does not stay. The fox darts through the confusion with sharp, purposeful movement, weaving between fallen petals and scattered guests, his small form slipping through spaces no one else can take.
“Kayleigh!” he calls, his voice cutting through the panic, sharp and commanding despite his size.
She turns instantly. So does Nalia. PJ clings to her, his small hands gripping tightly as she moves toward the sound without hesitation.
“This way,” Bramble urges, already turning, already moving. “Now.” There is no question. No hesitation. They trust him. They follow.
Kayleigh gathers PJ closer as they run, her steps quick, her breath steady despite the urgency, while Nalia moves beside her with a different kind of grace, her awareness sharp, her attention flicking constantly to their surroundings as she ensures nothing reaches them unnoticed.
Together, they disappear into the corridors beyond the hall, leaving the chaos behind. Mingi does not see them go. He cannot. Because he is surrounded.
Blades flash toward him from every angle, the attackers pressing forward with relentless force, their numbers overwhelming, their focus unwavering. He meets them with equal intensity, his movements sharper now, less restrained, driven by something that burns beneath the surface.
But even in the middle of it- He looks. Between strikes. Between breaths.
His gaze searches the hall, cutting through the movement, through the bodies, through the shifting lines of guards and attackers alike.
Looking for her. Needing to see. Needing to know- And he finds her. At the front of the hall.
Aurelian has her.
The king’s hand is firm around hers, pulling her back, guiding her away from the centre of the chaos with urgency that leaves no room for hesitation. Guards surround them, moving with purpose, creating a path, a barrier, whatever they can manage as they begin to retreat.
She is not alone. She is not exposed. She is.. Safe.
The realisation hits him with a force that nearly unbalances him, the tension in his chest loosening just enough to let a breath pass through, something sharp and unsteady that he had not realised he had been holding.
It eases him. Only slightly. Only enough.
Because once that fear fades, something else takes its place. Stronger, hotter.
Rage.
It rises quickly, flooding through him in a way that leaves no space for anything else, burning through the last remnants of restraint, of hesitation, of anything that might have held him back before.
How dare they.
The thought cuts through him with clarity, with a sharpness that fuels every movement that follows.
How dare they ruin this. Her day. Her moment.
Not his princess. Not here. Not now. Not on his watch.
His grip tightens around his sword. And he steps forward again. This time- with nothing holding him back.
Not as clearly as it had in the hall, not as deafening, but still there, carried through the stone in muffled echoes that chase them down the corridors. The clash of steel, the distant shouts, the rising panic of a kingdom thrown into chaos all bleed into the space behind them, pressing forward even as they run.
Aurelian does not slow.
His grip around your hand is firm, steady, pulling you along the narrow back halls with a pace that leaves no room for hesitation. The polished floors give way to simpler stone, the grandeur of the main corridors replaced with passages built for movement rather than ceremony, their turns tighter, their light dimmer.
You struggle to keep up at first. The dress was not made for this. The weight of it pulls at your legs, the fabric catching slightly with every hurried step, forcing you to gather it instinctively as you move, your breath coming faster now, sharper in your chest.
“Aurelian–” you start, though the word barely forms before you are pulled forward again.
“We need to keep moving,” he says, his voice controlled but urgent, cutting through the panic that threatens to rise in your throat.
There is no time to question. No time to stop.
The guards are gone. You had seen it- the moment they broke away, turning back toward the hall, toward the fight, their duty shifting in an instant. They had not hesitated. Not even for you.
The people must be protected. The kingdom must stand. And so now- It is just the two of you.
The reality of it settles quickly. Too quickly.
The corridors feel longer without them, the space more exposed, every turn carrying the possibility of something waiting just beyond it. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, loud enough to almost drown out everything else, your senses stretched thin as you try to keep track of where you are, of where he is leading you.
Aurelian’s focus does not waver. He knows these halls. Better than anyone.
“This way,” he says, his grip tightening slightly as he pulls you around another corner, his movements sharp, decisive, his gaze flicking ahead before each step as though mapping the path before you even reach it.
Your breath stutters. The air feels tighter here, the stone walls closer, the warmth from earlier replaced with something cooler, something that does nothing to ease the tension pressing into your chest.
“They were wearing her crest,” you manage, your voice uneven despite your effort to steady it. “Edrea’s-”
“I know.” The words are immediate. Short. But not abrupt. There is something beneath them. Something heavier.
He does not look back at you when he speaks, his attention fixed ahead, his jaw set in a way that suggests he is already thinking beyond this moment, beyond the chaos, toward what it means. “This was planned,” he continues, his tone lower now, more controlled despite the urgency of your movement. “She knew exactly when to strike.”
The thought settles cold. Because of course she did. Your grip tightens slightly against his arm, the reality of it catching up all at once, the weight of what this means, of what she intended. Of what she still intends.
“We just need to get you somewhere secure,” he says, his voice softening just slightly, though it does not lose its firmness. “Somewhere they cannot reach you.”
You nod, even though he cannot see it, even though the motion is more for yourself than for him.
Another turn. Another stretch of corridor. The sound behind you shifts, growing louder for a moment before fading again, as though the chaos is spreading, moving through the castle just as quickly as you are.
You glance back. Only briefly. The hallway behind you is empty. But it does not feel safe. It does not feel like enough. Your heart does not slow. Not even for a second. Because for the first time since this began- You are not surrounded. You are not protected. You are running. And it is just the two of you. Alone.
The corridor twists again, narrowing further as the light begins to fade into something colder, something dimmer the deeper you are led. The air changes with it, losing the warmth of the upper halls, replaced by a chill that settles against your skin and seeps slowly through the layers of your dress.
You tighten your hold on the fabric as you run, your breath uneven but steady enough to keep moving.
“Aurelian—wait,” you manage, your voice catching slightly as you try to match his pace. “We can’t just keep running.”
He doesn’t slow immediately, his focus still fixed ahead, but you feel the hesitation in the way his grip shifts just slightly.
“They’re looking for me,” you continue, pushing the words out between breaths. “If they find us like this—unarmed—”
That is enough.
He slows then, not fully stopping, but enough to glance back at you, his expression sharp with understanding.
“You’re right,” he says, his voice low, controlled despite the urgency still pressing around you. “We need something.”
“Anything,” you add quickly. “Even a dagger.”
Aurelian nods once, the decision settling into place almost instantly.
“There’s an armoury below,” he says, already turning, already guiding you down a different corridor, one less used, one that dips lower into the castle’s foundation. “The guards keep reserve weapons there. It won’t be far.”
You follow without question.
The descent is immediate.
Stone steps replace smooth flooring, worn slightly from years of use, spiralling downward into the darker parts of the castle. The air grows colder with every step, biting at your lungs as you move, your breath now visible in faint clouds that disappear almost as quickly as they form.
The sounds of the chaos above become more distant here, muffled by layers of stone, though not entirely gone. You can still feel it—like a pulse, like something alive and spreading.
You reach the bottom.
The space opens into something broader, though no less oppressive, the walls lined with racks of weapons, their metal catching what little light reaches this place. Torches burn low along the stone, their flames flickering just enough to cast shifting shadows across blades, across polished hilts, across everything waiting to be used.
It is cold.
Sharp.
Unforgiving.
Aurelian releases your hand at last, stepping forward as he scans the room quickly, his movements efficient, practiced in a way that makes it clear this is not unfamiliar ground to him.
“Take what you can carry,” he says, already reaching for a blade, testing its weight in his hand before passing another toward you.
You take it.
The dagger feels strange at first, lighter than expected, though the balance settles quickly in your grip, something familiar enough to ground you.
But you don’t stop there.
Your gaze shifts.
To the far wall.
Where something else rests.
A bow.
Your steps move without hesitation, your fingers reaching for it, lifting it from its place with a familiarity that feels almost instinctive. The wood is smooth beneath your touch, worn just enough to feel real, to feel used.
Aurelian notices.
You feel his gaze before he speaks.
“I didn’t know you could use that,” he says, his voice quieter now, though threaded with something that almost resembles surprise.
You glance back at him, adjusting the bow against your back as you reach for a quiver, securing it in place with practiced ease.
“I’ve been practicing since I was a child,” you reply, your tone steadier now, more grounded than it had been moments before. “Not exactly something they encouraged, but… I found ways.”
There is the faintest hint of something in your voice then.
Something almost amused.
“They preferred embroidery,” you add lightly. “I preferred this.”
Aurelian watches you for a second longer, something shifting in his expression, something that feels almost like admiration, though he does not say it outright.
“That might prove useful,” he says instead, his voice returning to something more focused, more aligned with the urgency of the moment.
You nod.
“It will.”
You test the dagger once more in your hand, the weight of it settling into something more natural now, something that no longer feels out of place.
For a brief moment—
You are not the girl in the dress.
Not the queen standing at the altar.
You are something else.
Something ready.
Aurelian steps closer again, his posture straightening as he looks toward the exit, toward the steps that lead back up into the chaos waiting above.
“We don’t stay here,” he says, his tone firm, though not harsh. “We move. We find somewhere more defensible, somewhere we can regroup.”
You nod again, your grip tightening slightly around the dagger, the bow steady at your back.
“Then let’s go.”
The cold of the dungeon clings to you even as you ascend.
Each step back up feels sharper than the last, the chill in your lungs replaced by the warmer, heavier air of the upper halls, though it does nothing to ease the tension coiled tightly in your chest. The dagger remains firm in your grasp, the bow steady against your back, its presence a constant reminder that you are no longer unarmed, no longer entirely vulnerable.
Aurelian stays close behind you. Not crowding.
But near enough that you can feel him there, a steady presence at your back as you move quickly through the corridors, retracing a path that now feels entirely different from when you first ran it. The silence here is deceptive. Too quiet. The distant chaos still hums through the stone, but these halls feel abandoned, emptied too quickly, as though something has swept through and left nothing behind.
“Almost there,” Aurelian says, his voice low, controlled, though it carries urgency beneath it. “There’s a service exit at the end of this corridor. It leads out beyond the outer walls.”
You nod, your pace quickening despite the drag of your dress, your breath uneven but determined as you push forward.
The corridor stretches ahead. Long. Narrow.
Lit only by spaced torches that flicker against the stone, their light casting shadows that shift with every movement, stretching and twisting along the walls in ways that make it difficult to focus on anything beyond what lies directly ahead.
And there, at the end, the door. Heavy. Reinforced. Set slightly into the stone as though meant to remain unseen by those who do not know it is there.
Relief hits quickly. Too quickly. “I see it,” you say, your voice breathless, the words leaving you as you move ahead of him, your steps quickening into something closer to a run.
You reach it before he does. Your hands move immediately, one still holding the dagger as the other reaches for the latch, your fingers fumbling slightly against the cold metal as you try to find the mechanism, to pull it open, to get it moving before anything can catch up to you.
“Hurry-” you start, your voice tight with urgency. The metal resists for a second. Then shifts.
You focus on it. On the lock. On the way your fingers struggle slightly against the unfamiliar mechanism, your attention narrowing entirely to the task at hand.
And because of that-
You miss it.
The movement. Subtle. Hidden just beyond the reach of the nearest torchlight.
In the corner of the corridor, where the shadows gather thicker, where the light does not quite reach… He waits. Still. Silent. Watching.
The symbol stitched into his clothing catches the faintest glint of light, barely visible, barely there- but enough. Enough to betray him.
Aurelian sees it. Before you do.
His entire posture shifts in an instant, the controlled urgency snapping into something sharper, something immediate. “Move–!” The word leaves him quickly, louder than anything he has said since the chaos began, his voice cutting through the space with a force that demands attention.
Your head turns. Too late.
The man steps forward from the shadows, his movement fast, deliberate, his blade already raised as he closes the distance between you in a single, decisive stride.
And Aurelian is already moving.
Everything happens too quickly.
The warning barely leaves Aurelian’s lips before the air itself seems to split apart, the quiet corridor shattering into movement, into violence, into something that does not give you time to think, only to react- and even that comes too late.
The man lunges from the shadows.
His blade catches the torchlight as it arcs downward, a flash of steel cutting through the dimness with brutal precision, aimed directly for you, for the space you occupy, for the life you have no time to protect.
You freeze. Not because you choose to. Because there is no time.
Your fingers are still curled around the latch of the door, your body half-turned, your mind still caught in the act of escape when… Aurelian moves.
Not away. Not back. But forward.
He steps between you and the strike without hesitation, his body placing itself directly in the path of the blade, his arm lifting instinctively though it is not enough to stop what is already falling.
The sword drives into him. The sound is sickening.
A wet, heavy noise that echoes far louder than it should in the narrow corridor, the impact forcing the air from your lungs as though it has struck you too. Steel pierces through fabric, through flesh, through something that was never meant to be broken in this way, the force of it pushing him back a fraction before he steadies himself, his body absorbing the blow meant for you.
For a moment, everything stops. The world narrows. The light flickers.
And all you can see is him.
Your breath tears from your chest in a broken sound, your vision snapping fully into focus as the reality of what has just happened crashes into you all at once.
“Aurelian!” His name leaves you as a scream, sharp and desperate, the sound ripping through the corridor without restraint as your hands reach for him, instinct driving you forward as he staggers, the blade still embedded deep within him.
His body shudders. A horrible, choking sound escapes him, something thick, something wrong, his breath catching unevenly as his chest lifts and falls in a way that does not settle, that does not recover.
Your hands find him. They press against him, grasping at fabric, at anything that feels solid, as though you can hold him together through sheer will alone, as though you can undo what has just been done.
“No- no, no-” the words spill from you without thought, frantic, disbelieving, your voice trembling as your gaze lifts to his face, searching, pleading for something that will tell you this is not real.
But it is. You see it. The pain. The shock. And still- Something else. Something steady. Something that had always been there.
Before you can speak again, before you can even fully process what is happening, your name is shouted.
Loud. Desperate.
“Y/N!”
The sound cuts through everything. Through your panic. Through the ringing in your ears. Through the moment that has trapped you entirely.
Mingi.
He moves faster than you have ever seen him move.
The corridor barely contains him as he closes the distance, his presence crashing into the scene with a force that feels almost violent in itself, his sword already drawn, already in motion before his feet have fully stopped.
The man who struck Aurelian does not have time to react.
Mingi’s blade drives forward in one clean, brutal movement, slicing through the space between them with deadly precision. Steel meets flesh with a sharp, final sound, the edge cutting cleanly through the attacker’s throat before he can even attempt to defend himself.
His body jerks. Staggers. And collapses. The impact of it against the stone echoes hollowly, lifeless, the threat extinguished as quickly as it had appeared.
Silence follows. Not complete. Not peaceful. But stunned. Shattered. The aftermath of something that cannot be undone.
Mingi stands over the fallen man for only a second, his chest rising sharply beneath the armour, his grip tight around his sword, the force of what he has just done still lingering in the tension of his body.
Then, he looks up. And sees you. And everything else fades.
Aurelian’s body gives way.
The strength that had held him upright for those few, impossible seconds falters all at once, his weight collapsing forward as his knees buckle beneath him. The force of it pulls you down with him, your hands still gripping his clothes, still trying to hold him together as though refusing to let him fall will somehow stop what is already happening.
You drop to the floor with him.
The stone is cold beneath your knees, unforgiving, grounding in a way that makes everything feel far too real, far too immediate.
“No- no, no, no! Please!” the words spill from you, broken, desperate, your hands moving instinctively to his wound, pressing down as hard as you can, your fingers trembling as they try to stop something that refuses to be stopped.
Warmth floods beneath your palms. Too much. Too fast.
It seeps through the fabric, through your grip, through everything, the reality of it undeniable as it stains your hands, as it refuses to slow no matter how much pressure you apply.
“Stay with me- please, just- stay with me- ” your voice cracks, your breath hitching between each word, panic unraveling everything you try to hold together.
His head tilts slightly, his body struggling to follow, his breath uneven, wet, each inhale catching against something that no longer works the way it should.
His eyes find you. Glassy. Unfocused at the edges. But still there.
Still him.
“You need to run,” he says, his voice barely holding together, the words dragged from him through something thick, something heavy.
Your head shakes immediately. “No- no, I’m not leaving you, I can’t-”
“You have to,” he cuts in, the strength of it surprising, though it falters almost as quickly as it comes, his breath catching again, his chest stuttering under your hands. Your grip tightens.
“I’m not leaving you,” you repeat, your voice breaking, tears spilling freely now, falling against his face, against your hands, against everything you cannot fix.
His gaze softens. Even now. Even like this.
“I told you…” he begins, his voice quieter now, though still steady in a way that feels almost impossible, “I would protect you, didn’t I?”
Your breath stutters. A broken sound escapes you as your head shakes again, faster now, more frantic, your hands pressing harder as though you can force him to stay.
“You did,” you choke out, your voice trembling, “you did, but not like this- not–”
He exhales slowly. It sounds wrong. Too wet. Too shallow. “I succeeded,” he says softly.
The words land like something final. Like something that has already accepted what you refuse to.
A sob breaks from you then, uncontrollable, your body shaking as the reality of it tears through you, as everything you had just spoken to him, everything you had meant-
“You were supposed to-” your voice falters, your breath catching as the words fight to form, “you were supposed to get your happy ending too-”
His lips part slightly. But the breath that follows is uneven, interrupted by something thicker now, something darker as blood spills forward, catching at the edge of his mouth, staining his words before they can fully form.
Still… He tries.
“You…” he breathes, his voice barely there now, his strength fading with every second that passes, “you have to win.”
Your vision blurs. You nod without meaning to, your tears falling faster, your hands still pressing, still trying, even as your body begins to understand what your mind refuses to accept.
“You have to keep fighting,” he continues, the words fragile, held together by nothing but will.
“I will,” you whisper, your voice breaking around the promise, your head nodding again, desperate, clinging to anything he asks of you. “I will, I promise–”
His gaze lingers on you. Just for a second longer. As though committing it to memory. As though making sure you are still there.
Then, something in it shifts. Fades.
And behind you, arms wrap around you. Firm. Strong.
Mingi.
He pulls you back gently but urgently, his grip steady despite the tension in his body, despite the way everything in him is still coiled from the fight, from what he has just witnessed. “We have to go,” he says, his voice low, rough, the words pressed close to your ear as he holds you, as he tries to pull you away from something that you are not ready to leave.
Your hands resist. They cling. But the warmth beneath them is already slipping. And he knows it. Even if you don’t want to. Even if you never will.
You don’t move.
Not when Mingi’s arms wrap around you. Not when his voice reaches you. Not when the world continues to collapse around you beyond this corridor.
You stay where you are, your hands still pressed against Aurelian’s wound, your fingers trembling as though they can still do something, as though if you just hold on long enough, if you just refuse to let go, you can keep him here.
His breathing is slowing. You feel it. Each rise of his chest weaker than the last, each breath shallower, more fragile, more distant, as though it is slipping further away from you no matter how tightly you try to hold it in place.
“No… no, stay with me,” you whisper, your voice breaking into something barely recognisable, your tears falling freely now, blurring everything in front of you. “Please… please don’t-”
Behind you, Mingi’s grip tightens. Not harsh. Never harsh. But firm enough to remind you he is there.
“Sweetheart…” he murmurs, the word soft, almost hesitant, as though it is something he has never said aloud before, something that carries more meaning than he knows how to handle in this moment.
It reaches you. Somewhere beneath the panic. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.
“We have to go,” he continues, his voice low, careful, every word chosen with a gentleness that feels almost out of place against the violence surrounding you.
You shake your head immediately, your hands pressing harder, your body leaning further over Aurelian as though shielding him, as though refusing to let the moment take him fully.
“No- I can’t- he needs- he-” Your words collapse into sobs, your chest tightening painfully as you try to breathe through it, through the overwhelming weight of everything breaking at once.
Mingi exhales slowly behind you. He knows. He knows this isn’t something you can simply be told. So he moves closer. Carefully. His hand comes forward, resting gently over yours where they press against Aurelian’s wound, his touch warm despite everything, grounding in a way that cuts softly through the chaos.
He doesn’t force your hands away. He just holds them there. With you. For a moment.
“I know,” he says quietly, his voice steady, though there is something in it that betrays him, something heavy, something that understands exactly what you are losing. “I know…”
Your breath stutters, your head shaking again as you look down at Aurelian, searching his face for anything, for any sign that he is still there, that this isn’t what it feels like.
But Mingi’s voice comes again. Softer. More certain.
“Dove…” he murmurs, his hand tightening just slightly over yours, not to restrain, but to steady.
And then, so gently it almost breaks you.. “He’s gone.”
The words don’t feel real. They don’t settle. They don’t make sense.
“No…” you breathe, the denial immediate, desperate, your voice barely more than a broken whisper. “No, he- he can’t-”
But there is no answer. No movement. No breath beneath your hands anymore. Only stillness. And that is what finally breaks you.
A sob tears from your chest, raw and uncontrollable, your body shaking as the reality crashes into you fully, as everything you were holding onto slips through your fingers all at once.
Mingi’s arms tighten around you again. He pulls you back just slightly, not enough to rip you away, but enough to begin the separation, enough to shift you out of the moment you are trying so desperately to stay inside.
“We have to go,” he says again, more firmly this time, though his voice never loses that softness, that care. “They’re still coming.”
You don’t respond. You can’t. Your body remains locked where you are, your hands still reaching, still clinging to something that is no longer there.
Mingi closes his eyes for a fraction of a second. He knows he won’t be able to talk you out of this. Not like this. Not while you’re breaking apart in front of him.
So instead, he moves. Carefully. Gently.
One arm slips beneath your knees, the other supporting your back as he lifts you from the ground, his movements deliberate, steady, making sure he doesn’t hurt you, doesn’t startle you, doesn’t make this moment any harsher than it already is.
You barely register it. Your body folds into him without resistance, your hands clutching weakly at his armour, your tears soaking into the fabric as you sob against him, your voice lost somewhere between grief and disbelief.
He holds you securely. Close. As though shielding you from everything else. As though you are something fragile. Something worth protecting at all costs.
He doesn’t look back. He can’t.
Because if he does, he might not leave either. So instead, he turns.
heyy guys! i’m just finishing the last pieces of chapter 8 of Eyes Beneath the Helm. But it’s looking like it’ll be around 20K words…
would you prefer it as it is, as one big chapter. Or would you prefer i spilt it in half and upload the second half in a few days time (they’ll be no delays as it’s already written). It just means the first half won’t be as interesting but it might be easier to read.
let me know what you think! i’m planning on uploading tonight (im on uk time if anyone’s wondering)
heyy guys! i’m just finishing the last pieces of chapter 8 of Eyes Beneath the Helm. But it’s looking like it’ll be around 20K words…
would you prefer it as it is, as one big chapter. Or would you prefer i spilt it in half and upload the second half in a few days time (they’ll be no delays as it’s already written). It just means the first half won’t be as interesting but it might be easier to read.
let me know what you think! i’m planning on uploading tonight (im on uk time if anyone’s wondering)
Genre: Enemies(?) to lovers, dark fantasy, medieval au, adventure, slowburn, knight x princess, angst, eventual fluff, betrayal
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She fled a kingdom that wanted her blood. He fled a crown he refused to kneel to. Their paths weren't meant to cross... but fate wanted a different story. The kingdom wanted her dead. The knight wanted nothing to do with her. But the moment she saw the eyes beneath his helm... she stopped running from danger, and started running towards him.
The kingdom of Valemere had not known stillness for days.
From the outermost villages to the high walls of the capital, every corner of the land seemed to hum with a kind of restless joy, the air itself alive with anticipation. It was not loud in a chaotic sense, nor unruly, but full - rich with movement, colour, and purpose. The kind of atmosphere that settled into the bones and made even the weariest hands feel lighter as they worked.
It was the week of the wedding.
Banners had been strung across narrow streets and wide market squares alike, their fabrics catching in the wind and rippling in waves of deep gold and soft ivory, the royal colours woven so intricately that they gleamed even beneath the muted light of early spring. Ribbons curled from windowsills and wrapped around wooden posts, draped across balconies and archways in delicate loops that fluttered whenever the breeze threaded its way through the town.
Even the stone seemed brighter.
Lanterns had been hung in careful rows, not yet lit in the daytime, but ready for the evenings when the celebrations would stretch long past sunset. Garlands of dried flowers and fresh greenery wound their way along doorframes, their scents blending into something sweet and grounding, something that clung to the air and followed you wherever you walked.
Below the castle, the villages were alive with preparation.
Bakers had been working since before dawn, their ovens never quite cooling as loaves of bread were pulled out in steady rhythm, their crusts golden and warm, the smell of yeast and sweetness spilling out into the streets. Tables had been set outside their shops, dusted lightly with flour, where hands moved quickly and skilfully, shaping dough, layering cakes, brushing pastries with honey and glaze until they shone.
There was laughter there, soft and easy, woven between conversation and the scrape of trays.
Children lingered nearby, drawn by the scent, their eyes bright as they were handed small pieces of leftover dough or the first imperfect pastries of the day, still warm enough to sting their fingers.
Further along, the steady clang of metal echoed from the blacksmiths’ quarters.
The sound rang out in a constant, grounding rhythm, sharp and precise, striking against the backdrop of distant chatter. Sparks leapt with each blow of the hammer, brief flashes of light that disappeared as quickly as they came, leaving behind the scent of heated iron and the low hum of focused work. Among the tools and weapons that lined the walls, there were smaller pieces laid carefully on cloth-covered surfaces.
Rings.
Not yet finished, but already shaped with care, their surfaces being smoothed and polished with a patience that bordered on reverence. The blacksmiths worked with a different kind of quiet there, their movements slower, more deliberate, as though aware that what they were crafting would outlast them.
Across the square, dressmakers filled every inch of their workshops.
Fabric spilled over tables and chairs, cascades of silk and lace pooling on the floor in soft folds of white, cream, and pale gold. Needles moved in quick, practiced motions, threading in and out of delicate seams, fastening beadwork that caught the light with every shift. Conversations rose and fell around them, voices overlapping in bursts of excitement as final adjustments were discussed, sleeves re-measured, hems re-pinned.
Every detail mattered. Every stitch carried intention. Even those who were not directly involved in the preparations found themselves swept into it.
Farmers brought in fresh produce earlier than usual, carts laden with fruits and vegetables that would be used in the coming feasts. Musicians gathered in corners of the streets, testing melodies that would soon fill the castle halls, their instruments weaving together tentative harmonies that drifted through the air like promises.
There was a sense of unity in it all.
A shared understanding that this was not just a royal event, not something distant and unreachable, but something that belonged to the kingdom as a whole. The celebration extended beyond the castle walls, settling into the lives of those who would never step foot inside its halls, and yet still felt part of something larger.
Above it all, the castle stood.
Its towers rose high against the sky, draped in the same colours that lined the streets below, banners unfurling from its walls in long, elegant streams that moved with the wind. From a distance, it looked almost untouched by the bustle beneath it, still and composed, as though it existed in a different world entirely.
But even there, behind its gates, the same quiet urgency had taken hold. Because the kingdom was preparing.
Within the castle walls, the air feels different.
Quieter than the villages below, yet no less alive. Where the towns spill over with open celebration, the castle holds its energy close, contained within stone corridors and high-arched ceilings. Every footstep echoes with purpose. Every passing servant carries something - fabric, flowers, polished silver - each movement part of a rhythm that never quite stops.
And at the centre of it all, behind tall carved doors, your chambers have become something else entirely.
Sunlight pours through the wide windows, soft and golden as it stretches across the room, catching on glass and silk and the pale sheen of polished stone. Fabrics are draped over chairs and tables in loose cascades, ribbons curling over the edges, veils folded and unfolded and folded again. What was once a place of quiet rest now hums with gentle activity, transformed into something between preparation and sanctuary.
You sit at the centre of it all.
Positioned before a mirror framed in gilded detail, you are surrounded - not crowded, never that - but held within the constant presence of hands and voices that never quite leave you. Your reflection stares back, shifting and changing with every passing moment as your hair is taken apart and remade again and again.
A brush moves slowly through it, each stroke deliberate, smoothing out every strand as one maid works from behind you. Another stands at your side, already separating sections with careful fingers, murmuring ideas under her breath- braids, twists, something woven, something softer. A third lingers close, pins held between her fingers, waiting patiently for her moment to step in.
“Not too tight,” one of them says gently, tilting her head as she studies the shape forming. “If it pulls here, it will look too severe.”
“But if it’s too loose, it will fall before the ceremony even begins,” another replies, already undoing part of the work with careful hands. “She will be standing for hours. Greeting guests. It has to hold.”
“And dancing,” a third adds, her voice light with quiet amusement as she reaches for a ribbon from the table. “You cannot forget the dancing.”
A soft ripple of laughter follows, easy and warm, settling into the room like something familiar.
They move around you with a kind of natural closeness that has long since lost any formality. There are no stiff titles here, no careful distance. Their voices flow freely, weaving between gentle teasing and whispered gossip, as though this moment belongs to all of you, not just to you alone.
“Did you hear about the baker’s son?” one of them says, lowering her voice just enough to invite curiosity, though not enough to truly hide it.
“The one near the lower square?” another answers immediately, a knowing smile already forming. “Do not tell me–”
“He swore he would never marry,” the first continues, eyes bright. “And yet he has been seen every morning this week delivering pastries to the same house.”
A quiet gasp rises, exaggerated but delighted. “No.”
“Yes.”
“To who?”
“That,” she says, leaning in slightly, “is still being discovered.”
The conversation drifts from there, light and effortless, names and stories passing between them like shared secrets. It is not cruel, not sharp in any way that might wound, just the soft rhythm of familiarity, of people who have spent long hours together and found comfort in filling silence with the lives of others.
All the while, your hair is shaped and reshaped.
One moment it is woven into intricate braids, coiling neatly at the nape of your neck, secured with careful precision before being undone again moments later. The next, it is left loose, just half tied up, soft strands falling around your face while the rest is gathered and twisted, pinned into place with delicate touches that glint faintly in the light.
“Hold still,” one of them murmurs, though there is no real reprimand in her voice, only fondness, her fingers brushing lightly along your temple as she adjusts a stray piece.
“I am still,” you reply quietly, the words softened by the faintest hint of a smile.
“Not enough,” she insists, though her touch remains gentle.
Another steps back slightly, tilting her head as she studies your reflection in the mirror. “This one suits you,” she says after a moment, her voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “It’s… softer.”
There is a pause. Subtle, but felt.
The others lean back just enough to see it properly, their earlier chatter easing into something quieter, more careful.
This style is different from the others. Less structured. Less controlled.
Your hair is drawn back just enough to keep it from your face, but the rest is left to fall freely over your shoulders, unbound in a way that feels almost unfamiliar. Almost… vulnerable.
“It looks more like you,” another adds softly.
The room settles around you. The laughter fades into a gentle quiet, the movement slowing just enough to let the moment breathe.
And in the mirror, surrounded by soft light and careful hands, you watch.
You watch the version of yourself they are creating. You watch the way their smiles linger, the way their excitement fills the room so effortlessly, as though nothing could disturb it. You watch… and hold onto it.
As though, somewhere deep down, you already know this moment is something you will forever get to keep.
The conversation does not fade after that. If anything, you lean into it.
“Let me guess,” you say, your voice softer than theirs but carrying easily enough to draw their attention back to you. “It is the girl who lives near the fountain. The one who always buys honey in the mornings.”
Three heads turn toward you at once, eyes widening in quiet delight. “You have been listening,” one of them laughs, pointing lightly in your direction as though she has just proven a point.
“I always listen,” you reply, the faint curve of your smile reflected back at you in the mirror. “You simply assume I do not.”
“Well,” another says, stepping closer as she gathers a section of your hair again, fingers quick and practiced, “you are meant to be thinking of far more important things this week.”
“Am I?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, allowing her to adjust the angle. “Because from what I can tell, this is far more interesting.”
That earns another ripple of laughter, softer this time, warmer. “Then you will be pleased to know,” the first maid continues, lowering her voice again as though the walls themselves might be listening, “that it is her.”
“I knew it,” you murmur, a quiet satisfaction threading through your tone. “He always lingered when she passed his shop.”
“You noticed that?”
“I notice more than you think,” you reply gently.
There is something easy in the way you speak with them. No distance. No weight of expectation pressing between your words. Just the simple rhythm of conversation, of shared moments that exist outside of titles and duties.
For a little while, you are not the princess. You are simply… here.
Their voices weave around you again, drifting from one story to another, each more animated than the last. Hands continue their work without pause, reshaping, adjusting, refining, while the room fills with the quiet comfort of familiarity.
And then - A knock. Soft, but unmistakable.
Everything stills. Not abruptly, not in panic, but in a way that feels instinctive, as though the room itself has drawn a breath and held it.
The maids exchange quick glances, movements suddenly more deliberate as one of them steps toward the door, smoothing her apron as she goes.
When it opens, the shift is immediate. “Your Majesty–”
Their voices soften, their posture straightening just enough to acknowledge his presence without losing themselves entirely.
And then he steps inside. King Aurelian carries himself with a quiet kind of composure, the sort that does not demand attention and yet holds it all the same. There is no sharpness in his expression as his gaze lifts, settling naturally within the room – And then, inevitably, on you.
The reaction around you is instant.
“Oh- wait–”
“She’s not–”
“Just a moment–”
The maids move all at once, a flurry of soft fabric and hurried hands as they gather around you, half-laughing, half-panicked in their attempts to shield you from view. Someone reaches for the nearest piece of cloth, another tries to adjust your hair as though that will somehow make a difference, and somewhere in the middle of it all, a quiet giggle escapes that only makes the situation worse.
You are still in your night gown. Light. Flowing. Entirely unsuited for receiving a king.
And he knows it.
There is the smallest pause as his gaze flickers - just briefly - before he looks away, a faint flush rising along his features that he does not quite manage to hide.
“I apologise,” he says, his voice calm despite it, though there is something almost… amused beneath it. “I did not realise I was interrupting.”
“You are not–” one of the maids begins quickly, already reaching for a robe draped over the back of a chair.
“Yes, you are,” another whispers under her breath, though it is not nearly as quiet as she intends.
The fabric is gathered and placed around your shoulders with careful hands, drawn gently into place and secured as though it were something far more delicate than it is. “There,” one of them says, stepping back just enough to assess their work. “That is better.”
There is a brief moment where no one moves. And then, almost as one, they retreat.
Not rushed, not abrupt, but with a shared understanding that this moment is no longer theirs to occupy. A few lingering smiles are exchanged, a final glance your way, and then they begin to slip out of the room, their earlier energy softening into something quieter as the door closes gently behind them.
Leaving you alone with him. The silence that follows is not uncomfortable. It settles slowly, naturally, as though it has been waiting for this moment.
Aurelian’s gaze returns to you, steadier now, the earlier flush faded but not entirely gone. There is something softer in the way he looks at you - something unguarded, though he does not seem aware of it.
Briefly, he simply takes you in. And then, with the faintest smile, he speaks. “You look beautiful.”
For a moment, you do not quite know where to look.
The words settle over you gently, but they still catch somewhere in your chest, leaving behind a warmth you cannot immediately place. It is not unfamiliar, not entirely, but it is softer than what you expected, softer than what this week has been.
Your fingers move lightly over the fabric of the robe now draped around your shoulders, more out of instinct than necessity, as your gaze dips for just a second before lifting back to him.
“Thank you,” you say, a quiet, almost sheepish smile touching your lips. “They were only… helping me decide what to do with my hair for the wedding.”
There is a small shift in his expression at that. Not surprise, not quite, something closer to fondness, the kind that lingers without needing to be spoken aloud.
“I gathered as much,” Aurelian replies, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. His eyes flick briefly toward where the maids had been only moments ago, as though he can still picture the scene, before returning to you. “Though I must admit, I think they are making this far more complicated than it needs to be.”
You tilt your head just slightly, curiosity flickering through your expression. “Oh?”
He steps a fraction closer - not enough to intrude, never that - but enough that his voice lowers, softened by the space between you.
“I would be happy with whatever you choose,” he says simply. “But I do think… I prefer this one.” His gaze lingers, not on the elaborate work the maids had been attempting earlier, but on the way your hair now falls - looser, softer, less restrained.
For a moment, you do not answer.
Your eyes shift briefly to the mirror beside you, catching your reflection once more. The same version of yourself the maids had paused over. The one they had said looked more like you.
You nod, just slightly. “I think so too,” you admit.
The words come easier than you expect. There is no tension in them, no hesitation, just a quiet agreement that settles between you, simple and unforced. It is strange, in a way. How easily conversation flows now.
When you first arrived, there had been distance - careful politeness, measured words, the unspoken awareness of what this arrangement meant. Every sentence had felt like something to step around, something to handle delicately.
But that has shifted. Somewhere between shared meals and quiet conversations, between moments that had nothing to do with politics or duty, something softer had formed. Not obligation. Not expectation.
Something closer to friendship. And it shows in the way he looks at you now. In the ease of it.
“I was hoping,” Aurelian begins after a moment, his tone light, though there is a hint of something more thoughtful beneath it, “that you might join me for lunch today.”
Your attention returns fully to him. There is no weight in the invitation, no sense that it is something you must accept. Just a simple offer.
You nod. “I would like that.”
Something in his expression brightens, subtle but unmistakable, as though the answer had mattered more than he intended to show.
“Good,” he says, the word quiet but warm. “Then I will be waiting for you.”
There is a brief pause, as though he might say something more, though whatever it is does not quite make it to his lips. Instead, he inclines his head slightly, a small, respectful gesture that feels less like formality and more like habit.
“I will leave you to get ready.” And then, just as gently as he had entered, he turns.
The door opens with little sound, closing just as softly behind him as he steps back into the corridor, leaving the room quieter than it had been before, but not empty. Not entirely.
Because the warmth of his presence lingers, settling into the space he leaves behind, threading itself quietly into the moments that follow.
By the time you step into the corridor, the castle has shifted again.
The earlier softness of your chambers fades into something more structured, more composed, as the world beyond your doors resumes its quiet rhythm. Footsteps echo faintly along the stone floors, servants moving with practiced efficiency, their voices low and respectful as they pass one another in the wide, arched hallways.
You move through it all with ease. Your dress brushes lightly against your legs with each step, the fabric a soft shade of green that catches the light in gentle waves, neither overly ornate nor simple enough to be overlooked. It moves with you rather than against you, flowing just enough to feel natural, comfortable - something chosen with care, but not burdened by it.
Your hair has slightly changed as it was.
Drawn into a loose plait that rests over one shoulder, the braid soft rather than precise, as though it had been shaped by hand rather than by strict design. The top remains unbound, strands falling freely to frame your face, shifting slightly with each step you take. It feels… like you.
As you make your way toward the dining hall, the sounds grow quieter.
The doors stand open by the time you arrive, tall and carved, revealing a space bathed in warm light. Long tables stretch across the room, though only one has been set—- aid with care, polished silver catching the glow from the windows, glassware placed with exact precision.
And at the far end - He is already there.
Aurelian stands beside the table, though he is not rigid in his posture, not formal in the way one might expect. His attention is elsewhere at first, focused on something a servant is quietly saying to him, but the moment you step fully into the room, it shifts.
His gaze finds you almost immediately. There is a subtle change in him then.
He straightens, not sharply, but with a quiet awareness, as though your presence alone has altered the shape of the moment. And without hesitation, he rises fully from his seat, stepping away from the table as you approach.
There is no rush in his movement. No show of grandeur. Just a simple, deliberate gesture as he closes the distance between you.
“You made it,” he says, his voice carrying easily in the open space, softer than the room itself might demand.
“I did,” you reply, the faintest hint of a smile returning.
He mirrors it. And then, without another word, he moves to your side.
His hand rests lightly at your back - not pressing, not guiding so much as accompanying - as he leads you the final steps toward the table. The touch is brief, respectful, yet steady enough to ground the motion, to make it feel intentional rather than rehearsed.
When you reach your seat, he steps ahead of you just slightly, drawing the chair back with a smooth, practiced motion.
A gentleman.
The word settles easily into place as you take your seat, the quiet scrape of wood against stone the only sound that breaks the stillness for a moment.
Once you are settled, he returns to his own place, though his attention does not leave you for long. It shifts instead, just briefly, toward the servants who stand waiting at the edges of the room.
“You may begin,” he says. There is no sharpness in the command, no edge of impatience, only a calm authority that carries without needing to be raised. It is not a demand so much as an expectation, one that is understood immediately.
The servants move at once. Dishes are brought forward, placed carefully upon the table, the scent of warm food beginning to fill the space as the first plates are set before you.
And through it all, his presence remains steady across from you, composed and attentive, as though this moment - simple as it is - matters more than the grand celebration waiting just beyond it.
The table is filled before you even realise it has begun.
What had once been an empty stretch of polished wood is soon covered in a quiet abundance, each dish placed with care, each movement of the servants precise and unobtrusive. Plates are set before you in layers- warm breads still soft from the oven, their crusts lightly dusted with flour; delicate cuts of meat glazed with herbs and honey; bowls of roasted vegetables, their colours deep and rich beneath the soft light; fruits arranged in careful clusters, their skins glistening faintly.
Steam rises gently from some of the dishes, carrying with it a warmth that settles into the air, blending with the faint scent of spices and fresh herbs. It is not overwhelming, not indulgent in a way that feels excessive, but undeniably… rich.
Prepared with intention. Prepared for you.
You take it in for a moment, your gaze drifting across the table, lingering on the details, the way everything has been arranged, the quiet effort behind it.
Aurelian notices. “There is no expectation,” he says, his voice steady and calm as he reaches for his own plate, though his attention remains on you. “You may eat as little or as much as you like.”
There is something reassuring in the way he says it. Not dismissive. Not careless. Just… considerate.
You nod slightly, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge of your plate as you begin, selecting what draws your attention rather than what feels required of you. The first bite is warm, grounding, the kind of food that does not demand attention but earns it all the same.
Across from you, he does the same.
There is no urgency to the meal, no sense of formality pressing in around it. Instead, the space between you settles into something quieter, something easier. Conversation begins not as something planned, but as something that unfolds naturally - small observations, light remarks, fragments of thought that drift between you as the meal progresses.
He asks about your morning.
You tell him, briefly, about the maids, about their attempts to decide your hair, about the gossip that filled the room more than the actual preparations. There is a faint smile that touches his expression at that, something soft and almost amused.
“I imagine they have strong opinions,” he says.
“They do,” you reply, a quiet breath of laughter escaping you. “Though I am not entirely sure they agree with one another.”
“That sounds about right.” There is a pause then, not empty, but comfortable.
You eat, slowly, the rhythm of it unhurried. The soft clink of cutlery against porcelain fills the spaces between words, accompanied by the faint sounds of movement from the edges of the room as servants step in and out without ever intruding.
At some point, the conversation shifts again. He speaks of the kingdom - not in grand, overwhelming terms, but in small pieces. The villages below, the preparations you had not yet seen, the way the people have taken it upon themselves to celebrate in their own ways. There is something in his voice when he speaks of them, something grounded, something real.
You listen. Not because you must, but because you want to.
And when the meal begins to slow, when plates have been half-emptied or set aside entirely, when the quiet comfort of the moment settles more deeply into the space between you, you feel it.
That pull. That question. It lingers at the edge of your thoughts, steady and insistent, until it becomes something you cannot quite ignore.
Your fingers still against the table. Your gaze lifts to him.
“Aurelian…” you begin, your voice softer now, carrying something more careful within it. “May I ask you something?”
He does not hesitate. “Of course.” There is no suspicion in his tone, no guardedness. Just openness. And somehow, that makes it harder.
You draw in a slow breath, feeling it settle in your chest before you let it go, your gaze dropping for just a moment before returning to him.
“It is about the wedding.” The words are quiet, but they shift the air between you all the same.
“I understand what it means,” you continue, more steadily now, though your voice remains soft. “What it will change- for the kingdom, for the villages, for… everything beyond this place.”
Your fingers move slightly against the table, tracing the edge of the cloth without thought, grounding yourself in something tangible.
“I know what is expected of me.” There is a brief pause. And then, more quietly-
“But I do not know what it means for us.” The words linger. Not heavy. Not demanding. Just… honest.
For the first time since you have asked, he does not answer immediately. Aurelian leans back slightly in his chair, not withdrawing, but giving himself space to think. His gaze shifts, not away from you entirely, but unfocused for a moment, as though he is turning the question over carefully rather than reaching for something easy.
It is not avoidance. It is consideration.
When he finally looks back at you, there is no uncertainty in his expression - only a quiet sincerity that settles into the space between you. “That,” he says slowly, “is entirely up to you.”
The answer is not what you expect. It does not close anything. It opens it.
“If you wish for things to remain as they are,” he continues, his voice steady, “then they will.”
There is no hesitation in the promise. “You would keep your own chambers. Your own space. There would be no expectations placed upon you beyond what you are already prepared for.”
His gaze holds yours, unwavering. “We would remain as we are now.” There is something gentle in the way he says it. Something careful.
“Friends.” The word settles softly between you.
And then, there is the smallest shift. Not in his posture, not in anything obvious, but in the weight of what follows.
“Or…” It is quieter now. More deliberate. “It can change.” He does not elaborate. He does not need to. Because you understand.
It is there, in the space between the words. In the way his voice softens just slightly. In the way his gaze does not leave yours, not even for a moment.
Romance. Not forced. Not expected. But offered. And left, entirely… in your hands.
The words linger between you long after he says them. They do not fade or soften with time, but instead seem to settle more deeply, threading themselves into your thoughts in a way that makes it impossible to simply move past them. The table remains as it was, the remnants of the meal untouched now, the quiet presence of the servants distant enough that they no longer feel part of the moment.
It is just you and him. And the question he has placed in your hands.
Your fingers rest lightly against the edge of the table, unmoving, as your gaze drifts for a moment - not away from him entirely, but not quite meeting his eyes either. You can feel it, the weight of what he has offered, the space he has given you, and somehow that makes it harder rather than easier.
Because he has not asked anything of you. He has not pushed. And yet the absence of pressure only makes the decision feel more real.
“Aurelian…” you begin again, your voice quieter now, more careful, as though you are stepping into something uncertain. You lift your gaze fully this time, meeting his properly, searching for something in his expression that might steady you.
“May I ask you something else?”
He nods without hesitation, though there is a subtle shift in him now, a quiet attentiveness that suggests he understands this is not a simple question. “Anything.”
You draw in a slow breath, feeling it settle before you let it go. “If I were to be selfish,” you say, the words measured, chosen with care, “and ask what you actually want…”
You do not finish the sentence. You do not need to.
It is clear enough in the way your voice softens, in the way your gaze holds his, in the way the question lingers between you rather than needing to be spoken outright.
For the first time since you have known him, he hesitates.
It is not obvious at first. Not something most would notice. His posture remains composed, his expression steady, but there is a pause that stretches just a fraction longer than before, a silence that feels different from the others you have shared.
He is thinking. Not in the distant, measured way from earlier, but in something closer to restraint, as though he is choosing his words carefully rather than reaching for them with ease. For a moment, you wonder if he will answer at all. If this is the line he will not cross.
But then-
“It is…” he begins, his voice quieter than before, lacking none of its steadiness but carrying something unfamiliar beneath it. Something almost hesitant. “It is probably obvious what I would prefer.”
The admission is soft, and yet it lands with more weight than anything else he has said.
He does not look away from you, but there is a subtle tension in his expression now, something held back rather than fully revealed.
“I do not want my own feelings to influence you,” he continues after a moment, more firmly now, as though grounding himself in that thought. “This decision should be yours. Entirely.”
There is something almost careful in the way he says it. Not distant. Not detached. But restrained. As though whatever he feels, he has already decided it will not come before your choice.
The silence that follows stretches longer this time. Not uncomfortable. But full.
You feel it settle around you, pressing gently at the edges of your thoughts as you turn his words over and over again, searching for something clear within them, something simple that would make this easier.
But there is nothing simple about it. Because you understand what he has not said. You understand what he would choose, if it were his choice alone. And that knowledge does not make things easier. It complicates them.
Your gaze lowers slightly, your fingers shifting against the table as though grounding yourself in the movement, in something physical rather than the storm of thoughts building quietly beneath the surface.
Because there is something else. Something you have not spoken of. Something that lingers just beyond the edges of this moment, refusing to be ignored no matter how much you try to focus on what is in front of you.
He notices. Of course he does. There is a subtle change in his expression, a quiet awareness as he watches you, taking in the hesitation you cannot quite hide. “You are unsure,” he says gently, not as an accusation, but as an observation.
You do not deny it. “I am,” you admit, your voice softer now, more vulnerable than before.
He leans forward slightly, not enough to close the space between you entirely, but enough to show he is present, that he is listening. “What is stopping you, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asks.
The question is simple. But the answer is not. For a moment, you say nothing.
Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to something that does not belong in this room, something that feels distant and yet far too close all at once. A memory. A feeling. A presence that has not quite left you, no matter how much time has passed.
You do not say his name. You do not need to.
“There was… someone,” you say finally, your voice quiet, careful, as though the words themselves might break if handled too roughly. “Before all of this.” You do not look at him as you speak, your gaze fixed somewhere just beyond the table, unfocused.
“I did not expect it,” you continue, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric beneath them. “And I did not expect it to matter as much as it did.”
There is no bitterness in your voice. Only honesty. You do not say what happened. You do not need to. The absence of that person is enough.
Aurelian listens without interruption. He does not question you. He does not press for more. There is no shift of discomfort or impatience, no attempt to pull the conversation in another direction. Only understanding.
“I see,” he says after a moment, his voice as calm as it has always been, though softer now, shaped by what you have shared. And he leaves it there.
He does not ask who. He does not ask why. He simply accepts it. That, more than anything, settles something in you.
Your gaze lifts slowly, returning to him, searching his expression as though expecting to find something different there- disappointment, perhaps, or distance.
But there is none. Only the same quiet steadiness. The same patience.
You let out a slow breath, one you had not realised you were holding, your thoughts shifting once more, turning over everything he has said, everything you have felt, everything that has led you to this moment.
And then… You speak.
“Maybe…” you begin, the word tentative at first, though it steadies as you continue. “Maybe I can try.”
The admission is small. Careful. But it is real. It hangs between you, fragile in its honesty, carrying with it a quiet uncertainty - but also something else.
Something new.
Something that has not yet been defined, but has been allowed to exist. And for the first time since the conversation began- The weight of it all feels just a little lighter.
For a moment, he does not speak.
Your words linger between you, soft and uncertain, yet carrying more weight than anything that has come before them. You can almost see the way they settle over him, the way he takes them in - not quickly, not carelessly, but with that same quiet consideration he gives to everything.
And then, slowly- He smiles.
It is not the composed, measured expression he wears so often, not the polite curve of his lips that belongs to a king addressing his court. This is something else. Something warmer. Something that reaches a little further than usual, softening the lines of his face in a way that feels… unguarded.
There is even the faintest hint of colour rising along his cheeks, subtle but unmistakable.
“Then…” he begins, his voice gentler now, touched with something almost hesitant, though there is a lightness beneath it that had not been there before. “Perhaps I will have to try harder.”
Your brows lift slightly, curiosity flickering through your expression as you watch him.
“To make it easier for you to decide,” he adds, the words carrying just enough warmth to feel deliberate.
The meaning is clear. And for a moment, you simply look at him.
Then, without quite meaning to, a soft laugh escapes you - quiet, surprised, but genuine in a way that catches even you off guard. It feels lighter than the conversation that led to it, easier, as though something that had been tightly wound has finally loosened just enough to breathe.
He lets out a small breath of laughter as well, lower, softer, the sound lingering briefly in the space between you before fading into something comfortable again.
It does not feel awkward, it does not feel forced. It simply… fits.
The moment settles, not disappearing, but easing into something quieter, something that does not need to be held quite so tightly anymore.
At the edges of the room, movement begins again.
The servants return as they always do - silent, efficient, slipping back into the space with careful steps as they begin to clear the table. Plates are gathered, glasses lifted, the remnants of the meal disappearing piece by piece as though it had never been there at all.
Neither of you rush to leave. There is no urgency in it. But eventually, as the last of the dishes are taken, as the table is returned to its earlier stillness, the moment comes to an end all the same.
Aurelian rises first.
The motion is smooth, unhurried, his attention returning to you almost immediately as he steps around the table. He offers his hand - not formally, not as something expected, but as something quietly intentional.
You take it. His touch is steady, warm without being overwhelming, grounding in a way that feels natural rather than deliberate. As you stand, he does not release you, instead shifting just slightly so that your arm rests lightly within his.
It is a small gesture. But it changes something.
Together, you move toward the doors.
There is no need for words as you walk, no pressure to fill the space between you. The silence is no longer uncertain - it is easy, shaped by what has already been said, by what has been allowed to exist between you.
The doors open before you. The corridor beyond stretches wide and familiar, sunlight spilling across the stone once more as you step into it side by side.
Arm in arm. And for the first time, it does not feel like something you have been placed into.
The forest feels entirely different beneath the open sky.
Where the castle had been filled with careful order and quiet voices, this place breathes in its own way - untamed, unstructured, alive with movement that does not wait for permission. The path beneath anyone's feet is uneven, softened in places by damp earth and scattered leaves, roots pushing through the ground as though the forest itself is unwilling to be walked over without resistance.
Branches stretch high above, though not thick enough to block the light entirely. Instead, the sun filters through in long, golden streams, breaking across the forest floor in shifting patterns that move with the wind. It should feel gentle, this kind of light.
But it doesn’t.
The warmth is stronger than it should be for this time of year, pressing against skin and armour alike, lingering in a way that feels almost unnatural. The air is heavy with it, lacking the usual crispness of early spring, as though something beneath the surface has shifted, though nothing visible has yet changed.
Mingi notices.
It is not something he speaks aloud - not immediately - but it lingers in the way his gaze lifts briefly toward the canopy, in the faint tension that settles in his shoulders before he forces it away. The forest is not unfamiliar to him, but this… this feels slightly off.
Still, he keeps moving.
His steps are steady, purposeful, carrying him forward without hesitation, even as the path twists and narrows. The weight of his armour shifts with each movement, lighter than what he is used to, though still present enough to remind him of its purpose.
He is grateful for it.
The set the camp had provided is far less restrictive than what he once wore, designed for movement rather than display. The metal does not press as harshly against him, does not trap the heat as severely, though even so, the warmth of the day seeps through it, settling against his skin in a way that is difficult to ignore.
It could have been worse. Beside him, Mr. Bramble walks with far less urgency.
Where Mingi’s stride is long and determined, Bramble’s is measured, his steps careful but not slow, as though he has long since learned how to move through terrain like this without wasting energy. His presence is steady, grounding in a way that contrasts sharply with the quiet intensity Mingi carries.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” Mr Bramble says after a while, his voice cutting gently through the quiet, though not loud enough to disturb the natural sounds of the forest around them.
Mingi glances at him briefly.
“The heat,” Bramble adds, lifting a hand slightly as though gesturing to the air itself. “It’s not right.”
Mingi exhales lightly, his gaze returning forward.
“It’s warmer,” he says, though the words feel insufficient, too simple for something that sits so uneasily beneath the surface.
“Warmer,” Bramble repeats, almost thoughtfully, as though testing the word and finding it lacking. “That’s one way to put it.”
A faint breeze moves through the trees then, rustling the leaves above them, though it offers little relief. The air remains thick, clinging.
Mingi adjusts slightly, rolling his shoulders back as though to ease the heat that has settled there, his grip tightening briefly against the strap of his armour before loosening again.
At least it is lighter. At least he can move. The thought comes and goes quickly, practical rather than comforting, but he takes it all the same.
Because stopping is not an option. Not now. Not when every step forward feels like it matters more than the last.
The forest stretches on ahead of them, endless in its quiet, golden light shifting across the path as though guiding them forward- Toward something neither of them has quite named yet.
For a while, the only sound between them is the steady rhythm of their steps.
Leaves shift beneath their boots, the occasional branch snapping underfoot, the quiet hum of insects beginning to stir in the warmth that hangs heavier with every passing moment. The forest does not feel hostile, not in any obvious way, but there is something in it that refuses to fully settle, something that lingers just beneath the surface of everything they pass.
Mingi keeps his focus ahead.
But beside him, Mr. Bramble lets out a quiet hum, the kind that suggests a thought forming long before it is spoken.
“You know,” he begins after a moment, his tone lighter now, edged with the familiar hint of humour he seems to carry even in the strangest of situations, “it could simply be that we are getting further and further away from Eirendale.”
Mingi glances at him briefly, one brow lifting ever so slightly.
Bramble continues, undeterred. “I would not put it past Edrea to freeze her entire kingdom over out of sheer spite,” he adds, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Keep all the warmth for herself, just to prove a point.”
The image is absurd enough that it earns a quiet sound from Mingi ,not quite a laugh, but something close to it. A low, breathy chuff that escapes before he can stop it, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.
“That does sound like her,” he admits, though there is no real conviction behind the words, only the echo of the joke.
Bramble glances at him, clearly pleased to have drawn even that much of a reaction. “See?” he says lightly. “There is logic to it.”
Mingi shakes his head faintly, though the corner of his mouth shifts just enough to betray the brief amusement.
They walk on. The forest begins to thin gradually, the trees no longer crowding quite so closely together, allowing more of that persistent sunlight to spill through. The air shifts with it, growing warmer still, heavier in a way that feels less contained, less filtered by the canopy above.
It becomes clearer then. Not just the heat- but where they are.
“We are close,” Mingi says after a moment, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful as his gaze moves ahead, taking in the subtle changes in the land around them.
Bramble follows his line of sight, nodding slightly. “Valemere,” he says. The name settles easily between them.
Mingi exhales lightly, adjusting the weight of his armour again as he moves. “It makes sense,” he continues, his tone steadier now. “Valemere has always been warmer than Eirendale. More… tropical.”
He searches briefly for the word, though it feels strange on his tongue in this setting. “Even in spring, the air shifts earlier.”
Bramble hums again, considering it. “Yes, but not like this,” he replies, gesturing loosely to the space around them. “This feels like summer has decided it simply cannot be bothered to wait its turn.”
Mingi lets out another quiet breath, somewhere between agreement and dismissal. “It is still too much,” he says. There is no real argument there. Just observation.
Mr Bramble glances at him again, eyes narrowing slightly in thought before the humour returns just as quickly. “Well,” he says, drawing his shoulders back as though bracing himself dramatically against the warmth, “if we arrive and find the entire place has turned into some kind of tropical paradise, I expect you to admit that I was right.”
Mingi snorts softly at that, the sound more audible this time, though still restrained. “You are not right,” he replies, though there is no sharpness in it. “You rarely are.”
“Rarely is not never,” Mr Bramble counters immediately, clearly pleased with himself.
Mingi shakes his head again, but the faint trace of earlier tension has eased, replaced, if only slightly, by the rhythm of their exchange.
For a few moments, the forest feels less heavy. The warmth less suffocating. The path ahead… just a path. And yet, even as they continue forward, as their conversation drifts into lighter, quieter remarks, the air does not change.
The heat lingers. Persistent. Unnatural. As though whatever waits beyond the trees has already begun to reach for them.
The change comes not through sight, but through sound.
At first, it is faint enough that it could be mistaken for something else- the rustle of leaves, the distant call of birds - but as they continue forward, it grows clearer, more distinct, until it can no longer be ignored.
Voices. Not raised in alarm. Not hushed in secrecy. But bright.
Carried on laughter, on conversation that rises and falls in easy waves, threaded with a kind of lightness that does not belong to the forest behind them. It drifts through the trees ahead, slipping between branches and catching in the warm air, drawing them forward whether they intend it or not.
Mingi slows, if only slightly.
His head tilts, listening more closely now, his focus shifting from the path beneath his feet to what lies beyond it. The sounds grow louder with each step, clearer, until individual tones begin to separate - children’s laughter, the low murmur of voices overlapping, the occasional sharp burst of amusement that carries further than the rest.
It does not sound like anything is wrong. It sounds like… celebration.
The trees begin to thin further, the branches no longer crowding as tightly together, and through the gaps between them, something else begins to emerge.
Colour. At first, it is only fragments- soft flashes of fabric caught between leaves, the faint movement of something bright against the muted tones of the forest. But as they move closer, as the final stretch of trees begins to give way, the view opens fully.
The villages of Valemere stretch out before them. And they are alive.
Buildings that might have once seemed ordinary are now adorned with ribbons and banners that ripple in the warm air, their colours richer, brighter than anything left behind in Eirendale. Streams of fabric drape from windows and archways, flowers woven into doorframes and balconies, their scent carried faintly even from this distance.
People move through the streets in steady, purposeful motion, though there is no urgency in it- only excitement. Laughter spills easily between them, voices rising in greeting, in shared stories, in something that feels unmistakably like anticipation. Preparation. Celebration.
Mingi stops. It is subtle, the way his body stills, but the shift in him is immediate.
The warmth that had clung to his skin moments before feels distant now, dulled by something sharper, something that settles cold and heavy in his chest despite the heat that surrounds them. His gaze fixes on the scene ahead, taking in the details not as something beautiful, but as something that means something else entirely.
His blood runs cold. Because he knows what this could mean.
The decorations. The atmosphere. The timing.
He turns sharply, his attention snapping toward Bramble, something tighter now in the way he holds himself.
“You don’t think…” he begins, though the words falter slightly, as though even saying them aloud might make them real. He steadies himself, forcing the question through. “You don’t think it has already happened… do you?”
Mr Bramble studies the scene ahead for a moment before answering, his gaze moving carefully across the village, taking in not just what is there- but what isn’t.
“No,” he says after a beat, his voice calm, grounded in a way that cuts through the edge in Mingi’s tone. “If it had, this would look very different.”
Mingi does not relax.
Mr Bramble continues, gesturing lightly toward the village. “It would be grander. Louder. Packed far beyond this,” he explains, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observes the movement below. “There would be far more people, far more guards, far more…” he searches briefly for the word, “…spectacle.”
His gaze flicks back to Mingi. “This is preparation,” he says, more firmly now. “The days leading up to it.”
Mingi exhales slowly, though the tension does not leave him entirely. Preparation. The word settles, but it does not soothe. Because it means one thing. They are close. Too close.
And whatever comes next is no longer something waiting in the distance- It is already here, unfolding just beyond the trees.
Mingi steps forward before the thought has fully settled.
The decision comes from instinct rather than reason, his body already moving toward the village as though the sight of it alone has pulled him forward, closing the distance before he can properly consider what waits for him there.
But he does not get far.
A sudden flash of russet fur cuts across his path, quick and low to the ground, forcing him to halt as Mr. Bramble darts in front of him with surprising speed. The fox plants himself firmly in the way, tail flicking once behind him, ears pricked forward with sharp awareness as he looks up at Mingi.
“What exactly is your plan?” Mr Bramble asks, his voice carrying that familiar dry edge, though there is something more grounded beneath it now- something that suggests he is not simply making conversation.
Mingi’s gaze flicks down to him, irritation already tightening in his expression. “I need to talk to her,” he says, as though the answer is obvious, as though it should be enough.
Mr Bramble blinks. And then- he laughs.
It is not loud, not mocking in a cruel sense, but it is undeniably amused, a soft huffing sound that escapes him as his tail sways once more behind him.
“You need to talk to her,” he repeats, as though testing the words, finding them almost ridiculous. “Yes, I am sure that will be very easy for you.”
Mingi’s jaw tightens slightly.
Mr Bramble tilts his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he gestures loosely with his nose toward the village beyond the trees.
“It is likely the eve of her wedding,” he continues, his tone still light, though the logic beneath it is sharp. “She will be guarded more closely than the crown jewels themselves. You cannot simply walk through those gates, announce yourself, and expect to be led in for a quiet conversation.”
Mingi does not respond immediately. Because he knows he is right.
The reality of it presses in, unwelcome but undeniable, threading itself through the urgency that has driven him this far. The guards. The walls. The expectations placed upon her now. None of it aligns with the simplicity of what he wants to do.
His jaw sets more firmly, tension pulling through his shoulders as his gaze shifts back toward the village, toward the flashes of colour and movement that feel far too close and yet not close enough.
Logic tells him to stop. To think. To plan. But his heart- his heart does not care for any of that. It pulls against reason, louder, sharper, refusing to be quieted.
“I’ll find a way in,” he says, the words low, firm, carrying more certainty than he truly has.
Mr Bramble watches him for a moment, head still tilted, as though weighing whether to argue further. The tip of his tail flicks again, slower this time, before he lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “Of course you will,” he mutters, not unkindly, though there is a note of resignation beneath it.
Mingi does not wait. He steps around him, continuing forward without hesitation, the decision already made even if the path itself remains unclear.
Behind him, Mr Bramble remains where he is for only a moment longer. Then, with a small shake of his head and a soft, almost exasperated huff, the fox turns and follows, slipping easily through the undergrowth as he falls into step beside him once more.
Because whatever comes next- He is not letting him face it alone.
Even from a distance, it is clear that would be impossible. Guards move in steady patterns along the wider paths, their presence woven seamlessly into the celebration below, unnoticed by most, but far too deliberate to slip past without question. So Mingi turns away from it before they are ever seen, veering instead toward the outer edges of the village where the buildings grow closer together, where the spaces between them narrow into quiet, half-forgotten passageways.
It is slower this way. More careful.
He keeps to the shadows where he can, slipping between walls and along the backs of homes where the festivities feel more distant, muted just enough to allow for movement without drawing attention. The bright colours and laughter still reach him, carried on the warm air, but they feel strangely removed now, like something happening in a world just out of reach.
Mr. Bramble stays low at his side, weaving easily through the same spaces, his small frame far better suited to this kind of movement. Where Mingi must pause and consider each step, the fox moves with quiet instinct, slipping ahead when needed, doubling back when something feels off, his ears constantly flicking toward distant sounds.
They pass through narrow alleys where laundry lines sway gently overhead, fabric brushing softly against stone walls. Through small courtyards left momentarily empty, tables set for later, flowers already arranged in neat bundles waiting to be placed. Once, they pause as a group of villagers passes just beyond the corner, their voices bright with laughter, speaking of final preparations, of tomorrow.
Tomorrow. The word lingers, heavy.
They move again. Closer now. Closer to the centre. And then… Mingi stops to a halt.
He presses back against the cool stone of a wall, his breath steady but controlled, his hand lifting slightly as a silent signal for Bramble to hold. Just beyond the edge of the passage, two guards stand at the mouth of the next street, their posture relaxed but their presence enough to block the path forward entirely.
They are not inattentive. They are simply… comfortable. Which makes them harder to predict.
Mingi waits, watching the rhythm of their movement, the slight shifts in their stance, the way one occasionally glances down the street while the other speaks. He measures the distance. The timing. The gap that might open, even if only for a moment.
Beside him, Mr Bramble sits back on his haunches, his tail curling loosely around his paws as he watches the same scene with sharp, observant eyes.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. The village breathes around them, unaware.
Then;
“I must admit,” Bramble says quietly, his voice low enough not to carry beyond the narrow space they occupy, though it cuts through the silence with ease. “What you are about to do is… quite selfish.”
Mingi’s gaze does not leave the guards. But his jaw tightens.
Mr Bramble continues, his tone not mocking this time, but thoughtful- honest in a way that carries more weight than his earlier humour.
“What if she is happy?” he asks. The question lands cleanly. No accusation. No judgment. Just truth.
Mingi exhales slowly, the breath controlled, though it does little to ease the tension that coils tighter in his chest. “I know she is,” he says, his voice quiet, steady despite it all.
And he does. That is the worst part of it.
Everything he has seen. Everything he has heard. The way this entire place moves in preparation for something that feels right, something that fits into the world in a way he does not.
She is not trapped here, she is not suffering. She is… where she is meant to be.
And still… He cannot stop.
“But I can’t just leave it like this,” he continues, his voice lowering further, something more raw threading beneath the surface now. “Not without saying anything. Not without–” He cuts himself off, the words catching somewhere between thought and breath. “Not without explaining,” he finishes instead.
Mr Bramble watches him carefully, ears flicking once as he takes that in. “You don’t need to explain,” the fox replies, just as quietly. “Not to her.”
Mingi’s expression hardens slightly at that, though there is no real anger in it- only conflict. “Maybe not,” he admits. “But I need to.” That, more than anything, is the truth.
Not for closure, not to change anything. But because leaving it unsaid feels worse than whatever might come from speaking it aloud.
The silence stretches again, though it feels different now. Heavier.
Mr Bramble lets out a soft breath through his nose, his tail flicking once as he looks away briefly, toward the guards, toward the path ahead, before returning his gaze to Mingi.
“Well,” he says after a moment, his tone shifting once more, the edge of dry humour returning just enough to soften what came before, “I still think it is a foolish decision.”
Mingi huffs faintly under his breath, though he does not argue.
“But,” Bramble adds, rising smoothly to his feet, his posture settling into something more resolved, “it is your foolish decision.”
There is a brief pause. And then, more quietly- “And I will support it all the same.”
Mingi glances down at him then, just for a moment. It is brief. But it is enough.
Ahead of them, one of the guards shifts, stepping away just enough to create the smallest opening, a gap that will not last long.
Mingi’s focus snaps back. “Now,” he murmurs. And without hesitation- He moves.
Not the light, easy chatter of your chambers, nor the quiet calm of the dining hall, but something more structured- measured and deliberate, each word placed with care as it passes between those gathered around you. Members of the court stand in a loose semicircle, their posture composed, their attention fixed not only on you, but on the task at hand.
Preparation. Final confirmation. There is a weight to it now that had not been present before.
“The dress has been completed,” one of them says, stepping slightly forward, hands folded neatly before them. “The final adjustments were made this morning. It will be brought to your chambers at first light.”
Another follows without pause.
“The rings are finished, Your Highness. The goldsmith himself oversaw their crafting. They will be delivered directly to the chapel.”
“And the cake,” a third adds, a faint note of pride threading through their otherwise formal tone, “has been prepared and stored safely. The bakers have ensured it will remain perfect until the ceremony.”
Each detail is spoken as though it matters greatly. Because it does. Because each one brings the moment closer.
Your gaze moves between them as they speak, taking in their words, the careful way they present them, the quiet expectation that follows each statement. There is no room for uncertainty here, no space for hesitation.
Everything is ready for the morning.
“It will be an early start,” another voice adds, softer, though no less firm. “Preparations will begin before sunrise to ensure everything proceeds without delay.”
You nod. The motion is small, composed, exactly what is expected of you. “I understand,” you say, your voice steady, carrying easily through the room without needing to be raised. There is no strain in it, no visible uncertainty- only calm acknowledgment.
Your hands fold lightly before you, fingers resting together as you allow a brief pause to settle, your gaze softening just slightly as you look at those who have worked so tirelessly to bring this moment together.
“Thank you,” you continue, more gently now. “All of you. I know how much effort has gone into this, and it has not gone unnoticed.”
There is a subtle shift in the room at that.
A quiet sense of pride, of relief, though it remains carefully contained behind practiced composure. Heads incline, small acknowledgments offered in return, the balance of formality maintained even in appreciation. “You honour us, Your Highness,” one of them replies.
The conversation lingers for only a moment longer, a few final confirmations, a last exchange of details that no longer feel necessary, as though everything that needed to be said has already been spoken.
And then… You feel it. Not pressure. Not fear. But something quieter.
A heaviness that has settled just beneath the surface, unnoticed until now, made more apparent by the stillness of the room, by the finality of the words that have just been spoken.
Everything is ready. Tomorrow.
Your breath comes a little slower. You hold it for a moment, just long enough to steady yourself before letting it go. “I believe that is all for now,” you say, your tone remaining even, though softer than before. “If you will excuse me… I would like to get some air.”
There is no resistance. Only understanding. “Of course, Your Highness.” They step back, giving you space without question, the path to the door opening naturally as though it had always been there, waiting.
You do not rush. Your steps are measured as you move past them, the soft sound of fabric against stone accompanying you as you cross the room. The doors are opened before you without a word, and as you step through them, the shift is immediate.
The air changes.
The corridor is quieter, cooler, the sounds of the court fading behind you as the doors close once more, sealing that world away.
You continue on, through familiar halls, past tall windows where the late afternoon light stretches long and golden across the floor, guiding your steps without thought. The further you go, the more the castle seems to loosen its hold, the structured rhythm of it giving way to something softer.
Something open. By the time you reach the gardens, the change is complete.
The doors give way to open air, and the warmth of the day settles around you once more, though here it feels different- lighter, carried on a gentle breeze that moves through the greenery, stirring leaves and petals alike.
The gardens stretch wide before you.
Paths winding between carefully tended flowerbeds, colours blooming in quiet abundance, the scent of them drifting softly through the air. It is peaceful here, removed from the expectations waiting beyond it, untouched by the finality of tomorrow.
For a moment, you simply step forward. And breathe.
The further you walk, the quieter it becomes. The structured paths of the main gardens give way to something softer, less maintained in a deliberate way, as though this part of the castle grounds has been left to breathe rather than be shaped. The flowers here grow more freely, colours blending into one another without strict pattern, petals catching the sunlight as it filters through the surrounding trees. The air carries their scent gently, something sweet and grounding that settles into your lungs with each breath you take.
You follow the familiar curve of the path without thinking. Your feet know the way.
They carry you toward the far end of the gardens, where the stone gives way to softer earth, where the sounds of the castle fade almost entirely, replaced instead by the quiet murmur of water and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the breeze.
The pond comes into view slowly, revealed through the parting of branches and low-hanging greenery.
It rests in a natural hollow, its surface smooth and glass-like, broken only by the gentle movement of fish beneath it. Sunlight dances across the water, scattering in soft ripples of gold that shift with every small motion below. Around it, flowers bloom in quiet abundance, their colours reflected faintly in the surface, blending with the slow drift of lily pads that float near the edges.
You step closer, your movement unhurried now, the tension that had followed you from the court easing just enough to let the moment settle around you.
For a while, you simply look.
Your gaze drifts over the water, following the flashes of colour beneath it as the fish move lazily through their space, their scales catching the light in brief glimmers before disappearing again into the deeper shadows. The quiet here is not empty, but full in a different way, filled with small, natural sounds that do not demand your attention, but offer it gently all the same.
You lower yourself slightly, the fabric of your dress gathering softly around you as you settle near the edge, your hand resting lightly against the stone.
“They have outdone themselves, you know,” you murmur, your voice quiet, almost absent-minded, directed not at anyone who might answer, but at the space itself, at the water, at the small flashes of life beneath it.
A fish surfaces briefly, its movement creating a ripple that distorts the reflection of the sky for just a moment before smoothing again.
“I suppose you do not care,” you continue, a faint, thoughtful smile touching your lips as your gaze follows it. “You are quite content here, aren’t you?”
The words feel easier here. Lighter.
You let your fingers trail just above the surface, not quite touching, feeling the coolness of it rise to meet your skin without breaking the stillness.
“For once, I almost envy that.” The admission is soft, carried away by the breeze before it has time to linger.
For a moment longer, you allow yourself to sit in it, in the quiet, in the absence of expectation, in the small, fleeting sense that this space exists entirely separate from everything waiting beyond it.
And then… A sound. It is sharp.
Not loud, not enough to echo, but distinct in a way that does not belong here. A sudden inhale, caught and uneven, as though someone has forgotten how to breathe for just a second before remembering.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up.
You are on your feet in an instant, the calm of the moment snapping away as something sharper takes its place. Your gaze shifts quickly, searching the edges of the garden, the shadows between the trees, the spaces where someone could be hidden just out of sight.
Your hand moves instinctively. Reaching beneath the fabric of your dress, to where your dagger should be… And isn’t. Your fingers close around nothing.
The realisation hits just as quickly as the movement itself, a flash of frustration cutting through the tension as you remember, too late, that you have not needed it for far too long. That the life you have been living here does not require weapons. That you had allowed yourself, even briefly, to forget.
But there is no time to dwell on it.
Your hand drops, your posture straightening as you take a step forward instead, your voice steady despite the quickened pace of your pulse.
“Who’s there?” The question carries through the garden, not loud, but firm enough to demand an answer.
None comes. Only the quiet murmur of water. The soft rustle of leaves shifting overhead. But the presence remains. You can feel it now, just beyond your line of sight, something watching, something waiting.
You move. Slowly, carefully, your steps measured as you circle the edge of the pond, your gaze fixed ahead, your attention sharp as you approach the curve of the path where the greenery thickens, where the view is partially obscured by overgrown branches and trailing vines.
The air feels heavier here. Closer.
You take one more step, your breath steady, your senses stretched thin as you reach the edge and then you turn the corner.
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
Not because of danger, not in the way your body had prepared for, but because of something far more disorienting- something that does not fit into the moment you had braced yourself for. The tension that had sharpened your senses a second ago does not disappear, but it shifts, warping into something unsteady, something that leaves you rooted in place rather than ready to move.
For a heartbeat, you cannot make sense of what you are seeing. It feels wrong.
Like a trick of the light. Like the kind of illusion your mind might conjure when it is too full, too overwhelmed, reaching for something familiar even when it should not be there.
Because it should not be him. Not here. Not now. And yet… He is.
Standing just beyond the curve of the path, partially obscured by the trailing branches and the dappled shadows cast by the trees, as though he has tried to remain hidden but has not quite succeeded. The sunlight catches on him in fragments, breaking across the edges of his figure, illuminating just enough to make him unmistakable.
Mingi.
The name rises in your chest before it reaches your lips, colliding with everything else that follows in its wake.
Confusion comes first. Sharp. Immediate.
Then frustration, just as quick, threading through the disbelief as though your mind is trying to correct itself, trying to make sense of something that refuses to be understood.
But beneath it, your heart. It does not hesitate. It does not question. It begins to pound, sudden and relentless, the sound of it filling your ears in a way that drowns out everything else, making it difficult to focus on anything but the fact that he is here, that he is real, that this is not something you have imagined.
He does not move. Not at first. He stands there, just inside the shadows, his posture held in a kind of stillness that feels too deliberate to be natural, as though any movement might break whatever fragile moment has formed between you.
And then you notice. The absence. The helm is gone.
There is nothing between you and him now. No barrier. No concealment. No distance forced by metal and silence. For the second time, there is nothing obscuring him, nothing softening the reality of his presence.
It makes it harder to breathe. Your lips part slightly before the sound finally comes, quieter than you expect, softer than the storm building inside you.
“Mingi…” His name feels different spoken here. Fragile. Uncertain. As though saying it too loudly might make him disappear.
You take a step forward before you fully realise you are moving, your body drawn toward him despite the caution that lingers in your mind. It is not rushed, not careless, but careful in a way that suggests you are still not entirely convinced this is real.
Another step. Closer now.
Your gaze does not leave him, searching his face, tracing every detail as though you need to confirm it for yourself, as though the longer you look, the more solid he will become.
Your voice does not come again. It does not need to.
The distance between you closes slowly, each step carrying with it the weight of everything that has not been said, everything that has been left behind. And still… You approach him. Carefully. As though, at any moment, he might vanish if you move too quickly.
The distance between you closes until there is nothing left of it.
Close enough now that the shadows no longer obscure him, that the last traces of doubt fall away entirely, leaving only the undeniable reality of him standing before you. The space feels smaller somehow, tighter, as though the air itself has shifted to accommodate something that was never meant to happen here.
You stop just in front of him. And for a moment, neither of you speaks.
His breathing is the first thing you notice. Not steady. Not controlled in the way you remember. It picks up as you approach, each inhale a fraction sharper than the last, as though he is trying to anchor himself and failing, as though simply standing here in front of you requires more effort than he had prepared for. His chest rises and falls beneath the lighter armour, the movement subtle but unmistakable, betraying something that the rest of him is trying very hard to hold in place.
His gaze does not leave you. Not even for a second.
It is fixed, unwavering in a way that feels almost too intense, as though if he were to look away- even briefly- you might disappear. There is no distance in it, no attempt to soften what he feels or hide it behind something easier.
He just… looks. And in that look, there is everything.
You feel it. The weight of it presses into the silence, making it difficult to breathe, to think, to do anything other than stand there and take it in.
It is you who breaks first. Your voice does not come easily. It catches, just slightly, the emotion beneath it slipping through before you can fully steady it. “What are you doing here…?”
The question is quiet, but it carries more than curiosity. There is confusion in it, and something else beneath that- something uncertain, something that does not quite know where to settle.
He exhales, though it does little to calm the unsteady rhythm of his breathing.
For the first time, there is a flicker of something in his expression that is not just intensity- something closer to uncertainty, as though he has reached the part he did not fully think through.
“I…” he begins, though the word lingers, unfinished for a moment as he searches for something that feels true enough to say.
“I don’t know.” The admission comes quieter than you expect. Honest in a way that leaves no room for anything else.
His hand shifts slightly at his side, fingers curling as though resisting the urge to reach for something that is no longer there, his gaze still locked on yours as he forces himself to continue.
“I didn’t have a plan,” he says, his voice rougher now, the edges of it unsteady in a way that does not belong to him. “I just–” He falters again, the words catching somewhere deeper this time.
“I had to see you.” There is no hesitation in that part. No doubt.
“Before you wed,” he adds, quieter still, though the weight of it lands just as heavily. “I had to see you one last time.”
The words settle between you, thick and unyielding.
One last time.
There is something final in the way he says it, something that presses into your chest and refuses to ease.
“And so you know the truth.” That is the part that shifts everything.
Your brows draw together slightly, confusion threading more clearly through your expression now as you study him, searching for meaning in words that feel incomplete, that feel like they belong to something you have not yet been told.
“The truth…?” you repeat, your voice softer now, though no less steady.
Your head tilts just slightly, your gaze never leaving his.
“What do you mean?”
He does not answer you straight away.
Your question lingers between you, fragile in a way that feels almost dangerous, as though the wrong movement might shatter it before it can be understood. For a moment, it seems as though he might retreat from it, might let the silence stretch long enough for the moment to pass untouched.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he draws in a breath.
It is unsteady, sharper than it should be, as though even that simple act requires effort now, as though the words sitting in his chest have made it difficult for him to breathe properly.
His gaze drops for the first time.
Only slightly, only for a moment, but it is enough to break the intensity of what had been holding you there, enough to show that this is not easy for him. His hand shifts again at his side, fingers curling into his palm, grounding himself in something physical before he lifts his eyes back to you.
And when he speaks… There is no armour left in it.
“I didn’t…” he starts, the words catching before he forces them forward, slower this time, more deliberate. “I didn’t see you as just another task.”
His voice is quieter now, stripped of anything sharp or guarded, leaving only something raw in its place.
“At least… not for long.”
He lets out a small breath, something almost bitter flickering through his expression as he shakes his head faintly, as though correcting himself even as he speaks.
“I told myself I did,” he continues. “That it was just my duty. That you were just…” his jaw tightens slightly, the word refusing to come easily. “Another part of it.”
There is a pause. Not empty. But heavy with the weight of what he is trying to unravel.
“I thought I disliked you,” he admits, the honesty in it cutting cleanly through the space between you. “At the start.”
Your chest tightens slightly at that, though you do not interrupt him. Because something in his voice tells you there is more. A lot more.
“But I didn’t,” he adds quickly, his gaze lifting again, sharper now, as though needing you to understand that part clearly. “I know that now.”
His breath leaves him again, slower this time, though it still lacks the steadiness he usually carries.
“I was jealous.”
The word lands heavier than anything before it. Not because of how loudly it is said, but because of how quietly. Because of how true it sounds.
“I was jealous that you had…” he pauses, searching, his eyes flicking away for just a second before returning to you. “Everything I didn’t.”
There is no anger in it. No accusation. Just something far more difficult to carry.
“You had parents,” he continues, his voice softer now, though it does not lose its weight. “You had a life that wasn’t… this.”
His hand lifts slightly, gesturing vaguely to himself, to the armour, to everything that has shaped him into what he is.
“You didn’t have blood on your hands,” he says, more quietly still.
The words settle heavily between you.
“And I hated that.”
He lets out a breath, something almost hollow, though there is no real bitterness left in it now- only understanding.
“At least, I thought I did.”
His gaze shifts slightly, not away from you entirely, but somewhere just past you, as though he is seeing something else layered over the present. A memory.
“I used to watch you,” he admits, the words slower now, more careful, as though each one is being pulled from somewhere deeper than the last. “When we were younger.”
Your breath stills.
“There were times I was close enough to see you without you ever noticing,” he continues, his voice distant in a way that suggests he is no longer entirely here, not in this moment. “You were always… different from everything around you.”
He shakes his head faintly, as though struggling to put it into words. “You laughed,” he says simply. “Like it came easily.”
There is something in the way he says it. Something that makes it feel important.
“And I couldn’t understand it,” he adds. “How you could live like that. How you could have that kind of life when I–”
He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening briefly before he exhales again, forcing himself back into the present.
“I envied you,” he says instead, more clearly now. “More than I realised at the time.” His gaze settles on you fully again.
“I thought it was hatred,” he admits. “It was easier to call it that. Easier to believe I didn’t care.”
Another pause. Shorter this time. Because what comes next does not need to be searched for.
“And then…” his voice softens, the edge of it fading into something steadier, though no less intense. “I got to know you.”
Properly.
The word hangs there, unspoken but understood. His expression shifts, just slightly. Not lighter. But clearer.
“And everything I thought I understood… changed.”
The words he has already given you linger heavily between you, but you can feel there is more.
It shows in the way he hesitates again, not because he does not know what to say, but because he does, and that makes it harder. His gaze falters just slightly, not fully leaving you, but no longer as steady as before, as though what comes next requires something from him he is not used to giving.
For a moment, it seems like he might stop there. Like he might leave it unfinished.
But then, he exhales. “You were…” he starts, quieter now, his voice losing what little steadiness it had managed to regain. “You were the only one who ever made me feel like I was more than that.”
His hand lifts slightly again, though this time it does not gesture outward, does not point to anything visible. It hovers for a second, uncertain, before falling back to his side.
“More than a weapon,” he continues, the words coming slower, more deliberate. “More than something that was just… used when needed.”
There is no bitterness in it. Just truth.
“I’ve spent my entire life being told what I am,” he says, his gaze flicking away briefly, jaw tightening before he forces himself to meet your eyes again. “What I’m meant to be. What I’m worth.”
The faintest shake of his head follows, subtle but enough to carry meaning. “And none of it had anything to do with me as a person.”
The air between you feels thinner somehow. Like it has been stripped down to something more honest than either of you expected to face.
“But with you…” his voice softens, the edge of it fading into something almost unfamiliar, something that feels quieter, more careful. “That wasn’t all I was.”
His gaze steadies again, not intense in the same way as before, but deeper now, more exposed.
“You spoke to me like I was… human,” he says, the word coming out softer than the rest. “Like I wasn’t just something standing there for a purpose.”
There is a brief pause, though this one feels different. Less uncertain. More… real.
“I didn’t even realise what it felt like until I had it,” he admits, a faint, almost disbelieving breath leaving him as though the memory itself still surprises him. “To just… exist around someone without needing to be anything else.”
His lips press together briefly, as though holding something back before he lets it go anyway.
“With you, I–” He stops. Not because he cannot say it. But because he is choosing how.
“I had fun,” he finishes, the words quieter now, but carrying more weight than anything before them. “For the first time in my life.”
There is something almost fragile in the admission. Something that makes it feel far more significant than it should.
His gaze shifts slightly again, though this time it does not fully leave you, hovering just at the edge of your face as though the next part is harder still.
“And…” he begins, slower now, the hesitation returning, though not strong enough to stop him. “I realised something else.”
The space between you feels tighter. Closer.
“How beautiful I thought you were.”
The words are not rushed. They are not thrown out carelessly. They are placed carefully, deliberately, as though he has carried them for far too long to say them any other way.
“And that made it worse,” he adds, almost under his breath, though the words still reach you clearly. His jaw tightens slightly, the vulnerability in his expression sharpening just for a moment.
“That’s why I never took off the helm around you,” he admits, his voice quieter again, though steadier now that it has been said. “Not really.” His gaze drops for the briefest second before lifting again, forcing himself to hold your eyes.
“I didn’t think I could,” he continues. “Not when you looked like that.”
There is no bitterness in the comparison. Only something heavier.
“I felt…” he searches for the word, though it seems he already knows it. “Ugly.” It is not said with self-pity. It is said like fact.
“Inside and out,” he adds, more quietly. “I couldn’t–”
He stops himself, though the meaning is already clear. He couldn’t compare. The silence that follows feels different from before. Not empty. But full of everything he has just placed into it.
And it is too much. Too much to simply let sit there without response.
“Mingi…” you say, his name softer now, threaded with something that does not quite know how to exist in the space he has created. There is an instinct in you to correct him. To push back against what he has said. To tell him he is wrong. And it lingers there, just beneath the surface, waiting to be spoken.
“That’s not true.”
The words leave you before you can stop them, soft but firm in a way that does not waver, as though something in you refuses to let what he has said simply exist without being challenged. There is no hesitation in it now, no careful distance, only a quiet certainty that settles between you as you step closer still.
Your hands lift without thinking.
They find his face gently, your palms resting against his skin as though grounding him, as though proving something that words alone cannot quite carry. His breath stutters at the contact, the tension that had been holding him together faltering in an instant as he leans into it without resistance, without question.
It is instinctive. Uncontrolled.
The weight of him shifts forward just slightly, his eyes closing for the briefest moment as something deeper breaks through the surface, something he has been holding back for far too long.
Then, he exhales. It is heavy, the kind of breath that feels like it has been trapped in his chest for years, leaving him all at once in a way that almost steals the air from the space between you. His shoulders drop with it, the rigid control he had been clinging to slipping just enough to reveal what sits beneath.
Your touch does not move. It stays, steady, warm, anchoring him there.
“I didn’t realise…” he begins again, his voice quieter now, though it carries more than it did before, shaped by everything he has already said. “I didn’t realise what it was until you walked away.”
Your chest tightens slightly at that, your gaze searching his, trying to understand the depth of what he means before he continues.
“I thought…” he pauses, his brows pulling together just faintly as though even now he is trying to untangle the memory. “I thought I didn’t want you to go because I was… alone.”
The word feels insufficient. Even he seems to know it.
“That it was just that,” he adds, his voice rougher now, the truth of it catching somewhere in his throat. “That I didn’t want to lose the only person who spoke to me like that. The only person who made things feel… different.”
His eyes open fully again, locking onto yours with a clarity that was not there before.
“But it wasn’t that,” he says, more firmly now, though the vulnerability does not fade with it. “Not just that.”
The silence stretches for only a moment. Long enough for you to feel it.
“I fell for you,” he admits.
There is no hesitation left in it now. No uncertainty. Just truth, laid bare in a way that leaves no room for anything else.
Your breath catches. The weight of the words presses into your chest, into your ribs, into something that feels too fragile to hold it all at once. You feel it before you understand it, the emotion rising too quickly, too sharply, your vision blurring slightly as it settles behind your eyes.
You do not look away. But the tears come anyway. One slips free before you can stop it, tracing a slow path down your cheek, warm against your skin, betraying something you had not yet put into words.
His expression shifts the moment he sees it. Not panic. Not regret. Something softer.
His hand lifts carefully, almost hesitantly, as though unsure if he should, before his thumb brushes gently against your skin, catching the tear before it can fall further. The touch is light, careful in a way that contrasts with everything else he has carried, as though he is afraid of doing something wrong, even now.
“I know…” he says quietly, his voice dropping again, the earlier steadiness replaced with something more raw. “I know I’m being selfish.”
The admission is not defensive. It is simply… honest. His hand lingers there for just a moment longer before it falls back to his side, though his gaze does not leave yours.
“But I can’t help it,” he continues, the words quieter now, though no less certain. “I tried.” There is a faint shake of his head, subtle but enough to carry meaning.
“I told myself it didn’t matter,” he adds. “That it wasn’t something I should… want.” His eyes flicker briefly, something pained crossing his expression before it settles again.
“But it does,” he says. And in the space between you, it feels like everything.
“Mingi…”
His name leaves your lips again, softer this time, shaped by everything that has settled between you, by everything he has just placed into your hands without asking for anything in return. Your thumbs remain gently against his face, your touch steady even as your heart continues to race beneath your ribs, even as your thoughts struggle to keep pace with what you are feeling.
For a moment, you simply look at him. Truly look. At the way his expression has softened, at the way something so guarded has been stripped back to something real, something unhidden. It makes your chest ache in a way that is difficult to ignore, in a way that demands to be answered.
“I felt it too,” you say, your voice quiet but unwavering, the truth of it settling into the space between you just as firmly as his had.
His breath stills slightly at that.
“Not just… part of it,” you continue, your gaze never leaving his. “All of it.”
Your hands shift just slightly, not pulling away, but adjusting as though you are grounding yourself as much as you are holding him there.
“The envy,” you admit, the word coming easier than you expect, as though it has been waiting to be spoken for far too long. “I understood that more than I ever let on.”
There is a faint, almost disbelieving breath that escapes you, though there is no bitterness in it– only honesty.
“I hated it,” you continue, your voice softening, though it does not lose its steadiness. “The rules. The expectations. The way everything was decided for me before I even had the chance to understand it.”
Your gaze flickers just slightly, as though the memories themselves are too close to fully ignore. “My sister,” you add more quietly, though the weight of her presence is clear even in the brief mention. “The way I was always meant to stand beside her. To be… proper. To be what they needed me to be.”
Your fingers press just a fraction more firmly against his skin, not enough to hurt, only enough to anchor yourself in the present.
“I wanted to be free,” you say, the words coming with more clarity now, more certainty. “Like you. Like the knights. Like anyone who didn’t have to think about every step they took, every word they said.”
Your lips part slightly, your breath catching for just a second as you hold his gaze. “I thought it was simple,” you admit. “That if I had that, everything would be better.”
There is a quiet pause, though it feels different from the others. More reflective.
“I know now that it isn’t,” you say, more softly. “That it comes with its own weight. Its own… cost.”
Your expression softens just slightly, something more vulnerable settling into your features as your voice lowers.
“But that didn’t change what I felt.” The words sit between you, steady and undeniable.
“Because I fell for you too.”
There is no hesitation in it. No uncertainty. Just truth, given as openly as he had given his.
Your breath leaves you slowly, your chest rising and falling as the weight of it settles, as the reality of what you have just said becomes impossible to take back.
“I didn’t want to leave,” you admit, more quietly now, the emotion threading more clearly through your voice. “Not really.”
Your gaze dips for just a fraction of a second before returning to him, as though even that small break is difficult. “But I had to,” you continue. “For my safety.” The word feels heavier now. More complicated.
He nods. There is no resistance in it, no argument, only understanding that comes far too easily, as though he had already accepted that part long before this moment.
“I know,” he says quietly. “I wanted that too.” His gaze softens, something steady returning to it despite everything else. “I still do.”
The words do not linger long, because yours follow almost immediately, carried by something that has been building beneath the surface, something that refuses to stay unspoken any longer.
“But being safe…”
Your voice falters just slightly, not from uncertainty, but from the weight of what you are about to say. You look at him fully. No distance. No hesitation. “…is nowhere near as good as what I felt with you.”
The words linger between you, still warm, still alive in the space they have created.
He hears them. Truly hears them. And for a moment, everything in him stills.
It is as though his heart forgets how to beat, as though the world narrows down to just that one sentence, repeating over and over in his mind, refusing to settle, refusing to be anything less than everything. The weight of it crashes into him all at once, breaking through every last piece of restraint he had been holding onto, every careful boundary he had tried to keep in place.
He should think. He should stop. He should remember where he is, what this means, what comes next.
But he doesn’t. Because before he can catch the thought, before reason can even begin to form- He moves.
His hand comes up first, instinctive and sure, closing around you as he leans down, pulling you toward him with a desperation that has nothing to do with hesitation and everything to do with how long he has held this back. The distance between you disappears in an instant, his lips finding yours in a way that is anything but careful.
It is not a gentle kiss. It is not hesitant.
It is everything he has been holding in, everything he has tried to bury, everything he told himself he would never allow himself to feel.
It is urgency. It’s want. It is something that feels dangerously close to breaking.
Your breath catches sharply at the contact, the suddenness of it stealing the air from your lungs, your hands tightening slightly against him in surprise as the world tilts around you. For a brief second, your body does not know how to respond, caught between shock and something far more overwhelming.
But then… You feel it.
The way he holds you, not carelessly, but tightly, as though letting go is not an option. The way his breath falters against yours, unsteady, uneven, like he is just as lost in this as you are. The way the kiss itself is not controlled, not measured, but filled with something that has been waiting far too long to exist.
And you melt into it.
Your hands shift, no longer just holding, but returning the touch, your fingers curling slightly as you lean into him rather than away, the hesitation fading as quickly as it had come. The initial surprise dissolves into something deeper, something that feels like it has always been there, just beneath the surface, waiting for this moment to finally break through.
The world around you falls away.
The garden, the pond, the castle beyond it – all of it fades into nothing, leaving only this small, suspended moment where nothing else exists. The warmth of the air, the sound of the water, the distant echo of voices from the village – it all disappears, replaced by the steady rhythm of your heartbeat and the closeness of him.
His hand tightens slightly at your back, pulling you closer still, as though even the smallest space between you is too much, as though this is something he needs to hold onto before it slips away.
There is no thought in it. No restraint. Just feeling.
And it consumes everything.
The kiss does not end quickly.
It lingers, deepening rather than fading, as though neither of you knows how to let go, as though breaking away would mean returning to a reality that neither of you is ready to face. His grip remains firm against you, not forceful, but certain, holding you close like something he has already lost once and refuses to lose again.
Time stretches.
It becomes difficult to tell how long you remain like that, caught in something that feels suspended, removed from everything beyond the space you occupy. The warmth of him, the uneven rhythm of his breath, the way your own heartbeat seems to match his without thought– it all blends into something that feels dangerously close to everything you have ever wanted and everything you should not have.
Eventually, the need for air pulls you apart. Not far. Just enough.
Your breath comes quickly, uneven, your chest rising and falling as you try to steady yourself, your forehead resting against his as though neither of you is willing to create more distance than necessary. His breathing mirrors yours, just as unsteady, just as affected, the closeness of it making it impossible to ignore what has just happened.
Neither of you speaks at first. There is no need.
The silence is full, heavy with everything that has already been said, everything that has been felt without words.
His hand remains at your back, though the tension in it has shifted slightly, no longer driven purely by urgency, but something softer now, something that lingers rather than demands.
You feel his breath against your skin as he exhales slowly, though it does little to steady him.
“I’m…” he starts, his voice rough, the word catching before he forces it through. His forehead presses lightly against yours, as though grounding himself in the contact.
“I’m sorry.” The apology is quiet. But it does not come cleanly.
Because as he speaks, he leans forward again, his lips finding yours once more, softer this time, though no less certain. The word does not stand alone, it is broken, interrupted by the way he kisses you again, as though the apology itself cannot exist without being tangled in what he has already done.
“For being…” he murmurs, the words brushing against your lips, barely spoken before they dissolve into another kiss, one that lingers just long enough to blur the edges of what he is trying to say.
“Selfish.”
The final word comes quieter, more complete, though it too is softened by the way he does not quite pull away fully, as though even now he cannot bring himself to create the space that would make the apology feel real.
When he finally does, it is only by a fraction. Just enough to look at you. Truly look at you.
Your foreheads separate slowly, though the closeness remains, your breaths still mingling in the small space between you. His gaze searches yours, not with uncertainty, but with something deeper, something that feels as though it is trying to hold onto this moment for as long as it can.
You meet it. Without hesitation. Without looking away.
For a brief second, everything stills again, not in the same overwhelming way as before, but in something quieter, something that feels like the calm before something shifts.
Because it does. A voice cuts through the space.
“Princess…?”
It is not loud. It does not need to be. The familiarity of it alone is enough to break everything.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, a sharp breath pulling from your lungs as you step back abruptly, the warmth of Mingi’s presence slipping from you in an instant, replaced by something colder, something far more real.
Guilt settles just as quickly. Heavy. Immediate.
Your gaze shifts, drawn toward the source of the voice, your heart still racing, though now for entirely different reasons.
Aurelian stands at the edge of the garden.
There is a pause. Not long. But long enough to feel like everything.
His gaze moves between you.
Taking in the distance that did not exist moments ago. The closeness that still lingers despite it. The way your breath has not yet steadied. The way Mingi stands just behind you, unmistakable, impossible to ignore.
Something shifts in his expression. Not loud. Not outward. But there.
And when he finally speaks again, his voice is calm. Too calm.
Genre: Enemies(?) to lover, dark fantasy, medieval au, adventure, slowburn, knight x princess, angst, eventual fluff, very very slight (if you squint) suggestive wording
She fled a kingdom that wanted her blood. He fled a crown he refused to kneel to. Their paths weren't meant to cross... but fate wanted a different story. The kingdom wanted her dead. The knight wanted nothing to do with her. But the moment she saw the eyes beneath his helm... she stopped running from danger, and started running towards him.
The forest thins slowly, reluctantly, as though the trees themselves are hesitant to reveal what lies beyond them.
Mingi pushes forward regardless.
Branches snap beneath the force of his blade as he cuts through the last of the dense undergrowth, steel flashing in short, efficient movements that betray long years of training. Twigs and leaves fall around his boots, scattering across the damp earth while he forces a narrow passage through the final curtain of green.
Then the trees open. He steps out onto a rise overlooking a clearing so vast that for a moment even he pauses.
Below him stretches the resistance encampment.
It sprawls across the wide basin like a living thing, vibrant and restless beneath the late afternoon light. Tents of deep red and sun-faded yellow rise in neat rows, their pointed tops swaying gently in the breeze like a field of strange, colourful spears. Some are small enough for a single occupant, while others stretch wide enough to shelter entire groups, their canvas walls patched and reinforced with mismatched cloth gathered from a hundred different places.
Fires burn throughout the camp, their smoke rising in thin grey ribbons that twist lazily into the sky. The scent of woodsmoke drifts across the clearing, mingling with the sharp tang of iron and sweat.
Near the centre of the camp, several blacksmiths work tirelessly at crude but effective forges, hammering glowing metal against anvils with ringing strikes that echo through the valley. Sparks leap into the air with every blow, scattering like angry fireflies as weapons begin to take shape beneath their skilled hands.
A narrow river winds its way through the encampment, its cool water glinting as it curls around clusters of tents before disappearing again into the surrounding forest. Fighters kneel along its banks to wash blood from blades or refill battered canteens, their voices low but constant as plans and rumours travel between them.
At the far end of the camp stands a single structure larger than the rest.
A massive command tent rises upon a wooden platform raised above the surrounding ground, its reinforced frame bound tightly with rope and heavy timber beams. Guards move in and out of it with quiet urgency, suggesting that whatever decisions are being made inside will shape the fate of everyone gathered below.
But it is not the structures that truly hold Mingi’s attention.
It is the people… or rather, the beings.
They move through the camp in numbers that would make most kingdoms fall into panic if they saw them gathered in one place.
Centaurs stride confidently between the tents, their powerful hooves striking the earth with steady rhythm as they carry bundles of arrows and supplies. Slender figures with shimmering wings- fae, unmistakably- hover above the campfires, their faint laughter occasionally drifting through the air as they exchange quiet conversations with cloaked figures who bear the unmistakable markings of forest elves.
Humans move among them as well, though their armour is rougher, mismatched pieces gathered from battlefields rather than forged for ceremony.
Beyond them stand creatures that most kingdoms insist no longer exist.
Massive orcs with thick grey skin sharpen brutal axes beside wizened wizards whose robes trail through the dirt as they mutter over glowing runes etched into the ground. A towering creature with bark-like skin, some distant cousin of the forest itself, lumbers past carrying an entire cart of supplies as though it weighs nothing at all.
Everywhere Mingi looks, different races work together with quiet purpose.
Not hidden. Not extinct. Alive.
A slow understanding settles over him as he studies the camp below.
The kingdoms had always described the forest as dangerous, a cursed place crawling with beasts and monsters that would tear apart anyone foolish enough to enter it. But standing here now, watching an entire civilisation thrive beneath the shelter of ancient trees, the truth becomes painfully obvious. The forest was never dangerous because of what lived within it. It was dangerous because the kingdoms never wanted anyone to discover that these creatures had survived at all.
A dry, amused voice drifts up beside him.
“Well,” Mr Bramble says, flicking his bushy tail as he peers over the edge of the rise, “if there were ever a place where you might blend in, this would be it.”
Mingi exhales through his nose, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a restrained growl.
The fox continues anyway, of course.
“Look at them,” Bramble goes on, tilting his head thoughtfully while his sharp eyes roam across the encampment below. “Half the kingdoms would faint dead away if they saw this gathering. Orcs beside elves, fae dancing above the campfires, and a knight who abandoned his crown standing right in the middle of it all. You, my friend, are practically one of them already.”
Mingi says nothing. He simply tightens his grip around the hilt of his sword before beginning the descent down the slope, his heavy boots pressing flattened paths through the tall grass as he makes his way toward the sprawling camp below.
Mr Bramble trots after him, weaving easily between stones and roots. “Try not to get yourself killed in the first five minutes,” the fox adds lightly. “It would be terribly inconvenient after all the effort it took to get you here.”
Mingi glances down at him briefly. “Stay close,” he mutters.
Bramble’s ears perk with mild surprise. “Worried about me?”
“No,” Mingi replies flatly as he continues walking. “Worried about what happens if they decide you’re dinner.”
The fox snorts. “Charming.”
As they approach the outer edge of the encampment, the sounds of activity grow louder. The ring of hammer against metal carries sharply through the air, mingling with low voices, the crackle of firewood, and the restless shifting of creatures who have learned to live with one eye always watching the dark edges of the forest.
And watch they do. Heads begin to turn as Mingi steps fully into view. Conversations falter. Movements slow. Eyes follow him immediately. Suspicious eyes. Curious ones. Some openly hostile.
The gleam of his palace-forged armour does not go unnoticed among the rough leathers and mismatched battle gear worn by the resistance fighters. It catches the firelight too cleanly, too perfectly maintained, marking him instantly as someone who once belonged to the very systems that hunted many of them into hiding.
A large orc near one of the forges lets out a low huff as Mingi passes. A pair of elves exchange quiet words between themselves.
Further down the path, a centaur pauses mid-step, watching the knight with open distrust.
The weight of those stares presses in from every direction as Mingi walks deeper into the camp.
He does not slow. He does not acknowledge them. But the tension thickens with every step.
Eventually, someone moves.
A broad-shouldered man steps into his path, planting himself firmly in the dirt with a sneer curling across his scarred face. His armour is battered and mismatched, pieces clearly salvaged from different battles, and a jagged axe rests loosely in one hand.
His gaze travels slowly over Mingi’s polished armour. “Lost, palace boy?” the man says, his voice thick with disdain. “You don’t look like you belong here.”
Mr Bramble mutters quietly behind him. “Oh good. It took longer than I expected for someone to try that.”
Mingi stops. For a moment, neither of them move. Then the knight speaks, his voice calm and even. “I’m looking for whoever leads this camp.”
The man’s lip curls further. “That so?”
A few nearby fighters begin to drift closer, drawn by the rising tension. Orcs straighten from their work. A fae hovering nearby goes silent. Even the centaur from earlier turns fully toward the scene.
The challenger rolls his shoulders slowly. “And you think you can just walk in here,” he continues, tapping the blunt side of his axe against his palm, “dressed like one of their pretty soldiers, and demand an audience?”
Mingi says nothing. His silence only fuels the man’s anger.
The fighter’s expression darkens as he steps forward, raising the axe slightly. “Wrong answer.” With a sudden roar, he charges.
Steel meets steel with a sharp crack that echoes through the nearby tents.
The charging man’s axe comes down with brutal force, but Mingi moves before the full weight of the strike can land. His sword rises in a clean arc, catching the blow with practiced precision, the impact shuddering briefly through his arm before he shifts his footing and pushes the weapon aside.
The man staggers half a step as his momentum carries him forward.
Mingi does not waste the opening.
In one fluid movement he draws his blade fully, the metal flashing as it clears the sheath with a quiet, deadly whisper. The sword settles easily into his grip, as though it has been waiting there the entire time.
Around them, the growing crowd leans in.
The man recovers quickly, baring his teeth as he swings again, this time aiming low in a brutal sideways strike meant to break bone rather than simply disarm. Mingi pivots out of the path of the axe, the blade of his own weapon snapping forward to intercept it once more.
Their weapons clash again. And again.
Each strike grows faster, heavier, sparks snapping into the air where metal scrapes against metal. The man fights with brute strength, his blows powerful enough to crush a weaker opponent outright, but Mingi meets every attack with the controlled efficiency of someone who has been trained for war since childhood.
He does not overreach. He does not rush. He simply waits. Watching. Learning.
The axe whistles toward his shoulder, and this time Mingi turns the strike aside so sharply that the weapon bites uselessly into the dirt beside his boot. Before the man can wrench it free, Mingi’s sword is already at his throat.
The camp falls silent. Not even the wind seems to move.
The man freezes where he stands, his breathing heavy, eyes flicking between the blade pressed lightly against his skin and the unreadable helm staring back at him.
Behind them, Mr Bramble quietly sidesteps out of the widening circle of fighters.
“Yes,” the fox mutters under his breath as he retreats a safe distance. “Let’s all swing extremely large weapons while I stand directly in the middle. Brilliant plan.”
The tension stretches like a drawn bowstring.
And then- A voice cuts through the camp.
“Enough.”
The single word rolls across the clearing like distant thunder.
Both men pause instantly. Slowly, the crowd begins to part.
High above them, standing at the entrance of the raised command tent, is the largest centaur Mingi has ever seen.
The creature’s upper body is broad and powerful, his arms thick with muscle and crossed calmly over his chest, while the massive body of the horse beneath him shifts with quiet authority. His dark mane falls down his back like a storm cloud, and the heavy armour strapped across his torso gleams faintly beneath the firelight.
His sharp eyes sweep across the gathered fighters below. Displeasure radiates from him without a single shout.
The centaur begins to descend from the platform. Each step down the wooden ramp is slow, deliberate, and by the time he reaches the ground, the crowd has already opened a wide path before him.
No one blocks his way. No one dares.
He approaches the standoff, his gaze moving first to the axe-wielding man, then to the knight standing calmly with his sword still raised.
“What,” the centaur asks evenly, “is going on here?”
The man immediately lowers his weapon. “He’s an intruder,” the fighter answers, jerking his chin toward Mingi. “Walked straight into camp wearing palace steel.”
The centaur’s gaze shifts to Mingi. For a moment, the two simply study one another. Then the centaur speaks again. “Did you come alone?”
Mingi lowers his blade but does not sheath it. “It’s just me,” he replies, nodding slightly toward the fox now sitting several paces away, tail wrapped neatly around his paws. “And him.”
The centaur glances briefly at Mr Bramble, who offers a polite little dip of his head. “Charmed,” the fox says.
The centaur looks back to Mingi. Another moment passes as he seems to weigh something silently.
Then he turns away. “Follow me,” he says simply.
Without waiting for a response, the centaur begins walking toward the raised command tent, the crowd parting once again to clear his path as murmurs ripple through the gathered fighters.
After a brief pause, Mingi sheathes his sword. And follows.
The inside of the command tent feels far larger than it appeared from the outside.
As Mingi steps beneath the thick canvas entrance, the space opens around him in a wide circular chamber supported by enormous beams of dark timber driven deep into the ground. The wood is rough and scarred, clearly hauled straight from the surrounding forest, their bark still clinging stubbornly to the trunks as though the trees themselves have been drafted into service.
The air inside carries the warm scent of smoke and leather.
Lantern light glows softly above them, cast from a great iron fixture hanging from the centre beam. Eight candles burn within the circular frame, their flames swaying gently with every shift of the canvas walls, throwing long shadows that dance across maps, weapons, and supply crates arranged around the room.
But the chamber does not end there.
Several openings branch off from the main space, their canvas flaps pulled aside to reveal smaller rooms beyond- private quarters perhaps, or strategy chambers where quieter discussions take place away from the constant movement of the camp outside.
For a moment, the only sound is the faint crackle of candle wicks.
Then the centaur turns. His towering form nearly fills the space even beneath the high canvas ceiling. From this close, Mingi can see the thick leather armour wrapped across the creature’s chest and shoulders, marked by deep scratches and stains from battles long past.
The centaur’s sharp gaze settles on him. “Drop your weapon.” The command is not shouted. It doesn’t need to be.
Mingi feels the weight of it immediately. His hand tightens slightly around the hilt of his sword as instinct flares in his chest. Every lesson drilled into him since childhood urges caution, reminding him that surrendering a weapon in unfamiliar territory can easily become a fatal mistake.
But the centaur stands nearly a full head taller than him even in his human half, the powerful body beneath him shifting with quiet strength that could crush bone without effort.
And more importantly- This is their camp. Their rules.
After a brief pause, Mingi slowly reaches for the hilt and pulls the blade free just enough to slide it fully from its sheath. The steel glints once in the candlelight. Then he lowers it carefully to the ground. The soft thud of metal against packed earth fills the silence.
The centaur watches the entire movement without blinking.
Only when Mingi steps back does the creature move again, circling slowly as his gaze travels over the knight’s armour piece by piece.
The polished steel plates. The royal insignia carved faintly into the breastplate. The unmistakable craftsmanship of a palace forge.
“You’re one of Edrea’s,” the centaur says at last. The words land like a stone dropped into still water.
For the first time since entering the tent, something sharp flashes through Mingi’s posture. A low sound escapes his throat- something dangerously close to a growl. “No,” he says.
The centaur pauses.
Mingi’s voice comes again, firmer now. “Not anymore.” His shoulders square slightly beneath the armour. “I left the moment she was announced queen.”
The centaur says nothing, but his eyes narrow slightly.
“I’ve been gone since,” Mingi continues, his tone steady despite the tension still hanging in the room. “There hasn’t been much time to find new armour.”
His gaze flicks briefly down toward the palace steel still strapped across his body. “So this,” he adds quietly, “is what I’ve got.”
For a moment the tent holds only silence, the faint flicker of candlelight moving slowly across the thick wooden beams as Kuldrane studies the knight standing before him.
Mingi does not look away. Eventually he speaks again.
“I heard there was a resistance forming,” he says, his voice carrying the rough steadiness of someone who has already made the decision long before arriving here. “An army gathering in the forest. One that intends to fight back instead of hiding from her.”
His eyes move briefly toward the entrance of the tent, where the distant sounds of the encampment drift faintly through the canvas walls- hammering metal, murmured voices, the restless movement of creatures who have been forced to carve out their survival far from the kingdoms that once hunted them.
“I came to join it.”
The centaur remains still for a long moment, the powerful muscles in his broad shoulders shifting slightly as he considers the statement. His sharp gaze moves once more across the armour, the weapon resting on the ground, the rigid stance of the man wearing it.
Then he asks quietly, “Your name.”
“Mingi.”
The centaur gives a slow nod, as though committing the name to memory. “Kuldrane,” he replies in return.
The name carries a certain weight when he says it, the sort that suggests it is known among those who fight within these woods. His deep voice settles naturally into the quiet authority he holds over the camp outside.
Kuldrane steps a little closer now, the heavy movement of his hooves against the ground sounding solid and deliberate. “And what,” he asks, “took you so long to find us, Mingi?”
A soft sound interrupts the moment. Mr Bramble lets out a low chuckle somewhere behind Mingi’s shoulder. The fox has made himself quite comfortable near the entrance of the tent, tail curled neatly around his paws while his sharp eyes gleam with amusement.
Mingi’s shoulders stiffen slightly at the sound.
“Careful,” the fox says lightly, glancing between the two of them. “That question may take a while to answer.”
Mingi shoots him a brief glare that could strip bark from a tree.
The fox only looks more pleased with himself.
Kuldrane waits.
Finally Mingi exhales slowly through his nose. “The princess,” he says simply.
The words land with surprising clarity in the quiet space.
Kuldrane’s expression shifts ever so slightly, recognition passing through his eyes as the meaning settles into place. The rumours have travelled far through the kingdoms and deeper still through the forest- whispers of the youngest princess of Eirendale accused of treachery, of a royal daughter forced to flee her own home while her sister seized the throne.
Even here, beyond the reach of the kingdoms, the story has been heard.
“You found her,” Kuldrane says. It is not quite a question.
Mingi gives a short nod.
Kuldrane studies him carefully for another moment before asking the next thing that matters. “And is she safe now?”
Something about the question causes a small tightening in Mingi’s jaw. The answer comes a moment later, rougher than before. “Yes.”
The word is clipped, controlled, though not entirely steady. “She’s in Valemere.”
Kuldrane nods again, accepting the information with the quiet understanding of someone who knows the weight of royal politics well enough not to press further.
Behind them, Mr Bramble flicks one ear thoughtfully. “Safe,” the fox repeats softly to himself, though the faint tone in his voice suggests he may not entirely agree with the certainty of the word.
Kuldrane remains quiet for a moment longer, the heavy stillness of the tent settling between them as he considers the knight standing before him.
Then his expression shifts, not into warmth exactly, but into something closer to measured approval. “I saw what happened outside,” the centaur says at last, his deep voice carrying easily through the timber-framed chamber. “The way you handled that challenge.”
His gaze drifts briefly toward the entrance of the tent, where the sounds of the encampment continue beyond the canvas walls.
“You defended yourself cleanly. No wasted movement. No unnecessary violence.”
His eyes return to Mingi. “That tells me enough.”
The centaur’s powerful body shifts slightly as he folds his arms across his broad chest. “And more importantly,” Kuldrane continues, “you abandoned a crown that demanded your loyalty.”
The words hang for a moment. “But you did not abandon your honour.”
Mingi says nothing.
Kuldrane’s gaze sharpens. “You protected the princess instead.” The simple statement lands harder than any accusation.
Every mention of her feels like a blade pressing deeper beneath Mingi’s ribs. The memory rises uninvited- the warmth of her hand against his face, the quiet steadiness of her voice, the brief brush of her lips against his cheek before she disappeared into the safety of Valemere.
He forces the thought down.
Kuldrane nods once, satisfied with whatever silent conclusions he has drawn. “You fought well,” he says. “And if what you say is true, then you’ve done more good than most soldiers who served beneath that throne.”
His eyes travel once more over the armour still strapped across Mingi’s body. That palace steel gleams even in the dim candlelight, its craftsmanship unmistakable. Kuldrane gestures toward it. “We’ll get you something better.”
Mingi tilts his head slightly. “Better?”
“Armour forged for fighters,” Kuldrane replies. “Not for royal parades.” His voice carries a faint edge of humour now. “You can remove the helm for the time being. No one here will mistake you for Edrea’s soldier once that crest disappears.”
Behind them, Mr Bramble immediately perks up. “Oh, this I’d like to see.”
The fox rises from where he’s been sitting, padding closer with obvious interest. “He never takes it off,” Bramble announces casually, circling around to inspect Mingi from the side. “Not once since I’ve known him.”
His tail swishes thoughtfully. “I don’t even know what the man looks like.”
Mingi stands still. The words settle heavier than they should.
For years the helm has been more than armour- it has been a wall, a shield between the violence he was forced to carry out and the part of himself that might have broken beneath it.
Behind the metal, he could become something else. Something less human. Something easier.
But standing here now, in a camp filled with creatures the kingdoms swore no longer existed… something about that old instinct feels less necessary.
Is this place different? Is this somewhere he can finally stop pretending?
His fingers rise slowly toward the edge of the helm. For a moment he hesitates. Then the clasps release.
The metal lifts away.
Cool air immediately brushes across his face, slipping through his dark hair and over skin that has been hidden beneath steel for far too long. The weight of the helm leaves his hands, and for the first time in what feels like years the forest wind touches him without obstruction.
Mr Bramble goes completely still. “Well,” the fox murmurs quietly.
Kuldrane watches without comment.
Mingi looks down at the helm in his hands for a moment. The crest of Eirendale gleams faintly along its surface. A symbol of a kingdom that no longer belongs to him.
He lowers it toward the ground and sets it beside the sword he surrendered earlier. Then he straightens.
“Burn it.”
Kuldrane studies him for a moment. Then the centaur nods. “You’ll have a new kit by nightfall,” he says. “Weapons. Armour. Everything you’ll need.” His voice lowers slightly as he adds,
“There will be no trace of Edrea inside this camp.”
Kuldrane does not linger long after the decision is made.
With a quiet gesture of his hand, he turns and steps back through the canvas entrance, the heavy flap swaying briefly behind him as he exits the command tent. Mingi retrieves his sword from the packed earth, though he leaves the discarded helm where it lies, its metal surface catching one last flicker of candlelight before the darkness of the tent swallows it.
Outside, the encampment hums with the same restless energy it held before.
The sky has begun to deepen toward evening now, the fading light casting long amber shadows between the rows of tents. Fires burn brighter as the sun lowers, their glow illuminating faces hardened by years of exile and quiet resistance. Conversations drift across the clearing in dozens of languages, the mixture of voices blending with the constant rhythm of hammering metal from the smithing area near the centre of camp.
Kuldrane leads the way through the narrow paths that wind between the tents.
Few speak as they pass, though more than a few pairs of eyes follow them with cautious interest. The sight of the knight walking beside the centaur leader is enough to quiet most suspicions for now, though the occasional low murmur still ripples through the crowd.
They move toward the outer edge of the encampment, where the ground slopes gently down toward the narrow river that threads its way through the clearing.
The air is cooler here.
The water glides past in a steady silver ribbon, its soft current reflecting the deepening hues of the evening sky. Tall grasses line the banks, whispering quietly whenever the breeze moves through them, and a massive oak tree spreads its thick branches above the river’s bend, its roots twisting into the earth like the knuckles of an ancient hand.
Nestled beneath that tree stands a smaller tent.
Unlike the larger ones nearer the centre of camp, this one is simple but well-kept—its canvas walls patched carefully, its ropes tied tight against the shifting winds that move through the valley.
Kuldrane slows beside it. “This will be yours,” he says, gesturing toward the tent with a slight incline of his head. “Close enough to the river for water. Far enough from the forge smoke to breathe properly.”
Mr Bramble steps ahead of Mingi immediately, padding toward the entrance with curious enthusiasm as he peers inside.
“Well,” the fox says thoughtfully after a moment, “I’ve certainly slept in worse places.”
He glances back over his shoulder with a sly flick of his tail. “Though I must say, sharing living quarters with a brooding knight was not quite how I imagined my future.”
Mingi exhales slowly. “If you keep talking,” he mutters, “I’ll turn you into a hat.”
Mr Bramble lets out a bright laugh at that. “Oh please,” the fox replies easily. “You’d miss me far too much.”
Kuldrane watches the exchange with quiet amusement flickering briefly across his otherwise stern expression.Then he turns, preparing to leave them to settle into their new place among the resistance.
But before the centaur can take more than a few steps, Mingi speaks. “Kuldrane.”
The centaur stops. Slowly, he turns back.
Mingi stands near the entrance of the tent, his posture rigid in the fading light as the river murmurs softly beside them. The evening wind stirs the dark strands of his uncovered hair now that the helm is gone, revealing the sharp line of his jaw and the faint scars that cross his skin.
There is something different in his voice now. Something heavier.
“I didn’t come here just to fight,” Mingi says.
Kuldrane studies him carefully. “What did you come for, then?”
Mingi’s gaze drifts briefly toward the distant heart of the encampment where fires burn brighter against the coming night.
Then he looks back. “I want Edrea taken down properly.”
The words leave him with quiet certainty. “Not captured.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Not exiled.”
Kuldrane says nothing yet.
Mingi’s voice lowers. “Dead. I need her dead.” The river continues its slow current beside them.
“And when that happens,” Mingi adds, his tone sharpening with the weight of years spent serving a crown he now despises, “I want to be the one standing in front of her.”
Kuldrane’s brows rise slightly. “That is a considerable amount of hatred to carry for one person.” He studies Mingi more closely now. “Why?”
For a moment, Mingi doesn’t answer.
The words come before he can stop them. “She hurt my princess.” The sentence slips out instinctively, carried by something deeper than thought.
His princess.
The word lingers in the air longer than it should. Kuldrane hears it. Of course he does.
The centaur’s sharp eyes settle on Mingi with quiet understanding, something almost knowing flickering across his expression.
But he does not comment on it. Instead, he nods slowly.
“Ambition like that isn’t given freely here,” Kuldrane says calmly. “Not even to someone who claims they abandoned the crown.”
His gaze sharpens. “You’ll need to prove where your loyalty truly lies first.”
The centaur turns again, his powerful form already beginning to move back toward the heart of the encampment.
“We’ll speak about Edrea again when you’ve earned your place among us.”
With that, Kuldrane disappears into the growing darkness between the tents, leaving Mingi and the fox alone beside the quiet riverbank.
The tent is quiet when they step inside.
It is far simpler than the great command structure Kuldrane had brought him from, though it still carries the same practical sturdiness that seems to define everything within the encampment. The canvas walls are thick and weathered from use, pulled tight against the wooden stakes anchoring it to the earth. A small lantern hangs from a rope beam overhead, its soft amber glow casting gentle light across the modest interior.
There is not much inside.
A narrow wooden table sits to one side with a small clay jug resting upon it, likely meant for water drawn from the nearby river. Beside it stands a rough stool carved from a single block of timber. Across from that is the cot Kuldrane must have mentioned- little more than a simple wooden frame strung tightly with thick rope and covered by a folded wool blanket that has seen better days.
But compared to the open forest floor Mingi has slept on the past several nights, it may as well be luxury.
He steps fully inside and sets his sword carefully against the tent pole before lowering himself onto the cot.
The ropes creak quietly beneath his weight. For the first time since arriving at the encampment, he allows himself to breathe properly.
A slow exhale leaves him as he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms against his knees while the lingering tension in his shoulders begins to loosen. The faint sound of the river outside drifts through the canvas walls, its steady movement grounding the silence that settles inside the tent.
Mr Bramble slips in after him.
The fox takes a moment to circle the small space, inspecting it with theatrical scrutiny before eventually settling near the foot of the cot. His sharp eyes lift toward Mingi with an expression that is far too knowing for comfort.
Mingi notices immediately. “Don’t,” he says flatly.
Mr Bramble tilts his head. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
The fox’s whiskers twitch with amusement. “Well,” he replies lightly, “if you insist.”
Mingi drags a hand down his face.
Bramble chuckles quietly to himself, the sound warm rather than mocking this time. “You truly are the easiest creature in this forest to read,” the fox says after a moment.
Mingi lifts his head just enough to fix him with a hard stare. “Try me.”
Bramble’s tail sways lazily behind him. “You’re in love with her.”
The words land plainly in the small space. Mingi does not react immediately. He simply looks at the fox, his expression unreadable beneath the low lantern light.
Then, after a long moment, he speaks. “What good would that do?”
His voice is calm. Too calm.
“Nothing changes either way.” The statement carries no bitterness, only a quiet acceptance that feels heavier than anger ever could.
“I’m here,” he continues, his gaze drifting briefly toward the tent wall where the distant fires of the encampment flicker faintly through the canvas. “And she’s there.”
He exhales slowly. “Y/N is safe now.” The words settle heavily in the space between them.
For once, Mr Bramble does not immediately respond with another clever remark.
The fox watches him quietly, the usual sparkle of mischief in his eyes replaced with something softer- something closer to understanding. He knows, perhaps better than most, that some truths cannot be undone once they have taken shape.
And some choices cannot be reversed.
After a while, he finally speaks again. “You did the right thing.”
Mingi doesn’t answer.
Outside, the sounds of the encampment begin to quiet as night fully settles over the valley. The rhythmic clang of metal fades as the blacksmiths extinguish their fires one by one, and the scattered voices of fighters slowly soften into low murmurs as exhaustion overtakes the camp.
Eventually Mingi leans back against the thin pillow of the cot, staring up at the canvas roof above him.
Mr Bramble curls his tail around his paws near the foot of the bed.
Neither of them speaks again. But long after the fox’s breathing grows slow and steady with sleep, Mingi remains awake, listening to the quiet rush of the river outside while his thoughts wander somewhere far beyond the forest.
The first light of the sun creeps slowly across the forest floor, slipping between the towering trees that surround the encampment before finding its way through the small gap in the tent entrance. A thin beam of golden light stretches across the packed earth inside, warming the canvas walls with the soft glow of early day.
Mingi stirs.
For a moment he remains still, the lingering heaviness of sleep weighing down his limbs as he lies there listening to the distant sounds of the camp beginning to wake. The quiet rush of the river outside continues its steady path beside the tent, while somewhere farther off the low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of equipment signals the slow return of activity among the fighters.
He pushes himself upright. The movement is slow at first, his muscles stiff from the unfamiliar comfort of the rope-strung cot beneath him. A hand runs briefly through his dark hair as he tries to gather his thoughts, though the fog of sleep still clings stubbornly to the edges of his mind.
He doesn’t even remember when he finally drifted off.
One moment he had been staring up at the dim lantern light above him, listening to the quiet sounds of the forest.
The next- Morning.
Before he can dwell on the strange emptiness between those moments, a familiar voice reaches him from just outside the tent.
“Well look at that,” Mr Bramble calls out with obvious delight. “You’re awake already. I was just about to start poking you with a stick.”
Mingi exhales slowly through his nose. “What.”
The fox appears in the opening of the tent, his bright eyes gleaming with amusement. “You have a delivery,” Bramble announces.
Mingi frowns slightly before swinging his legs over the edge of the cot and standing. The cool morning air brushes against his face as he steps toward the entrance and pulls the canvas flap aside.
What waits outside catches him slightly off guard.
Folded neatly upon a low wooden crate sits a fresh set of linen clothing, the pale fabric clean and sturdy in a way that immediately suggests it was made for movement rather than ceremony. The shirt is thicker than the silks worn in palace halls, the sleeves reinforced at the forearms where leather straps hold protective guards in place.
Beside the clothing rests the armour. It is unmistakably forged for battle.
The plates are darker, rougher than the polished steel of his former armour, built for endurance rather than display. Reinforced leather lines the joints for flexibility, and the breastplate carries deep scoring marks from previous use, suggesting it once belonged to another warrior before being repaired and refitted.
Next to it lies a sword. Mingi steps closer.
The weapon is beautifully balanced, its hilt wrapped in dark leather and its blade slightly broader than the one he carried before. There are no royal crests carved into the metal, no decorative flourishes meant to announce allegiance to a throne.
Nothing tying it to Eirendale. Nothing tying it to Edrea.
He lifts the sword slowly from the crate, the weight settles naturally into his grip. A faint, almost imperceptible sense of satisfaction passes through him as he tests the balance with a brief movement of his wrist.
Mr Bramble watches from a few paces away, his tail swishing thoughtfully. “Well,” the fox says after a moment, “someone has been busy making sure you don’t embarrass the resistance with palace decorations.”
Mingi glances down again at the armour. There is not a single trace of Edrea’s markings anywhere on it.
For the first time since arriving, something in his chest loosens slightly. He nods once to himself.
Mr Bramble tilts his head. “So,” the fox continues lightly, “are you going to hide that pretty face again, or are we letting the camp admire it for a few more hours?”
Mingi shoots him a flat look. Then he grabs the folded clothing and steps back into the tent. “Quiet.”
The fox chuckles softly outside.
Inside the tent, Mingi strips off the remaining pieces of his old armour with steady movements, setting each plate aside before pulling the fresh linen shirt over his shoulders. The fabric is rougher against his skin than what he once wore inside palace walls, but it feels lighter, freer, as though it belongs to someone who expects to fight rather than simply stand guard.
The new armour follows. Each piece fits well enough, though clearly forged with practicality in mind rather than elegance. The leather straps tighten firmly around his forearms and shoulders, the weight of the chestplate settling comfortably against him as he secures it in place.
Finally he picks up the helm. It is different from the one he left behind. Simpler. Darker.
Stripped of all royal insignia. He studies it briefly in his hands.
Outside, Mr Bramble’s voice drifts through the canvas again. “Well?”
Mingi exhales. Instead of placing the helm on his head, he tucks it beneath one arm and steps back toward the tent entrance.
For now… he’ll carry it.
The morning air feels sharper outside the tent.
The sun has risen fully now, its light filtering through the high canopy of trees that surround the encampment. Golden beams break through the leaves in scattered patterns, touching the riverbank and the winding paths between the tents with gentle warmth. The camp itself is already alive with activity, far more energetic than the quiet murmur of the previous night.
Fighters move between tents carrying bundles of arrows and sharpened blades. The blacksmiths near the centre of camp have already rekindled their forges, the rhythmic ring of hammer against glowing steel carrying clearly across the clearing. Smoke curls slowly upward from the fires, carrying the familiar scent of metal, ash, and pine.
Mingi steps fully into the open space beside the river, adjusting the strap of his new armour across his shoulder as he scans the activity around him.
Mr Bramble trots easily at his side, tail flicking as he observes everything with bright curiosity.
“Well,” the fox says after a moment, glancing around the camp with interest, “I must say this place looks much friendlier in daylight.”
Mingi doesn’t respond immediately. His attention is focused elsewhere.
The stares from the night before are still present, but they have changed. Where suspicion once lingered openly, there is now a quieter curiosity in the way the camp’s inhabitants observe him. Some simply glance in his direction before returning to their tasks. Others nod faintly as they pass, acknowledging him in small, subtle ways.
Kuldrane’s influence is obvious. Word has spread. The knight who arrived in palace armour is no longer considered an intruder.
As they walk further into the camp, Mingi notices something else.
Ahead of them, near one of the weapon racks, stands the man who had challenged him the previous evening.
The same broad shoulders. The same scarred face. The axe now rests against his shoulder as he speaks with another fighter, though the conversation falls silent as Mingi approaches.
For a brief moment the two men simply regard one another. Then the man gives a single nod.
Gruff. Wordless.
And turns away, continuing about his work without another glance.
Mingi returns the nod just as briefly. He understands the meaning well enough. No insult remains. No challenge lingers.
A test was given. It was answered.
In another life, beneath another banner, he likely would have done the exact same thing.
Mr Bramble notices the exchange immediately. “Well that was surprisingly civilised,” the fox murmurs, his voice low with mild surprise.
Mingi simply keeps walking.
They move deeper into the encampment now, taking in the full breadth of the place in the bright morning light. Creatures pass them in every direction- an elf carrying a bundle of fletched arrows across his back, a pair of centaurs hauling a supply cart toward the river, a young wizard muttering over a glowing charm while two small fae hover curiously above his shoulder.
The camp feels alive in a way that no royal fortress ever did. Unpredictable. Untamed. Real.
Mingi slows slightly, his eyes scanning the camp as though mapping its layout in his mind. Every instinct he possesses studies the terrain automatically- the positions of the forges, the open training ground beyond the central fire pits, the elevated command tent where Kuldrane likely already works through the morning’s plans.
Mr Bramble is about to say something else when a voice cuts across the noise of the camp.
“Well hello, stranger.” It is a woman’s voice.
Warm. Familiar.
For the briefest fraction of a second, Mingi’s heart jumps. Hope flares before he can stop it, quick and sharp as lightning.
His head turns instinctively.
But the figure approaching them through the morning light is not the one his mind had betrayed him with.
Instead, stepping confidently between two rows of tents with a faint smile tugging at her lips, is a woman he recognises immediately.
Dark red hair falls loosely around her shoulders, strands catching the sunlight as she moves. Her clothes are far simpler than the last time he saw her- practical layers of deep green and brown fabric tied at the waist with leather cords, the sleeves rolled slightly at the forearms where faint traces of soot and herbs stain the material.
Yet the familiar spark of mischief in her eyes remains exactly the same.
Kayleigh.
The witch stops a few paces away, crossing her arms casually as she looks Mingi over from head to toe.
“Well,” she says lightly, one eyebrow arching as she takes in the new armour, the uncovered face, and the helm now tucked beneath his arm, “I see someone’s finally decided to step out from behind the metal.”
Mr Bramble immediately perks up beside him. “Oh good,” the fox says with obvious delight. “Now the camp gets to meet the rest of our collection.”
Kayleigh’s gaze flicks briefly to the fox. “And you’re still following him around like a particularly sarcastic shadow, I see.”
Bramble looks deeply offended. “I prefer the term trusted companion.”
Kayleigh laughs softly. Her attention returns to Mingi. “I was wondering how long it would take you to show up here,” she adds.
And the way she says it makes it very clear- She had been expecting him all along.
Mingi forces the brief flicker of disappointment out of his expression before it can settle anywhere visible.
It had only been a moment- barely a heartbeat- but hope had crept in anyway, unwelcome and stubborn as ever. Now it fades just as quickly, replaced by a quiet confusion as he studies the woman standing before him.
Kayleigh notices the look immediately. “Don’t look so surprised,” she says with a small smirk. “I promise I’m not here to curse you.”
Mingi folds his arms loosely across his chest, the new armour shifting slightly with the movement. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
The question is not hostile, but it carries genuine curiosity. The last place he expected to see the forest witch was standing casually in the middle of a resistance camp.
Kayleigh shrugs one shoulder. “What do you think I’m doing here?” she replies, gesturing vaguely around them at the bustling encampment. “There’s a war brewing, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Her tone softens slightly. “I couldn’t exactly sit in my cottage brewing tea while the kingdoms tear each other apart.”
She glances toward the centre of the camp where several injured fighters are being helped across the clearing by two elves and a young wizard carrying a crate of supplies. “I’m not exactly the sword-swinging type,” she adds, her voice carrying a trace of humour, “but I can keep people alive long enough to swing them.”
Mingi follows her gaze briefly. “You’re one of the healers.”
Kayleigh nods. “Among other things,” she says lightly. “Turns out witches are rather useful when people are bleeding all over the place.”
Her eyes drift back to him again. “And besides,” she continues, her smile returning slightly, “I had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before you showed up here.”
Mingi frowns faintly.
Kayleigh tilts her head. “You’re not exactly the type to sit quietly while Edrea takes over the continent.”
Mr Bramble snorts softly beside him. “She’s got you there.”
Kayleigh’s attention sharpens slightly as she studies Mingi more carefully now. “And I’m guessing,” she says, her voice lowering just a little, “that you managed to get the princess where she needed to go.”
The words land harder than she probably intends. Mingi feels the familiar tightening in his chest again- the same sharp, unwelcome sensation that seems to follow every mention of her name.
He hates it. Hates how often the subject keeps circling back. Hates how impossible it seems to avoid.
All he wants is to forget. To bury those memories somewhere deep enough that they stop resurfacing every time someone opens their mouth.
But it doesn’t work like that. The memories are there anyway.
Her voice. Her laugh. Her hand against his face. It is like something has been burned beneath his skin, leaving marks no armour can hide.
He forces the thoughts away before they can go any further. “Yes,” he says simply. The answer is short. Final.
Kayleigh studies his expression for a moment longer, clearly sensing the shift in his mood, but she chooses not to push the subject any further.
Instead, Mingi redirects the conversation himself. “What about your little friend?”
Kayleigh blinks once. “My—” Then she smiles. “Oh. PJ?”
Mingi nods faintly.
Kayleigh gestures vaguely toward the deeper parts of the camp. “He’s around here somewhere.” Her lips curve with mild amusement. “Probably annoying the absolute shit out of someone as we speak.”
Mr Bramble lets out a low chuckle. “That does sound like him.”
Kayleigh nods in agreement. “He’s remarkably talented at it.” The image seems to amuse all three of them more than expected.
For the first time since stepping into the camp that morning, a small hint of something lighter passes between them. Even Mingi’s expression softens slightly at the thought.
Kayleigh studies Mingi for a moment longer, as though deciding something silently to herself.
Then she straightens and gestures toward the deeper part of the camp. “Come on,” she says. “Kuldrane’s been asking for you.”
Mingi’s brow tightens slightly, but he doesn’t question it. Instead he falls into step beside her as she leads him through the winding paths between the tents.
The camp is far busier now than when he first stepped out that morning.
Fighters move with clear purpose between different sections of the clearing. The clang of metal echoes from the smithing area as blades are tested and repaired, while farther ahead a group of warriors practice in a wide dirt circle, their weapons flashing beneath the rising sun. Several creatures he’s never seen before move among them- tall horned figures carrying spears, winged beings perched along the wooden watch towers, and a pair of heavily armoured centaurs dragging a cart loaded with shields.
This place isn’t just for surviving. It’s preparing for something bigger than all of them.
Mr Bramble trots alongside them quietly for once, his ears twitching at the constant motion around them.
Kayleigh eventually slows near a cluster of weapon racks arranged beside the riverbank.
Kuldrane stands there waiting. The centaur’s towering form is impossible to miss. He has positioned himself beside a wide wooden stand lined with weapons of every shape imaginable- swords, axes, spears, bows, and several blades that look designed for creatures much larger than humans.
Kuldrane turns as they approach. His eyes immediately settle on Mingi. “Good,” he says simply. “You’re up.”
Mingi stops a few steps away.
Kuldrane gestures toward the weapon racks with one large hand. “You said you came here to fight,” the centaur continues. “That means you’ll need to train with the rest of them.” His tone is calm, but there’s no room for argument in it.
Kuldrane moves slightly aside, revealing the wide training field behind the racks. Several groups are already practicing there- fighters sparring with wooden weapons while others test their strength against heavier steel.
“You’ll need to learn how this camp fights,” Kuldrane explains. “Not how the palace teaches its soldiers.”
Mingi glances over the weapons briefly. The collection is vast, but rougher than the polished armouries he grew up around. These blades are built for survival rather than ceremony. Many carry the marks of repair, their edges sharpened countless times.
Kuldrane nods once toward the open field. “You won’t be training alone.”
Several figures begin approaching from the far side of the clearing.
The first is a tall elf with silver-blond hair braided tightly down his back, a long curved blade resting across his shoulder. His movements are fluid and precise, his sharp eyes already studying Mingi with open curiosity.
“This is Vaelis,” Kuldrane says. “One of our fastest blades.”
Vaelis gives a short nod of greeting.
Behind him strides a broad orc with deep green skin and a scar splitting across his lower jaw. He carries two brutal axes strapped across his back and walks with the easy confidence of someone who has spent most of his life on battlefields.
“Gorak,” Kuldrane continues. The orc grunts in acknowledgment.
Next comes a young man with dark braided hair and weathered leather armour. A bow is slung across his back and several knives line the belt at his waist. His eyes flick between Mingi and the new armour he’s wearing.
“Tarin,” Kuldrane says. “Our best scout.”
Finally, a centaur slightly smaller than Kuldrane himself approaches, carrying a long spear carved with runic markings.
“Eryndor,” Kuldrane finishes.
The group gathers around with varying levels of curiosity and caution.
Kayleigh stretches her arms casually. “Well,” she says with a satisfied clap of her hands, “looks like you’ll be busy.” She glances down at Mr Bramble. “I’ll borrow the fox while you break your new soldier in.”
Mr Bramble flicks his tail. “Oh wonderful. Field trip.”
Kayleigh begins walking back toward the healer tents, the fox trotting beside her while muttering something about hoping no one sets him on fire this time.
Mingi watches them disappear briefly. Then he turns back.
Kuldrane nods toward the field. “Let’s see what you can actually do.”
Mingi lifts the helm slowly. The cool metal settles back over his head, the familiar weight sliding into place as the world narrows slightly behind the steel.
Then he steps forward. And follows them.
The training begins without ceremony.
Kuldrane does not offer a speech, nor does he explain the rules of the field. Instead, he simply gestures toward the wide clearing beyond the weapon racks, where packed earth has been worn smooth by countless drills and sparring matches. The ground is scarred with shallow trenches and footprints, evidence of months - perhaps years- of warriors learning to fight side by side.
Mingi steps forward among them.
The first few minutes are quiet observations.
Vaelis moves first, drawing his curved blade in a motion so fluid it almost looks effortless. The elf circles him lightly, testing the distance between them, his movements sharp but elegant in a way that feels completely different from the rigid discipline of palace combat.
“Let’s see if that armour is more than decoration,” Vaelis says with a faint smirk.
Their blades meet moments later. The sound of steel striking steel rings sharply across the training ground, and the spar begins in earnest. Vaelis is fast - faster than most fighters Mingi has faced before - but the knight adapts quickly. His years of training refuse to fade easily, and soon the two of them are circling one another with growing intensity.
Vaelis’ strikes are precise and agile. Mingi’s are heavier, grounded in brute efficiency.
After several exchanges the elf steps back, lowering his blade slightly with a small nod of approval. “Not bad,” Vaelis says. “You’ll survive.”
The next round is less graceful.
Gorak steps forward with both axes in hand, a low rumble of amusement vibrating in his chest as he sizes Mingi up. “Try not to break,” the orc mutters.
What follows is far less refined than the duel with Vaelis.
The clash of their weapons sends sparks flying across the dirt as Gorak’s strength crashes against Mingi’s defenses. Each strike carries the weight of a battering ram, forcing Mingi to shift constantly to avoid being overwhelmed by sheer power alone.
They trade blows for several minutes before Kuldrane finally calls the match. The orc grins, clearly pleased with the fight. “Good,” Gorak says simply.
The training continues.
Tarin - now revealed to be a sharp-eyed man with weathered features and quiet confidence - teaches him how the scouts move through the forest without leaving tracks. Eryndor introduces him to the spear formations used when fighting alongside centaurs, the techniques forcing Mingi to adjust the rhythm of his movements so that his strikes complement the longer reach of the mounted warriors.
Gradually, the stiffness in his posture fades. The camp’s fighters begin to treat him less like a stranger and more like someone who belongs among them.
They laugh. They curse. They exchange quick remarks between drills. And for the first time since leaving the kingdom behind, Mingi feels the faint sense of tension in his shoulders begin to ease.
Until the bows are brought out.
The training shifts to the far edge of the clearing where several straw targets stand planted into the earth.
Vaelis tosses him a bow. “Your turn.”
Mingi catches it automatically. The wood is well balanced in his grip.
He reaches back to pull an arrow from the quiver resting against the rack and sets it against the string. The motion is familiar.
But the moment he draws the bow- His focus slips.
For a heartbeat, the clearing disappears. Instead, another memory rises in its place.
The forest. The quiet rustle of leaves beneath their feet. The moment when she had insisted he show her how to improve her stance.
He remembers standing behind her.
Towering over her smaller frame as his hands guided her arms into position. The warmth of her back just inches from his chest. The faint scent of forest air tangled in her hair as she focused on the bowstring.
He remembers the way her breath had hitched. The way her shoulders had tensed when he moved closer to adjust her grip. At the time he had pretended not to notice.
Pretended he was too focused on the lesson to see the reaction his presence caused.
But the truth is - He noticed everything. Every shift in her breathing. Every slight tremor when his hands brushed hers.
What she never knew was that it wasn’t just her who had been affected. He remembers the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers. The way the moment lingered longer than it should have. How close they had been.
So close that for a brief, dangerous second something inside him had nearly slipped loose from the control he held so tightly over himself.
He remembers how it affected him. How for a slight, dangerous moment his body had nearly betrayed him entirely. How the closeness, the warmth, the sudden awareness of her standing beneath his hands had made something inside him snap tight with a force he had not expected.
He remembers the blood rushing somewhere unexpected. He had almost lost control.
Almost let instinct override the discipline drilled into him since childhood. And that had terrified him more than any battlefield ever had. He had stepped back immediately after, acting as though nothing had happened. But the memory still burns.
Back in the present, the bowstring creaks faintly under the tension of his grip.
“Mingi?” Vaelis’ voice pulls him back.
The clearing snaps into focus again. The targets. The watching fighters. The arrow still waiting to be released.
Mingi exhales slowly. Then lets the arrow fly. It strikes the centre of the target with a sharp thud.
The training eventually winds down as the sun climbs higher into the sky.
What had begun as careful drills and measured sparring slowly dissolves into the quieter rhythm of a camp breaking for its midday meal. Weapons are returned to racks, bows unstrung and laid aside, while the fighters gather their scattered gear from the edges of the training ground.
Mingi wipes the sweat from the back of his neck as he bends to collect the arrows he had driven deep into the target. The wood splinters slightly as he pulls them free, the familiar weight of the bow still resting comfortably in his grip.
Around him, the others do the same.
Vaelis rolls his shoulders as he slides his blade back into its sheath, the elf’s movements still fluid despite the long hours of training. Gorak stretches his thick arms above his head with a grunt before gathering his axes, while Tarin kneels to tie the straps of his quiver tighter across his back.
“You did well,” he says to Mingi as he stands again. “For someone who’s spent most of his life learning palace formations.” There’s no mockery in his tone. Only observation.
Mingi nods slightly in acknowledgment, though the compliment barely settles in his mind.
Vaelis gestures toward the heart of the camp where several fires now burn brighter beneath hanging cooking pots. “Come eat with us,” the elf offers casually. “You’ve earned it.”
Gorak grins. “Unless you prefer starving alone.”
Mingi considers for only a moment before giving a short nod.
The group begins walking together through the winding paths of the encampment, the energy of the midday break settling over the clearing. The sharp clang of metal from the forges has quieted for now, replaced by the more comforting sounds of conversation and cooking.
The smell of food drifts easily through the air. Roasted meat, boiled vegetables, and fresh bread. Simple things, but enough to make even the most hardened fighters pause.
They settle near one of the larger fire pits where several wooden benches have been dragged into a rough circle. Bowls are passed around quickly, filled with steaming stew and thick chunks of bread that disappear almost as quickly as they are handed out.
Mingi takes his portion quietly, sitting among them as the conversation begins to flow more easily now that weapons have been set aside.
Vaelis recounts a story from an earlier scouting mission, exaggerating certain details enough that even Tarin eventually rolls his eyes while listening. Gorak interrupts occasionally with loud bursts of laughter that make nearby fighters glance over in amusement.
It is… normal. Strangely so. Part of him almost forgets that every person here is preparing for war.
A flick of movement catches his eye. Mr Bramble appears moments later, trotting confidently through the rows of tents before hopping easily onto the bench beside him.
“Well?” the fox says as he settles himself comfortably. “How did the grand training go?”
Mingi looks down at the stew in his bowl. “Fine.”
Bramble waits for more. “And?”
Mingi shrugs faintly. “They’re good fighters.”
The fox narrows his eyes slightly. Something about the response feels… off.
“You’re unusually quiet, you don’t have that same… bite in you” Bramble remarks.
Mingi breaks a piece of bread and dips it into the stew, though his focus remains distant.
The image refuses to leave his mind. Her standing in front of him, the bow in her hands, and the warmth of her body so close to his. The small hitch in her breath when he leaned nearer. And the dangerous moment when his own body had nearly betrayed him.
The memory burns beneath his skin, unwelcome and persistent.
Across from him, Tarin continues speaking about the patrol routes they run along the eastern edge of the forest, though the words drift past Mingi without truly settling.
He answers only when spoken to directly. Short replies. Single words.
Mr Bramble watches him carefully for a while, his sharp fox eyes studying the subtle tension still sitting in the knight’s posture. He recognises the signs easily enough. But for once- He doesn’t say anything. No teasing remark. No clever jab.
Instead he simply curls his tail neatly around his paws and turns his attention toward the food.
The conversation around the fire continues easily among the others as bowls are refilled and laughter passes between them. And though Mingi sits among them, sharing the same fire and meal- His thoughts remain somewhere else entirely.
Far beyond the deep green shelter of the forest, where the resistance gathers in hidden valleys and winding rivers, another kingdom breathes beneath a very different sky.
Eirendale no longer resembles the place it once was. The land itself seems colder now, as though the soil has absorbed the cruelty of the crown that rules it.
Where once the kingdom’s fields stretched wide and golden beneath the sun, now the earth lies scarred and tired. Harvests are thinner, the ground worked far beyond what it was ever meant to bear. The villages that surround the towering castle are quieter than they once were, their narrow streets lined with homes whose windows stay shuttered even during daylight.
The people that once filled them are… fewer. But those who remain are not weak.
They are not kind. And they are certainly not gentle.
The old villagers- the farmers, the merchants, the quiet craftsmen who once filled the kingdom with life- have either ‘disappeared' or been pushed far beyond the kingdom’s borders. Some fled when Edrea first claimed the throne. Others were removed when they failed to meet the standards she demanded of those who served beneath her rule.
What became of many of them is something no one speaks of openly. What matters now is who remains.
The kingdom has not shrunk down in size. In fact, It has grown.
The streets of the capital are busier than ever, though the faces walking them now carry sharp expressions and colder eyes. Markets bustle again, but the goods traded are no longer simple produce and textiles. Weapons pass from hand to hand. Armour is inspected with careful scrutiny. Supplies meant for soldiers fill the carts that move through the narrow roads beneath the castle walls.
Eirendale has not been emptied. It has transformed. Edrea has reshaped it into something else entirely.
The people who remain in her kingdom are the ones who proved themselves worthy in her eyes. The strongest warriors who swore loyalty to her cause. The most intelligent strategists who saw opportunity in her rule. The most cunning survivors who understood that cruelty, when wielded correctly, could build power faster than kindness ever could.
They are all human. And there are thousands of them.
They fill the capital’s streets now with disciplined movement and quiet ambition. Every one of them watches the world with calculating eyes, each person knowing that weakness within Eirendale no longer has a place.
Above them all rises the castle. Its dark towers stretch high against the grey sky, their stone walls newly reinforced and guarded more heavily than ever before. Banners bearing Edrea’s sigil hang from every tower, their fabric snapping sharply in the cold wind that sweeps across the kingdom.
Inside those walls, decisions are made that will shape the fate of every land beyond the forest. And somewhere within those towering halls, Edrea watches it all unfold.
The throne hall of Eirendale has changed as much as the kingdom beneath it.
Where the great chamber once carried warmth and ceremony, it now feels like a place carved from something colder than stone. The vaulted ceiling rises high above the floor, its towering arches disappearing into shadow where iron braziers burn with pale blue flames. The fire gives off little warmth, yet its light casts long, shifting shapes across the polished black marble that now covers the floor.
Gone are the rich carpets and banners that once softened the room. Edrea had them removed shortly after taking the throne. She preferred the sound of footsteps echoing sharply through the chamber. It reminded everyone who entered just how small they were beneath the weight of her rule.
At the far end of the hall, raised upon a series of dark stone steps, sits the throne itself. It is no longer the carved oak seat that had belonged to the old king. That too had been replaced.
The throne now is forged from blackened steel and jagged iron, its back rising into thin spires that resemble the ribs of some enormous beast. The metal catches the light from the braziers in cold glints that reflect across the room like shards of broken glass.
Upon that throne sits Edrea.
She lounges against the sharp metal with the effortless confidence of someone who knows the room bends entirely to her will. One leg drapes lazily over the arm of the throne, her long ransaur resting across her lap like a companion rather than a weapon. The curved blade gleams faintly beneath the blue flames as her fingers trace idly along its edge.
Beside her stands Silas.
He occupies the lower step of the throne dais, positioned just behind her shoulder in the place reserved for her most trusted advisor. His posture is relaxed, though his pale blue eyes remain sharp as they scan the hall below. The two of them share the same cold colouring - light hair, pale skin, and eyes that seem to reflect the icy cruelty of the kingdom they now command.
Their voices drift quietly between them. “Numbers continue to grow,” Silas murmurs, glancing down at a parchment scroll held loosely in one hand. “Several mercenary companies arrived before dawn. More are expected by nightfall.”
Edrea smiles faintly. “Of course they are.” Her voice is smooth, almost bored. “People like opportunity, Silas. Especially when it wears a crown.”
Before he can reply, the great doors at the far end of the throne hall groan open.
The sound rolls across the marble floor like distant thunder. A line of royal guards enters first, their armour polished and identical, halberds striking the stone in perfect rhythm as they march. Between them walk the figures they have brought before the throne.
They are not nobles. Not soldiers. They are something far rougher.
Corrupted criminals with scarred faces and hardened eyes. Assassins dressed in dark leathers that still carry the scent of blood. Thugs whose thick arms and broken noses tell stories of a hundred street brawls.
Every type of dangerous man a kingdom could gather. They are pushed forward until they stand before the base of the throne steps. The guards step aside. Silence fills the chamber.
Edrea studies them slowly, her gaze travelling from one face to the next as though inspecting animals brought to market. “Well,” she says at last, her voice echoing lightly through the hall. “This is what they send me?” Her tone carries open disdain.
One of the criminals drops quickly to his knees. Then another. And another. Soon the entire group kneels before the throne, their heads bowed low against the cold marble floor.
“Your Majesty,” one of them mutters hoarsely. “We heard you were building something greater.”
Edrea leans forward slightly, resting her chin against her knuckles as she looks down at them. “Greater,” she repeats softly. The word almost sounds like a promise. “You’ve come to serve me.” It is not a question.
“No one refuses your call,” another man says quickly, pressing his forehead to the floor. “Not if they’re smart.”
A faint smile spreads across Edrea’s lips. “Good answer.” She rises slowly from the throne.
The sound of her boots against the stone echoes sharply as she descends the steps, the long blade of her ransaur dragging lightly behind her. The criminals remain frozen in place as she circles them, her gaze cool and calculating.
“You see,” she says casually, “I have very little interest in loyalty.” She stops behind one of the kneeling men. Her voice lowers. “What I value… is usefulness.”
The blade of the ransaur lifts slightly. “If you are strong, you will fight for me.” She turns slowly, letting the tip of the weapon trace a thin line across the marble floor. “If you are clever, you will plan for me.” Her eyes gleam faintly.
“And if you are neither of those things…”
The pause is long enough for the threat to settle. “Then you will die for me.” None of the men dare move.
Slowly, Edrea smiles. “Welcome to my army.”
Silas steps forward, his voice cutting cleanly through the room. “You will report to the barracks immediately,” he tells them. “You will train until you bleed, and when you can no longer stand, you will train again.”
His eyes sweep across them coldly. “You will obey every command given to you.”
Edrea’s voice follows, softer but far more dangerous. “Because every command,” she says, “comes from me.”
The criminals bow lower, their voices rising in eager praise that echoes through the hall as the guards begin dragging them back toward the doors. Outside those castle walls, an army is beginning to form.
The last of the recruits are dragged from the throne hall under the watchful gaze of the royal guard, their murmured praises fading into the vast corridors beyond the chamber doors. For a moment, the hall grows quiet again, the pale flames of the braziers flickering along the marble floor.
Edrea remains standing where she addressed them, the ransaur still loosely gripped in her hand. Her gaze lingers on the closed doors, a slow smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.
Silas watches her carefully. “Well,” he says lightly, stepping down beside her, “they certainly seem… enthusiastic.”
Edrea gives a small hum, unconcerned. “Enthusiasm is useful. It keeps people obedient.”
She turns, handing the ransaur off to one of the waiting guards without even glancing at him, before stepping away from the throne dais. Silas falls easily into step beside her as the two of them begin walking through the long hall, their footsteps echoing sharply against the stone.
Their presence alone is enough to make every servant they pass immediately step aside.
The palace corridors open out toward the outer grounds, where tall glass doors allow pale winter light to spill across the polished floors. Beyond them stretches the palace courtyard and the city that lies beneath the towering castle walls.
Edrea pushes the doors open without hesitation. Cold air greets them immediately.
Outside, the palace grounds are vast and carefully controlled. Soldiers patrol the stone walkways in disciplined rows, while banners bearing Edrea’s crest snap sharply in the wind from tall white poles. The sky above Eirendale is a dull grey, the kind of colour that presses low against the earth as though even the heavens disapprove of what now thrives beneath them.
Silas clasps his hands behind his back as they walk. “Your army grows faster than expected,” he remarks. “Soon you’ll have more soldiers than any kingdom on this side of the continent.”
Edrea glances sideways at him, amusement flickering across her expression. “Saying it like that almost sounds like admiration.”
“Oh, it is admiration,” Silas replies smoothly. “You’ve managed in months what most rulers fail to achieve in a lifetime.”
Their steps carry them down the sloping stone path that winds from the palace toward the city below. “Once the army is ready,” Silas continues thoughtfully, “no kingdom will dare challenge you.”
Edrea’s smile grows sharper. “That is the idea.”
Her gaze drifts toward the distant forests that mark the horizon. “And when the time comes,” she adds softly, “I will make sure every one of them remembers exactly who rules this world now.”
Silas looks at her then, something almost fond passing through his cold eyes. “Our future will be magnificent.”
Before she can respond- A sudden blast cuts through the air.
The sound of a horn rings loud across the city below, sharp and commanding enough to make both of them pause mid-step. Another blast follows.
Edrea’s eyes narrow slightly. “What is that?”
Down in the main village road below the palace, movement begins to stir.
Horses gallop through the streets, pulling royal carriages behind them as soldiers clear a path through the growing crowd. People spill from homes and shops, curiosity pulling them toward the centre of the road where the noise grows louder.
Edrea turns toward the city. Silas follows her gaze. “Well,” he murmurs, intrigued, “that is unusual.” Without another word, they begin descending toward the sound.
By the time they reach the lower square, a large crowd has already gathered in the centre of the street. Villagers press close together, whispering and craning their necks as soldiers attempt to hold them back from the procession that has just arrived.
At the centre of it all stands a man dressed in royal colours. A herald. His cloak bears the crest of another kingdom entirely.
He steps forward into the open space and lifts the long brass horn once more, blowing a final sharp note that cuts through the murmuring crowd. The sound echoes between the buildings, demanding silence.
Slowly, the whispers die down. The herald unrolls a scroll in his hands. His voice rises clear and formal for all to hear.
“Let it be known—”
The words carry across the square. “—that Princess Y/N, formally of Eirendale, has been welcomed into the kingdom of Valemere and is to be wed to King Aurelian.”
The crowd erupts into startled murmurs. And behind them, Edrea stands perfectly still.
Silence settles over the square in a strange, uneasy way once the herald finishes reading.
The words seem to linger in the cold air, hanging between the stone buildings like a challenge that cannot be taken back.
Princess Y/N of Eirendale. To be wed to King Aurelian of Valemere.
The crowd murmurs again, though far more quietly now, people leaning toward one another in hushed conversation. Some look confused. Others look relieved. A few even smile at the thought that perhaps the youngest princess of the fallen royal line had found refuge somewhere beyond Edrea’s reach.
But near the edge of the square, Edrea stands frozen in place.
Silas watches her closely. Her expression does not change. Not a flicker of anger, not a curl of irritation. Her posture remains perfectly composed, her pale hands resting loosely at her sides as though the announcement means nothing at all.
That, more than anything, unsettles him. He tilts his head slightly toward her. “Well,” he murmurs under his breath, his voice carefully quiet enough that the nearby villagers cannot hear him, “that’s… unexpected.”
Edrea says nothing. Her gaze remains fixed on the herald standing at the centre of the square, the man still holding the scroll as he waits for the crowd to settle.
Silas studies her for another moment before asking casually, “Shall we stop it?” There are a dozen different meanings wrapped inside that question.
He could send the guards forward now. The herald could be dragged from the street before he even finishes his proclamations. The scroll torn apart. The horses seized. The message buried before it spreads across the kingdom. It would take only seconds.
Edrea lifts a single hand. The motion is small, but decisive. Silas falls silent immediately.
“No,” she says calmly. Her voice is almost thoughtful. “I’m surprised she made it that far.”
For the first time, her eyes flicker with genuine curiosity. “Valemere,” she continues slowly, almost tasting the word. “Of all places.” It becomes clear, in that quiet moment, that this development was never part of her design.
Edrea had expected her sister to run. To hide. To wander the wilderness long enough for the hunt to catch up with her.
But to reach another kingdom… and one powerful enough to announce an engagement publicly… That changes things. Slightly.
Silas folds his arms loosely, still watching her expression. “So,” he says, raising a brow, “the princess has found herself a king.”
Edrea exhales a soft, amused breath. “Apparently.”
Down in the centre of the square, the herald begins speaking again, repeating the announcement so the message spreads clearly among the gathered crowd.
Edrea turns away from the scene. Already bored with it. “We’ll deal with it soon enough,” she says lightly.
Silas nods, falling back into step beside her as they begin walking away from the gathering crowd.
Their conversation resumes as if nothing important has happened at all. “I must admit,” Silas muses after a moment, glancing back toward the herald still shouting proclamations in the distance, “it would be quite entertaining to send them our reply.”
Edrea glances sideways at him. “Oh?”
He smirks slightly. “Perhaps an arrow through the herald’s eyebrows.” His tone is playful in the same dark way that only the two of them seem to understand. “Very formal,” he adds. “Very memorable.”
He pauses. “Just like the courtsman.” The memory of that particular execution hangs between them for a moment then Edrea laughs.
The sound is bright and sudden, echoing strangely across the cold courtyard as they walk. “Tempting,” she admits. But her smile fades quickly. Her eyes drift once more toward the distant road leading out of the city, toward the kingdoms beyond her borders.
Toward Valemere.
Her voice lowers slightly when she speaks again. “I suppose I should congratulate my dear sister.”
Silas tilts his head. “How generous of you.”
Edrea’s lips curl slowly into something far less pleasant than a smile. “Yes,” she says softly. Her eyes gleam coldly. “After all…”
She glances back toward the herald one final time. “…nothing ruins a wedding quite like a funeral.”
Dusk settles slowly over the encampment, the golden light of the sinking sun filtering through the tall trees that surround the clearing like silent guardians. The sky above shifts into deep shades of amber and violet, and the soft glow of evening begins to replace the bright energy of the day’s training.
The camp is alive, though in a calmer way now.
Fires burn in carefully tended circles across the open field, their orange flames flickering against the canvas of red and yellow tents that stretch across the grass. The river that winds along the edge of the encampment reflects the fading sky, its surface shimmering gently as it carries the sound of flowing water through the air.
After a long day of drills and sparring, the warriors of the resistance begin settling into the rhythms of night.
Some sit beside the fires polishing their armour, cloths running methodically over dented breastplates and greaves until the metal catches the firelight in dull glimmers. Others sharpen blades against whetstones, the slow scrape of steel against stone forming a quiet background rhythm beneath the hum of conversation.
Further along the clearing, a group of centaurs share a large barrel of ale while discussing battle formations, their deep voices rising occasionally in bursts of laughter. A pair of fae hover lazily above one of the fires, their soft glowing wings casting gentle blue light over the group of humans sitting beneath them.
Near the blacksmith tents, the last of the day’s hammering fades as the forges cool, sparks dying slowly in the darkening air.
For a moment, it almost feels like peace.
Mingi sits near one of the fires on a thick log that has been dragged close enough to the flames to keep the evening chill away. His new armour rests comfortably against his frame now, the metal darker and more rugged than the polished plates he once wore under Edrea’s command. Without the markings of Eirendale carved into it, the armour feels… different. Less like a chain. More like a choice.
Beside him, Mr Brambles sits curled neatly on his haunches, his bushy tail wrapped around his paws as he watches the camp with the sharp, curious eyes of a fox who has already discovered far more mischief than any creature reasonably should.
They talk quietly together, the conversation easy and slow.
“…and then the orc actually thought he could outdrink the centaur,” Brambles is saying with obvious amusement, flicking his ears toward the group further down the fireline. “I give him another ten minutes before he collapses.”
Mingi snorts quietly. “He’s not making it ten.”
The two of them fall into comfortable silence for a moment, watching the lively scene unfolding around them.
Then- A sudden shout cuts through the camp. “What in the—?!”
Heads turn immediately.
Across the firelight, an elf sits frozen in place, his elegant silver hair now dripping with dark mead that pours down his face and tunic. The tankard that had been sitting on the log beside him lies shattered on the ground, its contents now soaking the grass and his boots.
For a moment he simply stares. Then he leaps to his feet, sputtering furiously. “My drink!”
Laughter ripples through the nearby group almost instantly.
Because standing a few steps away, is PJ. Or rather- the gnome.
The small stone figure sits perched neatly on another log, its painted grin stretched wide across its permanently cheerful face. The little statue looks almost too innocent, its round cheeks and bright painted eyes making it appear harmless to anyone who doesn’t know better.
But those in the camp clearly do. Because the moment the elf spots the gnome- “PJ!”
The name explodes from his mouth like a curse. The gnome doesn’t move, of course. But the grin somehow looks even wider than before.
The surrounding warriors burst into laughter as the elf tries to wipe the sticky mead from his tunic while glaring furiously at the small statue. “Oh for the love of—!”
Back by the fire, Mingi lets out a low chuckle. The sound surprises even him.
Mr Brambles glances sideways at him immediately, ears twitching with interest. “Well,” the fox says lightly, his voice laced with amusement, “look at that.”
Mingi raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“You laughed.”
Mingi scoffs quietly, though the corner of his mouth still hints at the lingering amusement. “He deserved it.”
Across the camp, PJ’s painted grin remains fixed proudly as the elf continues complaining to anyone who will listen.
Mr Brambles watches the scene with obvious satisfaction. “Ah,” he sighs happily, “some things never change.”
The laughter from the mead incident slowly fades into the evening air, though occasional chuckles still ripple through the camp as the unfortunate elf continues grumbling while wiping sticky drink from his clothes. PJ remains exactly where he had been placed, his painted grin still stretched wide across his stone face, clearly very pleased with himself despite not moving an inch.
The camp settles again. Voices blend together with the crackle of the fires and the quiet rush of the river nearby, creating a strange kind of warmth that drifts through the clearing.
Mingi leans back slightly on the log, resting his forearms on his knees as he watches the scene before him. For a moment he simply observes the life of the encampment - warriors sharing drinks, creatures from a dozen different races talking as though they have known one another for years, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through the cool evening air.
It is… different. Different from the rigid silence of castle barracks. Different from the cold discipline of Eirendale. Here, despite the looming threat of war, people breathe a little easier.
Beside him, Mr Brambles shifts slightly, curling his tail more comfortably around his paws as the fox gazes toward the dark treeline beyond the camp. For a while they sit in companionable quiet.
Eventually Mingi glances sideways at him. “So,” he says gruffly.
Brambles flicks an ear in his direction. “So?” the fox echoes.
Mingi nudges a loose stick into the fire, sending a small spray of sparks drifting upward. “You never finished telling me,” he mutters.
“Telling you what?”
“About your home.”
Brambles tilts his head slightly. “My home.”
“The den,” Mingi clarifies. “The one she threatened.”
The fox goes quiet for a moment. The firelight flickers across his reddish fur, catching in the bright gold of his eyes as he watches the flames dance. “They’re safe,” Brambles says after a moment.
Mingi studies him. “You moved them.”
“Of course I moved them,” Brambles replies lightly. “What kind of father would I be if I didn’t?”
The word catches Mingi’s attention immediately. “Father,” he repeats slowly.
Brambles gives a small shrug. “My mate and the cubs are far from here. Hidden deeper in the wilds than any human would ever dare travel. Even Edrea’s hunters wouldn’t find them if they searched for years.”
His voice carries a quiet certainty that leaves little room for doubt. “They’re safe,” he repeats.
Mingi nods slowly. Then, after a pause - “I still can’t believe you’re a father.”
Brambles’ ears twitch. “Oh?”
Mingi gives him a sideways look. “You’re a menace.”
The fox snorts softly. “That is an outrageous accusation.”
“You steal food.”
“I borrow food.”
“You lie constantly.”
“I embellish.”
“You annoy everyone you meet.”
Brambles lifts his head proudly. “That is simply part of my charm.”
Mingi shakes his head, a faint hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Poor cubs.”
Brambles lets out an offended huff. “My cubs,” he says firmly, “will grow up clever.”
“Gods help them.”
“They’ll need it with the world they’re inheriting.” That comment pulls the conversation into a softer silence.
The fire pops quietly. Across the clearing someone begins strumming a worn lute, the gentle melody drifting across the camp as night deepens overhead.
After a moment Brambles speaks again, his voice quieter this time. “I’m here because of them.”
Mingi glances toward him.
“My mate,” Brambles continues, “she wanted me to stay. Said the cubs needed their father close.” The fox’s gaze drifts toward the stars beginning to appear between the treetops. “But if Edrea wins… there won’t be a safe place left for them anyway.”
Mingi doesn’t respond immediately. The truth in those words hangs heavy in the air.
“So I’m here,” Brambles finishes simply. “To make sure they grow up somewhere worth living in.”
Mingi studies the fox for a moment. Then he nudges the fire again with the stick in his hand. “Well,” he mutters.
Brambles looks at him.
“Guess that means we’re stuck together.”
The fox’s tail flicks happily. “Oh, we are far more than stuck together now.”
Mingi raises an eyebrow. “How so?”
Brambles grins. “I believe the phrase you’re looking for,” the fox says smugly, “is trusted companion.”
Mingi snorts. “You’re my sidekick.”
Brambles gasps in mock offence. “Sidekick?”
“Yes.”
The fox shakes his head dramatically. “I refuse that title.”
“Too late.”
Brambles sighs heavily, though there’s a spark of clear amusement in his eyes. “Well,” he says after a moment, glancing around the lively camp once more.
“If I must be someone’s sidekick…” He smirks. “I suppose I could do worse than a grumpy knight with a broken heart.”
The fire beside Mingi crackles steadily as night settles fully across the encampment. Above the clearing the sky has deepened into dark indigo, the first scattering of stars appearing between the tall trees that ring the valley. Around them the camp hums with the quiet life of evening - warriors talking over shared meals, armour being polished beside the flames, the distant melody of a lute weaving gently through the cool air.
Mingi sits forward slightly, elbows resting against his knees as he listens to Mr Brambles continue one of his long, winding observations about the nature of love.
“…and I am simply pointing out,” the fox says with exaggerated patience, “that denying it so aggressively only makes it more obvious.”
Mingi gives him a slow look. “Obvious to who?”
“Everyone.”
“That sounds like your problem, not mine.”
Brambles lets out a theatrical sigh and lowers his head onto his paws, though the glint of amusement never leaves his eyes. “You truly are exhausting.”
Before Mingi can answer, the night is suddenly torn apart by a sound so deep and powerful that it seems to shake the very air around them.
A roar.
It is not the cry of any creature the forest normally holds. This sound carries weight- age - power. It rolls across the valley like thunder breaking over the mountains, vibrating through the ground beneath their feet.
The entire encampment reacts instantly.
Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Warriors jump to their feet. Metal rings sharply as swords are drawn from their sheaths and shields are lifted from the ground. Even the musicians fall silent, the lute’s last note fading into the sudden tension.
Another roar follows, louder this time, echoing across the dark trees and the river beyond.
Mingi is already standing. His hand moves to the hilt of his sword with the instinct of someone who has survived too many battles to hesitate when danger announces itself so clearly.
Beside him, Brambles is on his feet as well, his ears flattened and tail stiff as he peers up into the sky.
Above the encampment, something enormous sweeps across the moonlight.
A vast shadow passes over the fires, stretching across tents and warriors alike. The shape circles the clearing once, its massive wings beating slowly through the air. Each movement sends a rush of wind downward that makes the flames dance wildly and the tent ropes creak under the strain.
Across the camp, Kuldrane has already moved into the centre of the clearing. The towering centaur stands tall and immovable, spear in hand as he studies the figure circling above them.
“Archers!” someone calls. Bows snap upward all around the clearing.
A volley of arrows streaks into the sky, their tips glinting briefly in the firelight before disappearing into the dark shape above.
They never come close. The creature turns easily in the air, avoiding the arrows with unsettling grace. The great wings shift again, catching the night wind as it begins to descend toward the ground.
Slowly. Deliberately.
As it lowers into the light cast by the campfires, the warriors below finally see what has come to visit them.
A dragon.
Its body is immense, far larger than any horse or beast the camp has seen. The scales covering its body appear black at first glance, but when the firelight touches them a deep violet sheen shimmers beneath the surface, as though the creature carries shadows within its own armour.
The wings fold gradually as the dragon lands just beyond the outer ring of tents. The impact sends a tremor through the ground, scattering dust and loose earth outward from the massive claws that grip the soil.
The warriors hold their ground, though many tighten their grips on their weapons.
Another volley of arrows flies toward the creature. This time the arrows strike.
The sharp points glance harmlessly off the dragon’s scales before falling to the ground like useless twigs.
The dragon exhales slowly, warm breath drifting through the clearing like a cloud of mist. Then its great head lowers toward the gathered camp, ancient eyes sweeping across the warriors standing before it.
When it speaks, the voice that emerges is deep and resonant, carrying the weight of centuries. “I mean no harm.” The words roll across the clearing with surprising clarity.
For a moment no one moves.
Some of the warriors shift uneasily, clearly unsure whether the creature’s claim should be believed. Others keep their bows drawn, their arrows ready despite the obvious futility of their earlier attempts.
Kuldrane studies the dragon carefully.
The centaur takes several slow steps forward, positioning himself between the creature and the rest of the camp. His expression remains stern, though his posture suggests careful consideration rather than immediate attack.
The dragon does not move. It simply waits.
After a long moment, Kuldrane lifts one powerful arm. “Lower your weapons.”
A ripple of uncertainty passes through the gathered fighters. Several hesitate, glancing toward one another as if unsure whether such a command can truly be wise.
Kuldrane’s voice grows firmer. “Lower them.”
One by one, swords begin to lower. Bowstrings ease, arrows returning to quivers. Shields dip toward the ground as the tension in the clearing slowly loosens.
Even Mingi allows the tip of his blade to fall slightly, though his eyes remain fixed on the enormous creature standing before them.
The dragon’s gaze sweeps across the camp once more. Ancient. Patient. And waiting to speak again.
The clearing remains tense, though the first sharp edge of panic has begun to soften into something closer to wary attention. Weapons are no longer raised, but they have not been put away either. Warriors stand in loose circles around the dragon, their eyes fixed on the enormous creature whose presence seems to swallow the firelight around him.
Kuldrane remains at the centre of it all.
The great centaur plants the butt of his spear firmly into the ground before him, his broad shoulders squared as he studies the dragon with the steady patience of a leader who has seen enough battles to know that fear rarely leads to wise decisions.
For several long seconds he says nothing. He simply looks. Then his deep voice carries across the clearing. “If you intend to speak,” Kuldrane says, “then speak clearly.”
The dragon’s great head lowers slightly, acknowledging the command without offense. The violet sheen beneath his dark scales shifts as the firelight moves, giving the creature an almost otherworldly presence among the gathered warriors.
Kuldrane’s eyes narrow slightly. “Dragons,” he continues, his tone thoughtful but edged with disbelief, “were thought to be extinct.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd behind him.
“Nothing more than old tales told to children,” he adds. “Stories meant to frighten young knights and entertain bored kings.”
The dragon watches him calmly. Then he speaks again. “My name is Mars.”
The voice is deep enough that it vibrates faintly in the ground beneath their feet, though there is no hostility in the sound.
“I am… one of the last of my kind.” That statement draws a sharper stir from the camp.
Several of the creatures gathered nearby exchange uneasy glances. Even the fae hovering above the fire drift closer together, their glowing wings dimming slightly as they listen.
Mars continues. “There are others,” he explains slowly. “A small flight that remains far from this land.”
His head turns slightly toward the distant horizon, as though he can see the place even from here. “In the mountains beyond the eastern sea.” The description carries a quiet weight. “Hidden,” he adds. “For many years.”
Kuldrane folds his arms slowly across his chest. “And yet you are here,” the centaur says.
Mars exhales softly, the warm breath drifting through the clearing like fog. “Because we are now no longer hidden.”
The murmuring among the warriors grows louder now.
Mingi, standing several paces behind Kuldrane, feels the shift ripple through the crowd. Beside him, Mr Brambles’ ears tilt forward sharply, the fox’s attention now entirely fixed on the dragon.
Kuldrane’s voice remains steady. “Explain.”
Mars lowers his head slightly, his massive eyes reflecting the scattered fires of the camp. “The queen of Eirendale has discovered us.”
The name alone stirs tension among those gathered. Edrea. Even here, deep within the forest, her reach casts a shadow.
Mars continues, his voice carrying a darker note now. “She has begun searching the mountains.”
A ripple of anger moves through the camp. “How?” someone mutters.
Mars does not look toward the speaker. His gaze remains fixed on Kuldrane. “There are rumours,” he says slowly, “that she has obtained something she should never possess.”
The dragon’s voice grows quieter. “Dark magic.” That phrase lands heavily.
The fire beside Mingi pops sharply as a log shifts within the flames.
Mars continues speaking, the ancient weariness in his voice becoming clearer. “Magic capable of harming dragons.”
A few of the warriors exchange uneasy glances. Dragons are not creatures easily threatened. The idea that something could threaten them at all sends a quiet ripple of dread through the clearing.
“I do not yet know her true intent,” Mars admits. “Whether she wishes to destroy us… or bend us to her will.” His wings shift slightly against his sides, the movement slow but powerful. “But I will not allow either.”
His gaze sweeps across the gathered resistance. “So I have come here.” The dragon’s great head lifts slightly again. “To those who also prepare to stand against her.”
For several moments after the dragon finishes speaking, the clearing remains quiet. The crackling of the fires and the distant rush of the river are the only sounds that dare move through the air.
Kuldrane studies the enormous creature before him, his expression thoughtful rather than fearful now. The centaur leader has faced enough danger in his long life to recognize when something powerful stands before him with honesty rather than threat.
At length, he gives a slow nod. “Then you are welcome here,” Kuldrane says. His deep voice carries clearly across the encampment, allowing every warrior gathered nearby to hear the decision.
A murmur passes through the camp, though it is no longer uneasy. Instead there is something closer to awe in the way many of them now stare at the dragon standing among them.
Kuldrane gestures toward the wider clearing. “You have come to the right place if you seek those willing to stand against Edrea,” he continues. “Every creature in this camp has been pushed from the kingdoms she seeks to dominate.”
His gaze lifts toward Mars again. “We would be glad to have your strength beside us.”
The dragon lowers his head slightly in acknowledgement, the motion careful and controlled despite the immense size of his body.
Kuldrane then glances toward the gathered warriors behind him. “For now,” he says, “I would speak with our guest privately.” The message is clear.
Most of the camp begins drifting back toward their fires and tents, the tension that had seized them earlier slowly dissolving into curious whispers and excited conversation. Kuldrane gestures for Mars to follow him toward the large open field near the back of the encampment.
The dragon’s massive wings shift once before he begins moving, his enormous form surprisingly graceful as he follows the centaur through the clearing. Before long the two disappear into the field, the heavy fog falling shut behind them.
Back near the fire where he had been sitting earlier, Mingi exhales quietly as the excitement settles around them. Mr Brambles watches the command tent for a moment longer before letting out a low whistle. “Well,” the fox says thoughtfully, “that is certainly something you don’t see every day.”
Mingi rubs a hand briefly across the back of his neck. “No.”
Brambles’ eyes sparkle with amusement. “You know,” he adds casually, “the princess would never believe this.”
That comment earns him a sideways look. “A dragon landing in the middle of camp?” Brambles continues, clearly entertained by the thought. “She would have loved it.”
The image seems to settle somewhere behind Mingi’s guarded expression. For a moment he says nothing. Then a small breath escapes him, the faintest ghost of a laugh hiding in the sound.
“Yeah,” he mutters quietly. “She probably would have.” The moment lingers only briefly before the night shifts again.
From somewhere beyond the outer ring of the encampment, the sharp blast of a horn suddenly cuts through the air.
The sound is unmistakable. Royal.
Several heads turn immediately toward the treeline.
Moments later, movement emerges from the darkness beyond the clearing. Horses step cautiously into the firelight, their hooves crunching against the dirt path that leads toward the camp. Behind them follow a pair of decorated carriages and a small escort of travelling officials wearing the crests of several distant kingdoms.
The encampment quiets again, though this time the tension feels different. Curious. Wary.
A man in royal colours steps forward once the horses stop at the edge of the clearing. He carries a long brass horn which he lifts again before blowing a second sharp note that echoes across the gathered camp.
All conversation dies. The man unrolls a scroll in his hand. His voice rises loudly enough for the entire encampment to hear.
“Let it be known—” The formal tone of the proclamation slices cleanly through the cool night air.
“—that Princess Y/N, formerly of Eirendale, has been welcomed into the kingdom of Valemere and is to be wed to King Aurelian.”
A ripple of murmurs spreads immediately among the gathered warriors.
The herald continues without pause. “A proposal of marriage has occurred, and a royal wedding shall commence!”
The words hang in the air for a long moment after he finishes.
Then, just as quickly as they arrived, the herald rolls the scroll closed and signals to the carriage drivers. The horses turn, wheels grinding against the dirt path as the royal messengers begin their departure toward the next kingdom waiting to hear the news.
Within moments, the procession disappears back into the dark forest. Leaving the encampment behind, and the announcement still echoing among those who heard it.
The last echoes of the herald’s horn fade into the forest, leaving behind a strange, hollow quiet across the encampment.
For most of those gathered, the moment becomes one of confusion. Low conversations begin almost immediately, warriors leaning toward one another with raised brows and curious murmurs.
“Valemere?”
“The princess made it that far?”
“Marriage?”
But Mingi hears none of it. The moment the words left the herald’s mouth, something inside him seemed to collapse inward.
His ears ring.
The sound is sharp at first, like metal struck too hard, before it deepens into a dull roar that drowns out the rest of the world. The voices around him blur together into indistinct noise, as though he has been dragged beneath the surface of deep water and the world above continues moving without him.
His chest tightens. His throat feels suddenly narrow, air dragging in and out of his lungs in heavy, uneven pulls.
Princess Y/N. To be wed. To King Aurelian.
The words ricochet through his mind again and again, striking against his thoughts like arrows that refuse to stop moving.
Married. The thought alone makes something twist violently inside his chest.
Beside him, Mr Brambles is speaking.
Mingi can see the fox’s mouth moving, can see the sharp concern in his eyes, but the words themselves arrive muffled and distant.
“…Mingi?” Nothing. “…hey.” Still nothing. “Mingi.”
The fox’s voice finally breaks through slightly, though it still sounds far away, distorted by the rushing noise filling Mingi’s head.
But even then, the knight barely hears him. All he hears is his own breathing. Heavy. Uneven.
She’s getting married. The thought slams into him again. She’s getting married. She’s gone.
The image of her rises uninvited in his mind- the way she laughed when he teased her about her bow grip, the stubborn fire in her eyes whenever she argued with him, the warmth of her hand against his face the morning they parted.
That final moment flashes through his memory like lightning.
Her voice. Her kiss against his cheek. The softness of it. The promise of something neither of them had dared name.
And now - Married. Gone. Gone from him.
His hands curl slowly into fists.
No.
The word arrives quietly at first, buried beneath the pounding of his pulse. Then it grows louder.
No.
His breathing steadies slightly as the thought takes hold. He cannot accept that.
He cannot accept that the last time he ever saw her was that moment on the edge of the forest, when he forced himself to let her walk away.
The idea of her standing beside another man - smiling, laughing, promising herself to someone else, it twists something deep inside him into something fierce and desperate.
Mr Brambles steps closer now, his voice finally cutting through the fog. “Mingi,” the fox says carefully, “talk to me.”
The knight doesn’t answer immediately. He stands there for several seconds longer, staring toward the dark trees beyond the camp as if he can somehow see Valemere through the miles of forest between them.
Then, slowly, he turns. His expression is different now. Not hollow. Not broken. Resolved.
He looks down at Bramble. “I have to go.”
The words are quiet, but there is no hesitation in them. Bramble blinks. “Go?” the fox asks. “Go where?”
But Mingi is already moving. Mingi turns away from the fire before the fox can say anything else, already beginning to move through the camp with long, determined strides.
Brambles blinks in surprise before scrambling after him. “Go?” the fox repeats. “Go where?”
Mingi doesn’t slow. He moves through the clearing like a man walking through a storm only he can feel, passing warriors who barely notice the tension radiating from him.
Brambles trots alongside him. “You can’t possibly be thinking—”
“I am.” The answer comes sharp.
The fox huffs in disbelief. “You just heard the announcement,” Brambles says. “They’re planning a royal wedding. That usually involves guards. Lots of guards.”
Mingi keeps walking. His jaw is set so tightly that the muscles along his neck stand out beneath the firelight.
“So what exactly is the plan?” Brambles continues. “You march into Valemere, interrupt the ceremony, and politely object?”
Mingi doesn’t respond at first. His mind is racing now, the earlier shock burning away into something far more dangerous. Determination. “She’s leaving,” he mutters under his breath.
Brambles glances up at him. “She’s not yours to lose.”
The words land harder than the fox intends. Mingi stops abruptly. For a moment the world seems to hold its breath.
The knight stands motionless beneath the dark canopy of trees at the edge of the camp, the distant fires casting flickering light across the hard lines of his face.
Then he speaks. “She is.” The words are quiet. But there is no hesitation in them.
Brambles studies him carefully. “You’re serious,” the fox says slowly.
Mingi’s gaze drifts toward the dark path leading out of the encampment, toward the kingdoms beyond the forest. Toward Valemere.
“I’m not letting her disappear like this,” he says.
His voice carries a fierce certainty now, something raw and stubborn that refuses to be silenced.
He steps away from the fire, boots striking the dirt with purpose as he begins marching toward the outer edge of the encampment.
“Mingi!” Brambles scrambles after him quickly, tail flicking with alarm. “Where exactly do you think you’re going?”
“Mingi—”
Mr Bramble hurries to keep pace beside him, weaving easily between the tents as the knight strides through the camp. “And what exactly is your master plan when you get there?” the fox asks incredulously. “You seriously think you can just march into a royal wedding and object?”
Mingi doesn’t slow. “If I have to.”
“That is not a plan.”
“It’s enough.”
Mr Bramble groans softly. “You can't be serious.”
Mingi’s jaw tightens. Every step feels heavier than the last, but the direction of his path never wavers. His mind is already made. “She deserves the truth,” he mutters.
“The truth?”
“That I didn’t walk away because I wanted to.”
Mr Bramble studies him carefully. “And if she chooses the king anyway?”
Mingi stops walking. For a moment he simply stands there beneath the dark canopy of trees, the quiet forest stretching out before him. Then he answers.
“Then I’ll leave.” His voice is calm now. Steady. “But I won’t let her marry him thinking I never came back.”
Mr Bramble watches him for a long moment. Then the fox sighs dramatically and trots forward again. “Well,” he says lightly, “if we’re marching into royal weddings and causing problems, I suppose someone needs to make sure you don’t get arrested before you even reach the gates.”
Mingi glances down at him. “You’re coming?”
“Of course I’m coming,” Mr Bramble replies. “You think I’m letting you attempt something this ridiculous without supervision?”
Despite everything swirling inside him, the faintest shadow of a smile flickers across Mingi’s face.
They reach the edge of the encampment together. Behind them, the fires continue burning and the camp slowly returns to its evening rhythms, unaware that one of its newest warriors has already chosen a different path for the night.
Mingi tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword. His gaze fixes firmly on the dark forest ahead.
And with quiet certainty, he says- His voice cuts quietly through the night.
i think my biggest regret is cutting the tidebound story into two books… i literally have lost like 50% of readers since then 😭😭
ofc i’m not doing this for numbers and i really am appreciate of those who have followed along, please don’t take this the wrong way. I have such fun creating this world and writing/building all the characters and seeing everyone’s reactions. Tidebound was actually my first time ever writing so i was surprised to see a positive response.
But yeah if i could go back in time, I’d definitely just keep it as one long book 😭
Genre: Enemies(?) to lover, dark fantasy, medieval au, adventure, slowburn, knight x princess, angst, eventual fluff, very very slight (if you squint) suggestive wording
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She fled a kingdom that wanted her blood. He fled a crown he refused to kneel to. Their paths weren't meant to cross... but fate wanted a different story. The kingdom wanted her dead. The knight wanted nothing to do with her. But the moment she saw the eyes beneath his helm... she stopped running from danger, and started running towards him.
The forest thins slowly, reluctantly, as though the trees themselves are hesitant to reveal what lies beyond them.
Mingi pushes forward regardless.
Branches snap beneath the force of his blade as he cuts through the last of the dense undergrowth, steel flashing in short, efficient movements that betray long years of training. Twigs and leaves fall around his boots, scattering across the damp earth while he forces a narrow passage through the final curtain of green.
Then the trees open. He steps out onto a rise overlooking a clearing so vast that for a moment even he pauses.
Below him stretches the resistance encampment.
It sprawls across the wide basin like a living thing, vibrant and restless beneath the late afternoon light. Tents of deep red and sun-faded yellow rise in neat rows, their pointed tops swaying gently in the breeze like a field of strange, colourful spears. Some are small enough for a single occupant, while others stretch wide enough to shelter entire groups, their canvas walls patched and reinforced with mismatched cloth gathered from a hundred different places.
Fires burn throughout the camp, their smoke rising in thin grey ribbons that twist lazily into the sky. The scent of woodsmoke drifts across the clearing, mingling with the sharp tang of iron and sweat.
Near the centre of the camp, several blacksmiths work tirelessly at crude but effective forges, hammering glowing metal against anvils with ringing strikes that echo through the valley. Sparks leap into the air with every blow, scattering like angry fireflies as weapons begin to take shape beneath their skilled hands.
A narrow river winds its way through the encampment, its cool water glinting as it curls around clusters of tents before disappearing again into the surrounding forest. Fighters kneel along its banks to wash blood from blades or refill battered canteens, their voices low but constant as plans and rumours travel between them.
At the far end of the camp stands a single structure larger than the rest.
A massive command tent rises upon a wooden platform raised above the surrounding ground, its reinforced frame bound tightly with rope and heavy timber beams. Guards move in and out of it with quiet urgency, suggesting that whatever decisions are being made inside will shape the fate of everyone gathered below.
But it is not the structures that truly hold Mingi’s attention.
It is the people… or rather, the beings.
They move through the camp in numbers that would make most kingdoms fall into panic if they saw them gathered in one place.
Centaurs stride confidently between the tents, their powerful hooves striking the earth with steady rhythm as they carry bundles of arrows and supplies. Slender figures with shimmering wings- fae, unmistakably- hover above the campfires, their faint laughter occasionally drifting through the air as they exchange quiet conversations with cloaked figures who bear the unmistakable markings of forest elves.
Humans move among them as well, though their armour is rougher, mismatched pieces gathered from battlefields rather than forged for ceremony.
Beyond them stand creatures that most kingdoms insist no longer exist.
Massive orcs with thick grey skin sharpen brutal axes beside wizened wizards whose robes trail through the dirt as they mutter over glowing runes etched into the ground. A towering creature with bark-like skin, some distant cousin of the forest itself, lumbers past carrying an entire cart of supplies as though it weighs nothing at all.
Everywhere Mingi looks, different races work together with quiet purpose.
Not hidden. Not extinct. Alive.
A slow understanding settles over him as he studies the camp below.
The kingdoms had always described the forest as dangerous, a cursed place crawling with beasts and monsters that would tear apart anyone foolish enough to enter it. But standing here now, watching an entire civilisation thrive beneath the shelter of ancient trees, the truth becomes painfully obvious. The forest was never dangerous because of what lived within it. It was dangerous because the kingdoms never wanted anyone to discover that these creatures had survived at all.
A dry, amused voice drifts up beside him.
“Well,” Mr Bramble says, flicking his bushy tail as he peers over the edge of the rise, “if there were ever a place where you might blend in, this would be it.”
Mingi exhales through his nose, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a restrained growl.
The fox continues anyway, of course.
“Look at them,” Bramble goes on, tilting his head thoughtfully while his sharp eyes roam across the encampment below. “Half the kingdoms would faint dead away if they saw this gathering. Orcs beside elves, fae dancing above the campfires, and a knight who abandoned his crown standing right in the middle of it all. You, my friend, are practically one of them already.”
Mingi says nothing. He simply tightens his grip around the hilt of his sword before beginning the descent down the slope, his heavy boots pressing flattened paths through the tall grass as he makes his way toward the sprawling camp below.
Mr Bramble trots after him, weaving easily between stones and roots. “Try not to get yourself killed in the first five minutes,” the fox adds lightly. “It would be terribly inconvenient after all the effort it took to get you here.”
Mingi glances down at him briefly. “Stay close,” he mutters.
Bramble’s ears perk with mild surprise. “Worried about me?”
“No,” Mingi replies flatly as he continues walking. “Worried about what happens if they decide you’re dinner.”
The fox snorts. “Charming.”
As they approach the outer edge of the encampment, the sounds of activity grow louder. The ring of hammer against metal carries sharply through the air, mingling with low voices, the crackle of firewood, and the restless shifting of creatures who have learned to live with one eye always watching the dark edges of the forest.
And watch they do. Heads begin to turn as Mingi steps fully into view. Conversations falter. Movements slow. Eyes follow him immediately. Suspicious eyes. Curious ones. Some openly hostile.
The gleam of his palace-forged armour does not go unnoticed among the rough leathers and mismatched battle gear worn by the resistance fighters. It catches the firelight too cleanly, too perfectly maintained, marking him instantly as someone who once belonged to the very systems that hunted many of them into hiding.
A large orc near one of the forges lets out a low huff as Mingi passes. A pair of elves exchange quiet words between themselves.
Further down the path, a centaur pauses mid-step, watching the knight with open distrust.
The weight of those stares presses in from every direction as Mingi walks deeper into the camp.
He does not slow. He does not acknowledge them. But the tension thickens with every step.
Eventually, someone moves.
A broad-shouldered man steps into his path, planting himself firmly in the dirt with a sneer curling across his scarred face. His armour is battered and mismatched, pieces clearly salvaged from different battles, and a jagged axe rests loosely in one hand.
His gaze travels slowly over Mingi’s polished armour. “Lost, palace boy?” the man says, his voice thick with disdain. “You don’t look like you belong here.”
Mr Bramble mutters quietly behind him. “Oh good. It took longer than I expected for someone to try that.”
Mingi stops. For a moment, neither of them move. Then the knight speaks, his voice calm and even. “I’m looking for whoever leads this camp.”
The man’s lip curls further. “That so?”
A few nearby fighters begin to drift closer, drawn by the rising tension. Orcs straighten from their work. A fae hovering nearby goes silent. Even the centaur from earlier turns fully toward the scene.
The challenger rolls his shoulders slowly. “And you think you can just walk in here,” he continues, tapping the blunt side of his axe against his palm, “dressed like one of their pretty soldiers, and demand an audience?”
Mingi says nothing. His silence only fuels the man’s anger.
The fighter’s expression darkens as he steps forward, raising the axe slightly. “Wrong answer.” With a sudden roar, he charges.
Steel meets steel with a sharp crack that echoes through the nearby tents.
The charging man’s axe comes down with brutal force, but Mingi moves before the full weight of the strike can land. His sword rises in a clean arc, catching the blow with practiced precision, the impact shuddering briefly through his arm before he shifts his footing and pushes the weapon aside.
The man staggers half a step as his momentum carries him forward.
Mingi does not waste the opening.
In one fluid movement he draws his blade fully, the metal flashing as it clears the sheath with a quiet, deadly whisper. The sword settles easily into his grip, as though it has been waiting there the entire time.
Around them, the growing crowd leans in.
The man recovers quickly, baring his teeth as he swings again, this time aiming low in a brutal sideways strike meant to break bone rather than simply disarm. Mingi pivots out of the path of the axe, the blade of his own weapon snapping forward to intercept it once more.
Their weapons clash again. And again.
Each strike grows faster, heavier, sparks snapping into the air where metal scrapes against metal. The man fights with brute strength, his blows powerful enough to crush a weaker opponent outright, but Mingi meets every attack with the controlled efficiency of someone who has been trained for war since childhood.
He does not overreach. He does not rush. He simply waits. Watching. Learning.
The axe whistles toward his shoulder, and this time Mingi turns the strike aside so sharply that the weapon bites uselessly into the dirt beside his boot. Before the man can wrench it free, Mingi’s sword is already at his throat.
The camp falls silent. Not even the wind seems to move.
The man freezes where he stands, his breathing heavy, eyes flicking between the blade pressed lightly against his skin and the unreadable helm staring back at him.
Behind them, Mr Bramble quietly sidesteps out of the widening circle of fighters.
“Yes,” the fox mutters under his breath as he retreats a safe distance. “Let’s all swing extremely large weapons while I stand directly in the middle. Brilliant plan.”
The tension stretches like a drawn bowstring.
And then- A voice cuts through the camp.
“Enough.”
The single word rolls across the clearing like distant thunder.
Both men pause instantly. Slowly, the crowd begins to part.
High above them, standing at the entrance of the raised command tent, is the largest centaur Mingi has ever seen.
The creature’s upper body is broad and powerful, his arms thick with muscle and crossed calmly over his chest, while the massive body of the horse beneath him shifts with quiet authority. His dark mane falls down his back like a storm cloud, and the heavy armour strapped across his torso gleams faintly beneath the firelight.
His sharp eyes sweep across the gathered fighters below. Displeasure radiates from him without a single shout.
The centaur begins to descend from the platform. Each step down the wooden ramp is slow, deliberate, and by the time he reaches the ground, the crowd has already opened a wide path before him.
No one blocks his way. No one dares.
He approaches the standoff, his gaze moving first to the axe-wielding man, then to the knight standing calmly with his sword still raised.
“What,” the centaur asks evenly, “is going on here?”
The man immediately lowers his weapon. “He’s an intruder,” the fighter answers, jerking his chin toward Mingi. “Walked straight into camp wearing palace steel.”
The centaur’s gaze shifts to Mingi. For a moment, the two simply study one another. Then the centaur speaks again. “Did you come alone?”
Mingi lowers his blade but does not sheath it. “It’s just me,” he replies, nodding slightly toward the fox now sitting several paces away, tail wrapped neatly around his paws. “And him.”
The centaur glances briefly at Mr Bramble, who offers a polite little dip of his head. “Charmed,” the fox says.
The centaur looks back to Mingi. Another moment passes as he seems to weigh something silently.
Then he turns away. “Follow me,” he says simply.
Without waiting for a response, the centaur begins walking toward the raised command tent, the crowd parting once again to clear his path as murmurs ripple through the gathered fighters.
After a brief pause, Mingi sheathes his sword. And follows.
The inside of the command tent feels far larger than it appeared from the outside.
As Mingi steps beneath the thick canvas entrance, the space opens around him in a wide circular chamber supported by enormous beams of dark timber driven deep into the ground. The wood is rough and scarred, clearly hauled straight from the surrounding forest, their bark still clinging stubbornly to the trunks as though the trees themselves have been drafted into service.
The air inside carries the warm scent of smoke and leather.
Lantern light glows softly above them, cast from a great iron fixture hanging from the centre beam. Eight candles burn within the circular frame, their flames swaying gently with every shift of the canvas walls, throwing long shadows that dance across maps, weapons, and supply crates arranged around the room.
But the chamber does not end there.
Several openings branch off from the main space, their canvas flaps pulled aside to reveal smaller rooms beyond- private quarters perhaps, or strategy chambers where quieter discussions take place away from the constant movement of the camp outside.
For a moment, the only sound is the faint crackle of candle wicks.
Then the centaur turns. His towering form nearly fills the space even beneath the high canvas ceiling. From this close, Mingi can see the thick leather armour wrapped across the creature’s chest and shoulders, marked by deep scratches and stains from battles long past.
The centaur’s sharp gaze settles on him. “Drop your weapon.” The command is not shouted. It doesn’t need to be.
Mingi feels the weight of it immediately. His hand tightens slightly around the hilt of his sword as instinct flares in his chest. Every lesson drilled into him since childhood urges caution, reminding him that surrendering a weapon in unfamiliar territory can easily become a fatal mistake.
But the centaur stands nearly a full head taller than him even in his human half, the powerful body beneath him shifting with quiet strength that could crush bone without effort.
And more importantly- This is their camp. Their rules.
After a brief pause, Mingi slowly reaches for the hilt and pulls the blade free just enough to slide it fully from its sheath. The steel glints once in the candlelight. Then he lowers it carefully to the ground. The soft thud of metal against packed earth fills the silence.
The centaur watches the entire movement without blinking.
Only when Mingi steps back does the creature move again, circling slowly as his gaze travels over the knight’s armour piece by piece.
The polished steel plates. The royal insignia carved faintly into the breastplate. The unmistakable craftsmanship of a palace forge.
“You’re one of Edrea’s,” the centaur says at last. The words land like a stone dropped into still water.
For the first time since entering the tent, something sharp flashes through Mingi’s posture. A low sound escapes his throat- something dangerously close to a growl. “No,” he says.
The centaur pauses.
Mingi’s voice comes again, firmer now. “Not anymore.” His shoulders square slightly beneath the armour. “I left the moment she was announced queen.”
The centaur says nothing, but his eyes narrow slightly.
“I’ve been gone since,” Mingi continues, his tone steady despite the tension still hanging in the room. “There hasn’t been much time to find new armour.”
His gaze flicks briefly down toward the palace steel still strapped across his body. “So this,” he adds quietly, “is what I’ve got.”
For a moment the tent holds only silence, the faint flicker of candlelight moving slowly across the thick wooden beams as Kuldrane studies the knight standing before him.
Mingi does not look away. Eventually he speaks again.
“I heard there was a resistance forming,” he says, his voice carrying the rough steadiness of someone who has already made the decision long before arriving here. “An army gathering in the forest. One that intends to fight back instead of hiding from her.”
His eyes move briefly toward the entrance of the tent, where the distant sounds of the encampment drift faintly through the canvas walls- hammering metal, murmured voices, the restless movement of creatures who have been forced to carve out their survival far from the kingdoms that once hunted them.
“I came to join it.”
The centaur remains still for a long moment, the powerful muscles in his broad shoulders shifting slightly as he considers the statement. His sharp gaze moves once more across the armour, the weapon resting on the ground, the rigid stance of the man wearing it.
Then he asks quietly, “Your name.”
“Mingi.”
The centaur gives a slow nod, as though committing the name to memory. “Kuldrane,” he replies in return.
The name carries a certain weight when he says it, the sort that suggests it is known among those who fight within these woods. His deep voice settles naturally into the quiet authority he holds over the camp outside.
Kuldrane steps a little closer now, the heavy movement of his hooves against the ground sounding solid and deliberate. “And what,” he asks, “took you so long to find us, Mingi?”
A soft sound interrupts the moment. Mr Bramble lets out a low chuckle somewhere behind Mingi’s shoulder. The fox has made himself quite comfortable near the entrance of the tent, tail curled neatly around his paws while his sharp eyes gleam with amusement.
Mingi’s shoulders stiffen slightly at the sound.
“Careful,” the fox says lightly, glancing between the two of them. “That question may take a while to answer.”
Mingi shoots him a brief glare that could strip bark from a tree.
The fox only looks more pleased with himself.
Kuldrane waits.
Finally Mingi exhales slowly through his nose. “The princess,” he says simply.
The words land with surprising clarity in the quiet space.
Kuldrane’s expression shifts ever so slightly, recognition passing through his eyes as the meaning settles into place. The rumours have travelled far through the kingdoms and deeper still through the forest- whispers of the youngest princess of Eirendale accused of treachery, of a royal daughter forced to flee her own home while her sister seized the throne.
Even here, beyond the reach of the kingdoms, the story has been heard.
“You found her,” Kuldrane says. It is not quite a question.
Mingi gives a short nod.
Kuldrane studies him carefully for another moment before asking the next thing that matters. “And is she safe now?”
Something about the question causes a small tightening in Mingi’s jaw. The answer comes a moment later, rougher than before. “Yes.”
The word is clipped, controlled, though not entirely steady. “She’s in Valemere.”
Kuldrane nods again, accepting the information with the quiet understanding of someone who knows the weight of royal politics well enough not to press further.
Behind them, Mr Bramble flicks one ear thoughtfully. “Safe,” the fox repeats softly to himself, though the faint tone in his voice suggests he may not entirely agree with the certainty of the word.
Kuldrane remains quiet for a moment longer, the heavy stillness of the tent settling between them as he considers the knight standing before him.
Then his expression shifts, not into warmth exactly, but into something closer to measured approval. “I saw what happened outside,” the centaur says at last, his deep voice carrying easily through the timber-framed chamber. “The way you handled that challenge.”
His gaze drifts briefly toward the entrance of the tent, where the sounds of the encampment continue beyond the canvas walls.
“You defended yourself cleanly. No wasted movement. No unnecessary violence.”
His eyes return to Mingi. “That tells me enough.”
The centaur’s powerful body shifts slightly as he folds his arms across his broad chest. “And more importantly,” Kuldrane continues, “you abandoned a crown that demanded your loyalty.”
The words hang for a moment. “But you did not abandon your honour.”
Mingi says nothing.
Kuldrane’s gaze sharpens. “You protected the princess instead.” The simple statement lands harder than any accusation.
Every mention of her feels like a blade pressing deeper beneath Mingi’s ribs. The memory rises uninvited- the warmth of her hand against his face, the quiet steadiness of her voice, the brief brush of her lips against his cheek before she disappeared into the safety of Valemere.
He forces the thought down.
Kuldrane nods once, satisfied with whatever silent conclusions he has drawn. “You fought well,” he says. “And if what you say is true, then you’ve done more good than most soldiers who served beneath that throne.”
His eyes travel once more over the armour still strapped across Mingi’s body. That palace steel gleams even in the dim candlelight, its craftsmanship unmistakable. Kuldrane gestures toward it. “We’ll get you something better.”
Mingi tilts his head slightly. “Better?”
“Armour forged for fighters,” Kuldrane replies. “Not for royal parades.” His voice carries a faint edge of humour now. “You can remove the helm for the time being. No one here will mistake you for Edrea’s soldier once that crest disappears.”
Behind them, Mr Bramble immediately perks up. “Oh, this I’d like to see.”
The fox rises from where he’s been sitting, padding closer with obvious interest. “He never takes it off,” Bramble announces casually, circling around to inspect Mingi from the side. “Not once since I’ve known him.”
His tail swishes thoughtfully. “I don’t even know what the man looks like.”
Mingi stands still. The words settle heavier than they should.
For years the helm has been more than armour- it has been a wall, a shield between the violence he was forced to carry out and the part of himself that might have broken beneath it.
Behind the metal, he could become something else. Something less human. Something easier.
But standing here now, in a camp filled with creatures the kingdoms swore no longer existed… something about that old instinct feels less necessary.
Is this place different? Is this somewhere he can finally stop pretending?
His fingers rise slowly toward the edge of the helm. For a moment he hesitates. Then the clasps release.
The metal lifts away.
Cool air immediately brushes across his face, slipping through his dark hair and over skin that has been hidden beneath steel for far too long. The weight of the helm leaves his hands, and for the first time in what feels like years the forest wind touches him without obstruction.
Mr Bramble goes completely still. “Well,” the fox murmurs quietly.
Kuldrane watches without comment.
Mingi looks down at the helm in his hands for a moment. The crest of Eirendale gleams faintly along its surface. A symbol of a kingdom that no longer belongs to him.
He lowers it toward the ground and sets it beside the sword he surrendered earlier. Then he straightens.
“Burn it.”
Kuldrane studies him for a moment. Then the centaur nods. “You’ll have a new kit by nightfall,” he says. “Weapons. Armour. Everything you’ll need.” His voice lowers slightly as he adds,
“There will be no trace of Edrea inside this camp.”
Kuldrane does not linger long after the decision is made.
With a quiet gesture of his hand, he turns and steps back through the canvas entrance, the heavy flap swaying briefly behind him as he exits the command tent. Mingi retrieves his sword from the packed earth, though he leaves the discarded helm where it lies, its metal surface catching one last flicker of candlelight before the darkness of the tent swallows it.
Outside, the encampment hums with the same restless energy it held before.
The sky has begun to deepen toward evening now, the fading light casting long amber shadows between the rows of tents. Fires burn brighter as the sun lowers, their glow illuminating faces hardened by years of exile and quiet resistance. Conversations drift across the clearing in dozens of languages, the mixture of voices blending with the constant rhythm of hammering metal from the smithing area near the centre of camp.
Kuldrane leads the way through the narrow paths that wind between the tents.
Few speak as they pass, though more than a few pairs of eyes follow them with cautious interest. The sight of the knight walking beside the centaur leader is enough to quiet most suspicions for now, though the occasional low murmur still ripples through the crowd.
They move toward the outer edge of the encampment, where the ground slopes gently down toward the narrow river that threads its way through the clearing.
The air is cooler here.
The water glides past in a steady silver ribbon, its soft current reflecting the deepening hues of the evening sky. Tall grasses line the banks, whispering quietly whenever the breeze moves through them, and a massive oak tree spreads its thick branches above the river’s bend, its roots twisting into the earth like the knuckles of an ancient hand.
Nestled beneath that tree stands a smaller tent.
Unlike the larger ones nearer the centre of camp, this one is simple but well-kept—its canvas walls patched carefully, its ropes tied tight against the shifting winds that move through the valley.
Kuldrane slows beside it. “This will be yours,” he says, gesturing toward the tent with a slight incline of his head. “Close enough to the river for water. Far enough from the forge smoke to breathe properly.”
Mr Bramble steps ahead of Mingi immediately, padding toward the entrance with curious enthusiasm as he peers inside.
“Well,” the fox says thoughtfully after a moment, “I’ve certainly slept in worse places.”
He glances back over his shoulder with a sly flick of his tail. “Though I must say, sharing living quarters with a brooding knight was not quite how I imagined my future.”
Mingi exhales slowly. “If you keep talking,” he mutters, “I’ll turn you into a hat.”
Mr Bramble lets out a bright laugh at that. “Oh please,” the fox replies easily. “You’d miss me far too much.”
Kuldrane watches the exchange with quiet amusement flickering briefly across his otherwise stern expression.Then he turns, preparing to leave them to settle into their new place among the resistance.
But before the centaur can take more than a few steps, Mingi speaks. “Kuldrane.”
The centaur stops. Slowly, he turns back.
Mingi stands near the entrance of the tent, his posture rigid in the fading light as the river murmurs softly beside them. The evening wind stirs the dark strands of his uncovered hair now that the helm is gone, revealing the sharp line of his jaw and the faint scars that cross his skin.
There is something different in his voice now. Something heavier.
“I didn’t come here just to fight,” Mingi says.
Kuldrane studies him carefully. “What did you come for, then?”
Mingi’s gaze drifts briefly toward the distant heart of the encampment where fires burn brighter against the coming night.
Then he looks back. “I want Edrea taken down properly.”
The words leave him with quiet certainty. “Not captured.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Not exiled.”
Kuldrane says nothing yet.
Mingi’s voice lowers. “Dead. I need her dead.” The river continues its slow current beside them.
“And when that happens,” Mingi adds, his tone sharpening with the weight of years spent serving a crown he now despises, “I want to be the one standing in front of her.”
Kuldrane’s brows rise slightly. “That is a considerable amount of hatred to carry for one person.” He studies Mingi more closely now. “Why?”
For a moment, Mingi doesn’t answer.
The words come before he can stop them. “She hurt my princess.” The sentence slips out instinctively, carried by something deeper than thought.
His princess.
The word lingers in the air longer than it should. Kuldrane hears it. Of course he does.
The centaur’s sharp eyes settle on Mingi with quiet understanding, something almost knowing flickering across his expression.
But he does not comment on it. Instead, he nods slowly.
“Ambition like that isn’t given freely here,” Kuldrane says calmly. “Not even to someone who claims they abandoned the crown.”
His gaze sharpens. “You’ll need to prove where your loyalty truly lies first.”
The centaur turns again, his powerful form already beginning to move back toward the heart of the encampment.
“We’ll speak about Edrea again when you’ve earned your place among us.”
With that, Kuldrane disappears into the growing darkness between the tents, leaving Mingi and the fox alone beside the quiet riverbank.
The tent is quiet when they step inside.
It is far simpler than the great command structure Kuldrane had brought him from, though it still carries the same practical sturdiness that seems to define everything within the encampment. The canvas walls are thick and weathered from use, pulled tight against the wooden stakes anchoring it to the earth. A small lantern hangs from a rope beam overhead, its soft amber glow casting gentle light across the modest interior.
There is not much inside.
A narrow wooden table sits to one side with a small clay jug resting upon it, likely meant for water drawn from the nearby river. Beside it stands a rough stool carved from a single block of timber. Across from that is the cot Kuldrane must have mentioned- little more than a simple wooden frame strung tightly with thick rope and covered by a folded wool blanket that has seen better days.
But compared to the open forest floor Mingi has slept on the past several nights, it may as well be luxury.
He steps fully inside and sets his sword carefully against the tent pole before lowering himself onto the cot.
The ropes creak quietly beneath his weight. For the first time since arriving at the encampment, he allows himself to breathe properly.
A slow exhale leaves him as he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms against his knees while the lingering tension in his shoulders begins to loosen. The faint sound of the river outside drifts through the canvas walls, its steady movement grounding the silence that settles inside the tent.
Mr Bramble slips in after him.
The fox takes a moment to circle the small space, inspecting it with theatrical scrutiny before eventually settling near the foot of the cot. His sharp eyes lift toward Mingi with an expression that is far too knowing for comfort.
Mingi notices immediately. “Don’t,” he says flatly.
Mr Bramble tilts his head. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
The fox’s whiskers twitch with amusement. “Well,” he replies lightly, “if you insist.”
Mingi drags a hand down his face.
Bramble chuckles quietly to himself, the sound warm rather than mocking this time. “You truly are the easiest creature in this forest to read,” the fox says after a moment.
Mingi lifts his head just enough to fix him with a hard stare. “Try me.”
Bramble’s tail sways lazily behind him. “You’re in love with her.”
The words land plainly in the small space. Mingi does not react immediately. He simply looks at the fox, his expression unreadable beneath the low lantern light.
Then, after a long moment, he speaks. “What good would that do?”
His voice is calm. Too calm.
“Nothing changes either way.” The statement carries no bitterness, only a quiet acceptance that feels heavier than anger ever could.
“I’m here,” he continues, his gaze drifting briefly toward the tent wall where the distant fires of the encampment flicker faintly through the canvas. “And she’s there.”
He exhales slowly. “Y/N is safe now.” The words settle heavily in the space between them.
For once, Mr Bramble does not immediately respond with another clever remark.
The fox watches him quietly, the usual sparkle of mischief in his eyes replaced with something softer- something closer to understanding. He knows, perhaps better than most, that some truths cannot be undone once they have taken shape.
And some choices cannot be reversed.
After a while, he finally speaks again. “You did the right thing.”
Mingi doesn’t answer.
Outside, the sounds of the encampment begin to quiet as night fully settles over the valley. The rhythmic clang of metal fades as the blacksmiths extinguish their fires one by one, and the scattered voices of fighters slowly soften into low murmurs as exhaustion overtakes the camp.
Eventually Mingi leans back against the thin pillow of the cot, staring up at the canvas roof above him.
Mr Bramble curls his tail around his paws near the foot of the bed.
Neither of them speaks again. But long after the fox’s breathing grows slow and steady with sleep, Mingi remains awake, listening to the quiet rush of the river outside while his thoughts wander somewhere far beyond the forest.
The first light of the sun creeps slowly across the forest floor, slipping between the towering trees that surround the encampment before finding its way through the small gap in the tent entrance. A thin beam of golden light stretches across the packed earth inside, warming the canvas walls with the soft glow of early day.
Mingi stirs.
For a moment he remains still, the lingering heaviness of sleep weighing down his limbs as he lies there listening to the distant sounds of the camp beginning to wake. The quiet rush of the river outside continues its steady path beside the tent, while somewhere farther off the low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of equipment signals the slow return of activity among the fighters.
He pushes himself upright. The movement is slow at first, his muscles stiff from the unfamiliar comfort of the rope-strung cot beneath him. A hand runs briefly through his dark hair as he tries to gather his thoughts, though the fog of sleep still clings stubbornly to the edges of his mind.
He doesn’t even remember when he finally drifted off.
One moment he had been staring up at the dim lantern light above him, listening to the quiet sounds of the forest.
The next- Morning.
Before he can dwell on the strange emptiness between those moments, a familiar voice reaches him from just outside the tent.
“Well look at that,” Mr Bramble calls out with obvious delight. “You’re awake already. I was just about to start poking you with a stick.”
Mingi exhales slowly through his nose. “What.”
The fox appears in the opening of the tent, his bright eyes gleaming with amusement. “You have a delivery,” Bramble announces.
Mingi frowns slightly before swinging his legs over the edge of the cot and standing. The cool morning air brushes against his face as he steps toward the entrance and pulls the canvas flap aside.
What waits outside catches him slightly off guard.
Folded neatly upon a low wooden crate sits a fresh set of linen clothing, the pale fabric clean and sturdy in a way that immediately suggests it was made for movement rather than ceremony. The shirt is thicker than the silks worn in palace halls, the sleeves reinforced at the forearms where leather straps hold protective guards in place.
Beside the clothing rests the armour. It is unmistakably forged for battle.
The plates are darker, rougher than the polished steel of his former armour, built for endurance rather than display. Reinforced leather lines the joints for flexibility, and the breastplate carries deep scoring marks from previous use, suggesting it once belonged to another warrior before being repaired and refitted.
Next to it lies a sword. Mingi steps closer.
The weapon is beautifully balanced, its hilt wrapped in dark leather and its blade slightly broader than the one he carried before. There are no royal crests carved into the metal, no decorative flourishes meant to announce allegiance to a throne.
Nothing tying it to Eirendale. Nothing tying it to Edrea.
He lifts the sword slowly from the crate, the weight settles naturally into his grip. A faint, almost imperceptible sense of satisfaction passes through him as he tests the balance with a brief movement of his wrist.
Mr Bramble watches from a few paces away, his tail swishing thoughtfully. “Well,” the fox says after a moment, “someone has been busy making sure you don’t embarrass the resistance with palace decorations.”
Mingi glances down again at the armour. There is not a single trace of Edrea’s markings anywhere on it.
For the first time since arriving, something in his chest loosens slightly. He nods once to himself.
Mr Bramble tilts his head. “So,” the fox continues lightly, “are you going to hide that pretty face again, or are we letting the camp admire it for a few more hours?”
Mingi shoots him a flat look. Then he grabs the folded clothing and steps back into the tent. “Quiet.”
The fox chuckles softly outside.
Inside the tent, Mingi strips off the remaining pieces of his old armour with steady movements, setting each plate aside before pulling the fresh linen shirt over his shoulders. The fabric is rougher against his skin than what he once wore inside palace walls, but it feels lighter, freer, as though it belongs to someone who expects to fight rather than simply stand guard.
The new armour follows. Each piece fits well enough, though clearly forged with practicality in mind rather than elegance. The leather straps tighten firmly around his forearms and shoulders, the weight of the chestplate settling comfortably against him as he secures it in place.
Finally he picks up the helm. It is different from the one he left behind. Simpler. Darker.
Stripped of all royal insignia. He studies it briefly in his hands.
Outside, Mr Bramble’s voice drifts through the canvas again. “Well?”
Mingi exhales. Instead of placing the helm on his head, he tucks it beneath one arm and steps back toward the tent entrance.
For now… he’ll carry it.
The morning air feels sharper outside the tent.
The sun has risen fully now, its light filtering through the high canopy of trees that surround the encampment. Golden beams break through the leaves in scattered patterns, touching the riverbank and the winding paths between the tents with gentle warmth. The camp itself is already alive with activity, far more energetic than the quiet murmur of the previous night.
Fighters move between tents carrying bundles of arrows and sharpened blades. The blacksmiths near the centre of camp have already rekindled their forges, the rhythmic ring of hammer against glowing steel carrying clearly across the clearing. Smoke curls slowly upward from the fires, carrying the familiar scent of metal, ash, and pine.
Mingi steps fully into the open space beside the river, adjusting the strap of his new armour across his shoulder as he scans the activity around him.
Mr Bramble trots easily at his side, tail flicking as he observes everything with bright curiosity.
“Well,” the fox says after a moment, glancing around the camp with interest, “I must say this place looks much friendlier in daylight.”
Mingi doesn’t respond immediately. His attention is focused elsewhere.
The stares from the night before are still present, but they have changed. Where suspicion once lingered openly, there is now a quieter curiosity in the way the camp’s inhabitants observe him. Some simply glance in his direction before returning to their tasks. Others nod faintly as they pass, acknowledging him in small, subtle ways.
Kuldrane’s influence is obvious. Word has spread. The knight who arrived in palace armour is no longer considered an intruder.
As they walk further into the camp, Mingi notices something else.
Ahead of them, near one of the weapon racks, stands the man who had challenged him the previous evening.
The same broad shoulders. The same scarred face. The axe now rests against his shoulder as he speaks with another fighter, though the conversation falls silent as Mingi approaches.
For a brief moment the two men simply regard one another. Then the man gives a single nod.
Gruff. Wordless.
And turns away, continuing about his work without another glance.
Mingi returns the nod just as briefly. He understands the meaning well enough. No insult remains. No challenge lingers.
A test was given. It was answered.
In another life, beneath another banner, he likely would have done the exact same thing.
Mr Bramble notices the exchange immediately. “Well that was surprisingly civilised,” the fox murmurs, his voice low with mild surprise.
Mingi simply keeps walking.
They move deeper into the encampment now, taking in the full breadth of the place in the bright morning light. Creatures pass them in every direction- an elf carrying a bundle of fletched arrows across his back, a pair of centaurs hauling a supply cart toward the river, a young wizard muttering over a glowing charm while two small fae hover curiously above his shoulder.
The camp feels alive in a way that no royal fortress ever did. Unpredictable. Untamed. Real.
Mingi slows slightly, his eyes scanning the camp as though mapping its layout in his mind. Every instinct he possesses studies the terrain automatically- the positions of the forges, the open training ground beyond the central fire pits, the elevated command tent where Kuldrane likely already works through the morning’s plans.
Mr Bramble is about to say something else when a voice cuts across the noise of the camp.
“Well hello, stranger.” It is a woman’s voice.
Warm. Familiar.
For the briefest fraction of a second, Mingi’s heart jumps. Hope flares before he can stop it, quick and sharp as lightning.
His head turns instinctively.
But the figure approaching them through the morning light is not the one his mind had betrayed him with.
Instead, stepping confidently between two rows of tents with a faint smile tugging at her lips, is a woman he recognises immediately.
Dark red hair falls loosely around her shoulders, strands catching the sunlight as she moves. Her clothes are far simpler than the last time he saw her- practical layers of deep green and brown fabric tied at the waist with leather cords, the sleeves rolled slightly at the forearms where faint traces of soot and herbs stain the material.
Yet the familiar spark of mischief in her eyes remains exactly the same.
Kayleigh.
The witch stops a few paces away, crossing her arms casually as she looks Mingi over from head to toe.
“Well,” she says lightly, one eyebrow arching as she takes in the new armour, the uncovered face, and the helm now tucked beneath his arm, “I see someone’s finally decided to step out from behind the metal.”
Mr Bramble immediately perks up beside him. “Oh good,” the fox says with obvious delight. “Now the camp gets to meet the rest of our collection.”
Kayleigh’s gaze flicks briefly to the fox. “And you’re still following him around like a particularly sarcastic shadow, I see.”
Bramble looks deeply offended. “I prefer the term trusted companion.”
Kayleigh laughs softly. Her attention returns to Mingi. “I was wondering how long it would take you to show up here,” she adds.
And the way she says it makes it very clear- She had been expecting him all along.
Mingi forces the brief flicker of disappointment out of his expression before it can settle anywhere visible.
It had only been a moment- barely a heartbeat- but hope had crept in anyway, unwelcome and stubborn as ever. Now it fades just as quickly, replaced by a quiet confusion as he studies the woman standing before him.
Kayleigh notices the look immediately. “Don’t look so surprised,” she says with a small smirk. “I promise I’m not here to curse you.”
Mingi folds his arms loosely across his chest, the new armour shifting slightly with the movement. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
The question is not hostile, but it carries genuine curiosity. The last place he expected to see the forest witch was standing casually in the middle of a resistance camp.
Kayleigh shrugs one shoulder. “What do you think I’m doing here?” she replies, gesturing vaguely around them at the bustling encampment. “There’s a war brewing, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Her tone softens slightly. “I couldn’t exactly sit in my cottage brewing tea while the kingdoms tear each other apart.”
She glances toward the centre of the camp where several injured fighters are being helped across the clearing by two elves and a young wizard carrying a crate of supplies. “I’m not exactly the sword-swinging type,” she adds, her voice carrying a trace of humour, “but I can keep people alive long enough to swing them.”
Mingi follows her gaze briefly. “You’re one of the healers.”
Kayleigh nods. “Among other things,” she says lightly. “Turns out witches are rather useful when people are bleeding all over the place.”
Her eyes drift back to him again. “And besides,” she continues, her smile returning slightly, “I had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before you showed up here.”
Mingi frowns faintly.
Kayleigh tilts her head. “You’re not exactly the type to sit quietly while Edrea takes over the continent.”
Mr Bramble snorts softly beside him. “She’s got you there.”
Kayleigh’s attention sharpens slightly as she studies Mingi more carefully now. “And I’m guessing,” she says, her voice lowering just a little, “that you managed to get the princess where she needed to go.”
The words land harder than she probably intends. Mingi feels the familiar tightening in his chest again- the same sharp, unwelcome sensation that seems to follow every mention of her name.
He hates it. Hates how often the subject keeps circling back. Hates how impossible it seems to avoid.
All he wants is to forget. To bury those memories somewhere deep enough that they stop resurfacing every time someone opens their mouth.
But it doesn’t work like that. The memories are there anyway.
Her voice. Her laugh. Her hand against his face. It is like something has been burned beneath his skin, leaving marks no armour can hide.
He forces the thoughts away before they can go any further. “Yes,” he says simply. The answer is short. Final.
Kayleigh studies his expression for a moment longer, clearly sensing the shift in his mood, but she chooses not to push the subject any further.
Instead, Mingi redirects the conversation himself. “What about your little friend?”
Kayleigh blinks once. “My—” Then she smiles. “Oh. PJ?”
Mingi nods faintly.
Kayleigh gestures vaguely toward the deeper parts of the camp. “He’s around here somewhere.” Her lips curve with mild amusement. “Probably annoying the absolute shit out of someone as we speak.”
Mr Bramble lets out a low chuckle. “That does sound like him.”
Kayleigh nods in agreement. “He’s remarkably talented at it.” The image seems to amuse all three of them more than expected.
For the first time since stepping into the camp that morning, a small hint of something lighter passes between them. Even Mingi’s expression softens slightly at the thought.
Kayleigh studies Mingi for a moment longer, as though deciding something silently to herself.
Then she straightens and gestures toward the deeper part of the camp. “Come on,” she says. “Kuldrane’s been asking for you.”
Mingi’s brow tightens slightly, but he doesn’t question it. Instead he falls into step beside her as she leads him through the winding paths between the tents.
The camp is far busier now than when he first stepped out that morning.
Fighters move with clear purpose between different sections of the clearing. The clang of metal echoes from the smithing area as blades are tested and repaired, while farther ahead a group of warriors practice in a wide dirt circle, their weapons flashing beneath the rising sun. Several creatures he’s never seen before move among them- tall horned figures carrying spears, winged beings perched along the wooden watch towers, and a pair of heavily armoured centaurs dragging a cart loaded with shields.
This place isn’t just for surviving. It’s preparing for something bigger than all of them.
Mr Bramble trots alongside them quietly for once, his ears twitching at the constant motion around them.
Kayleigh eventually slows near a cluster of weapon racks arranged beside the riverbank.
Kuldrane stands there waiting. The centaur’s towering form is impossible to miss. He has positioned himself beside a wide wooden stand lined with weapons of every shape imaginable- swords, axes, spears, bows, and several blades that look designed for creatures much larger than humans.
Kuldrane turns as they approach. His eyes immediately settle on Mingi. “Good,” he says simply. “You’re up.”
Mingi stops a few steps away.
Kuldrane gestures toward the weapon racks with one large hand. “You said you came here to fight,” the centaur continues. “That means you’ll need to train with the rest of them.” His tone is calm, but there’s no room for argument in it.
Kuldrane moves slightly aside, revealing the wide training field behind the racks. Several groups are already practicing there- fighters sparring with wooden weapons while others test their strength against heavier steel.
“You’ll need to learn how this camp fights,” Kuldrane explains. “Not how the palace teaches its soldiers.”
Mingi glances over the weapons briefly. The collection is vast, but rougher than the polished armouries he grew up around. These blades are built for survival rather than ceremony. Many carry the marks of repair, their edges sharpened countless times.
Kuldrane nods once toward the open field. “You won’t be training alone.”
Several figures begin approaching from the far side of the clearing.
The first is a tall elf with silver-blond hair braided tightly down his back, a long curved blade resting across his shoulder. His movements are fluid and precise, his sharp eyes already studying Mingi with open curiosity.
“This is Vaelis,” Kuldrane says. “One of our fastest blades.”
Vaelis gives a short nod of greeting.
Behind him strides a broad orc with deep green skin and a scar splitting across his lower jaw. He carries two brutal axes strapped across his back and walks with the easy confidence of someone who has spent most of his life on battlefields.
“Gorak,” Kuldrane continues. The orc grunts in acknowledgment.
Next comes a young man with dark braided hair and weathered leather armour. A bow is slung across his back and several knives line the belt at his waist. His eyes flick between Mingi and the new armour he’s wearing.
“Tarin,” Kuldrane says. “Our best scout.”
Finally, a centaur slightly smaller than Kuldrane himself approaches, carrying a long spear carved with runic markings.
“Eryndor,” Kuldrane finishes.
The group gathers around with varying levels of curiosity and caution.
Kayleigh stretches her arms casually. “Well,” she says with a satisfied clap of her hands, “looks like you’ll be busy.” She glances down at Mr Bramble. “I’ll borrow the fox while you break your new soldier in.”
Mr Bramble flicks his tail. “Oh wonderful. Field trip.”
Kayleigh begins walking back toward the healer tents, the fox trotting beside her while muttering something about hoping no one sets him on fire this time.
Mingi watches them disappear briefly. Then he turns back.
Kuldrane nods toward the field. “Let’s see what you can actually do.”
Mingi lifts the helm slowly. The cool metal settles back over his head, the familiar weight sliding into place as the world narrows slightly behind the steel.
Then he steps forward. And follows them.
The training begins without ceremony.
Kuldrane does not offer a speech, nor does he explain the rules of the field. Instead, he simply gestures toward the wide clearing beyond the weapon racks, where packed earth has been worn smooth by countless drills and sparring matches. The ground is scarred with shallow trenches and footprints, evidence of months - perhaps years- of warriors learning to fight side by side.
Mingi steps forward among them.
The first few minutes are quiet observations.
Vaelis moves first, drawing his curved blade in a motion so fluid it almost looks effortless. The elf circles him lightly, testing the distance between them, his movements sharp but elegant in a way that feels completely different from the rigid discipline of palace combat.
“Let’s see if that armour is more than decoration,” Vaelis says with a faint smirk.
Their blades meet moments later. The sound of steel striking steel rings sharply across the training ground, and the spar begins in earnest. Vaelis is fast - faster than most fighters Mingi has faced before - but the knight adapts quickly. His years of training refuse to fade easily, and soon the two of them are circling one another with growing intensity.
Vaelis’ strikes are precise and agile. Mingi’s are heavier, grounded in brute efficiency.
After several exchanges the elf steps back, lowering his blade slightly with a small nod of approval. “Not bad,” Vaelis says. “You’ll survive.”
The next round is less graceful.
Gorak steps forward with both axes in hand, a low rumble of amusement vibrating in his chest as he sizes Mingi up. “Try not to break,” the orc mutters.
What follows is far less refined than the duel with Vaelis.
The clash of their weapons sends sparks flying across the dirt as Gorak’s strength crashes against Mingi’s defenses. Each strike carries the weight of a battering ram, forcing Mingi to shift constantly to avoid being overwhelmed by sheer power alone.
They trade blows for several minutes before Kuldrane finally calls the match. The orc grins, clearly pleased with the fight. “Good,” Gorak says simply.
The training continues.
Tarin - now revealed to be a sharp-eyed man with weathered features and quiet confidence - teaches him how the scouts move through the forest without leaving tracks. Eryndor introduces him to the spear formations used when fighting alongside centaurs, the techniques forcing Mingi to adjust the rhythm of his movements so that his strikes complement the longer reach of the mounted warriors.
Gradually, the stiffness in his posture fades. The camp’s fighters begin to treat him less like a stranger and more like someone who belongs among them.
They laugh. They curse. They exchange quick remarks between drills. And for the first time since leaving the kingdom behind, Mingi feels the faint sense of tension in his shoulders begin to ease.
Until the bows are brought out.
The training shifts to the far edge of the clearing where several straw targets stand planted into the earth.
Vaelis tosses him a bow. “Your turn.”
Mingi catches it automatically. The wood is well balanced in his grip.
He reaches back to pull an arrow from the quiver resting against the rack and sets it against the string. The motion is familiar.
But the moment he draws the bow- His focus slips.
For a heartbeat, the clearing disappears. Instead, another memory rises in its place.
The forest. The quiet rustle of leaves beneath their feet. The moment when she had insisted he show her how to improve her stance.
He remembers standing behind her.
Towering over her smaller frame as his hands guided her arms into position. The warmth of her back just inches from his chest. The faint scent of forest air tangled in her hair as she focused on the bowstring.
He remembers the way her breath had hitched. The way her shoulders had tensed when he moved closer to adjust her grip. At the time he had pretended not to notice.
Pretended he was too focused on the lesson to see the reaction his presence caused.
But the truth is - He noticed everything. Every shift in her breathing. Every slight tremor when his hands brushed hers.
What she never knew was that it wasn’t just her who had been affected. He remembers the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers. The way the moment lingered longer than it should have. How close they had been.
So close that for a brief, dangerous second something inside him had nearly slipped loose from the control he held so tightly over himself.
He remembers how it affected him. How for a slight, dangerous moment his body had nearly betrayed him entirely. How the closeness, the warmth, the sudden awareness of her standing beneath his hands had made something inside him snap tight with a force he had not expected.
He remembers the blood rushing somewhere unexpected. He had almost lost control.
Almost let instinct override the discipline drilled into him since childhood. And that had terrified him more than any battlefield ever had. He had stepped back immediately after, acting as though nothing had happened. But the memory still burns.
Back in the present, the bowstring creaks faintly under the tension of his grip.
“Mingi?” Vaelis’ voice pulls him back.
The clearing snaps into focus again. The targets. The watching fighters. The arrow still waiting to be released.
Mingi exhales slowly. Then lets the arrow fly. It strikes the centre of the target with a sharp thud.
The training eventually winds down as the sun climbs higher into the sky.
What had begun as careful drills and measured sparring slowly dissolves into the quieter rhythm of a camp breaking for its midday meal. Weapons are returned to racks, bows unstrung and laid aside, while the fighters gather their scattered gear from the edges of the training ground.
Mingi wipes the sweat from the back of his neck as he bends to collect the arrows he had driven deep into the target. The wood splinters slightly as he pulls them free, the familiar weight of the bow still resting comfortably in his grip.
Around him, the others do the same.
Vaelis rolls his shoulders as he slides his blade back into its sheath, the elf’s movements still fluid despite the long hours of training. Gorak stretches his thick arms above his head with a grunt before gathering his axes, while Tarin kneels to tie the straps of his quiver tighter across his back.
“You did well,” he says to Mingi as he stands again. “For someone who’s spent most of his life learning palace formations.” There’s no mockery in his tone. Only observation.
Mingi nods slightly in acknowledgment, though the compliment barely settles in his mind.
Vaelis gestures toward the heart of the camp where several fires now burn brighter beneath hanging cooking pots. “Come eat with us,” the elf offers casually. “You’ve earned it.”
Gorak grins. “Unless you prefer starving alone.”
Mingi considers for only a moment before giving a short nod.
The group begins walking together through the winding paths of the encampment, the energy of the midday break settling over the clearing. The sharp clang of metal from the forges has quieted for now, replaced by the more comforting sounds of conversation and cooking.
The smell of food drifts easily through the air. Roasted meat, boiled vegetables, and fresh bread. Simple things, but enough to make even the most hardened fighters pause.
They settle near one of the larger fire pits where several wooden benches have been dragged into a rough circle. Bowls are passed around quickly, filled with steaming stew and thick chunks of bread that disappear almost as quickly as they are handed out.
Mingi takes his portion quietly, sitting among them as the conversation begins to flow more easily now that weapons have been set aside.
Vaelis recounts a story from an earlier scouting mission, exaggerating certain details enough that even Tarin eventually rolls his eyes while listening. Gorak interrupts occasionally with loud bursts of laughter that make nearby fighters glance over in amusement.
It is… normal. Strangely so. Part of him almost forgets that every person here is preparing for war.
A flick of movement catches his eye. Mr Bramble appears moments later, trotting confidently through the rows of tents before hopping easily onto the bench beside him.
“Well?” the fox says as he settles himself comfortably. “How did the grand training go?”
Mingi looks down at the stew in his bowl. “Fine.”
Bramble waits for more. “And?”
Mingi shrugs faintly. “They’re good fighters.”
The fox narrows his eyes slightly. Something about the response feels… off.
“You’re unusually quiet, you don’t have that same… bite in you” Bramble remarks.
Mingi breaks a piece of bread and dips it into the stew, though his focus remains distant.
The image refuses to leave his mind. Her standing in front of him, the bow in her hands, and the warmth of her body so close to his. The small hitch in her breath when he leaned nearer. And the dangerous moment when his own body had nearly betrayed him.
The memory burns beneath his skin, unwelcome and persistent.
Across from him, Tarin continues speaking about the patrol routes they run along the eastern edge of the forest, though the words drift past Mingi without truly settling.
He answers only when spoken to directly. Short replies. Single words.
Mr Bramble watches him carefully for a while, his sharp fox eyes studying the subtle tension still sitting in the knight’s posture. He recognises the signs easily enough. But for once- He doesn’t say anything. No teasing remark. No clever jab.
Instead he simply curls his tail neatly around his paws and turns his attention toward the food.
The conversation around the fire continues easily among the others as bowls are refilled and laughter passes between them. And though Mingi sits among them, sharing the same fire and meal- His thoughts remain somewhere else entirely.
Far beyond the deep green shelter of the forest, where the resistance gathers in hidden valleys and winding rivers, another kingdom breathes beneath a very different sky.
Eirendale no longer resembles the place it once was. The land itself seems colder now, as though the soil has absorbed the cruelty of the crown that rules it.
Where once the kingdom’s fields stretched wide and golden beneath the sun, now the earth lies scarred and tired. Harvests are thinner, the ground worked far beyond what it was ever meant to bear. The villages that surround the towering castle are quieter than they once were, their narrow streets lined with homes whose windows stay shuttered even during daylight.
The people that once filled them are… fewer. But those who remain are not weak.
They are not kind. And they are certainly not gentle.
The old villagers- the farmers, the merchants, the quiet craftsmen who once filled the kingdom with life- have either ‘disappeared' or been pushed far beyond the kingdom’s borders. Some fled when Edrea first claimed the throne. Others were removed when they failed to meet the standards she demanded of those who served beneath her rule.
What became of many of them is something no one speaks of openly. What matters now is who remains.
The kingdom has not shrunk down in size. In fact, It has grown.
The streets of the capital are busier than ever, though the faces walking them now carry sharp expressions and colder eyes. Markets bustle again, but the goods traded are no longer simple produce and textiles. Weapons pass from hand to hand. Armour is inspected with careful scrutiny. Supplies meant for soldiers fill the carts that move through the narrow roads beneath the castle walls.
Eirendale has not been emptied. It has transformed. Edrea has reshaped it into something else entirely.
The people who remain in her kingdom are the ones who proved themselves worthy in her eyes. The strongest warriors who swore loyalty to her cause. The most intelligent strategists who saw opportunity in her rule. The most cunning survivors who understood that cruelty, when wielded correctly, could build power faster than kindness ever could.
They are all human. And there are thousands of them.
They fill the capital’s streets now with disciplined movement and quiet ambition. Every one of them watches the world with calculating eyes, each person knowing that weakness within Eirendale no longer has a place.
Above them all rises the castle. Its dark towers stretch high against the grey sky, their stone walls newly reinforced and guarded more heavily than ever before. Banners bearing Edrea’s sigil hang from every tower, their fabric snapping sharply in the cold wind that sweeps across the kingdom.
Inside those walls, decisions are made that will shape the fate of every land beyond the forest. And somewhere within those towering halls, Edrea watches it all unfold.
The throne hall of Eirendale has changed as much as the kingdom beneath it.
Where the great chamber once carried warmth and ceremony, it now feels like a place carved from something colder than stone. The vaulted ceiling rises high above the floor, its towering arches disappearing into shadow where iron braziers burn with pale blue flames. The fire gives off little warmth, yet its light casts long, shifting shapes across the polished black marble that now covers the floor.
Gone are the rich carpets and banners that once softened the room. Edrea had them removed shortly after taking the throne. She preferred the sound of footsteps echoing sharply through the chamber. It reminded everyone who entered just how small they were beneath the weight of her rule.
At the far end of the hall, raised upon a series of dark stone steps, sits the throne itself. It is no longer the carved oak seat that had belonged to the old king. That too had been replaced.
The throne now is forged from blackened steel and jagged iron, its back rising into thin spires that resemble the ribs of some enormous beast. The metal catches the light from the braziers in cold glints that reflect across the room like shards of broken glass.
Upon that throne sits Edrea.
She lounges against the sharp metal with the effortless confidence of someone who knows the room bends entirely to her will. One leg drapes lazily over the arm of the throne, her long ransaur resting across her lap like a companion rather than a weapon. The curved blade gleams faintly beneath the blue flames as her fingers trace idly along its edge.
Beside her stands Silas.
He occupies the lower step of the throne dais, positioned just behind her shoulder in the place reserved for her most trusted advisor. His posture is relaxed, though his pale blue eyes remain sharp as they scan the hall below. The two of them share the same cold colouring - light hair, pale skin, and eyes that seem to reflect the icy cruelty of the kingdom they now command.
Their voices drift quietly between them. “Numbers continue to grow,” Silas murmurs, glancing down at a parchment scroll held loosely in one hand. “Several mercenary companies arrived before dawn. More are expected by nightfall.”
Edrea smiles faintly. “Of course they are.” Her voice is smooth, almost bored. “People like opportunity, Silas. Especially when it wears a crown.”
Before he can reply, the great doors at the far end of the throne hall groan open.
The sound rolls across the marble floor like distant thunder. A line of royal guards enters first, their armour polished and identical, halberds striking the stone in perfect rhythm as they march. Between them walk the figures they have brought before the throne.
They are not nobles. Not soldiers. They are something far rougher.
Corrupted criminals with scarred faces and hardened eyes. Assassins dressed in dark leathers that still carry the scent of blood. Thugs whose thick arms and broken noses tell stories of a hundred street brawls.
Every type of dangerous man a kingdom could gather. They are pushed forward until they stand before the base of the throne steps. The guards step aside. Silence fills the chamber.
Edrea studies them slowly, her gaze travelling from one face to the next as though inspecting animals brought to market. “Well,” she says at last, her voice echoing lightly through the hall. “This is what they send me?” Her tone carries open disdain.
One of the criminals drops quickly to his knees. Then another. And another. Soon the entire group kneels before the throne, their heads bowed low against the cold marble floor.
“Your Majesty,” one of them mutters hoarsely. “We heard you were building something greater.”
Edrea leans forward slightly, resting her chin against her knuckles as she looks down at them. “Greater,” she repeats softly. The word almost sounds like a promise. “You’ve come to serve me.” It is not a question.
“No one refuses your call,” another man says quickly, pressing his forehead to the floor. “Not if they’re smart.”
A faint smile spreads across Edrea’s lips. “Good answer.” She rises slowly from the throne.
The sound of her boots against the stone echoes sharply as she descends the steps, the long blade of her ransaur dragging lightly behind her. The criminals remain frozen in place as she circles them, her gaze cool and calculating.
“You see,” she says casually, “I have very little interest in loyalty.” She stops behind one of the kneeling men. Her voice lowers. “What I value… is usefulness.”
The blade of the ransaur lifts slightly. “If you are strong, you will fight for me.” She turns slowly, letting the tip of the weapon trace a thin line across the marble floor. “If you are clever, you will plan for me.” Her eyes gleam faintly.
“And if you are neither of those things…”
The pause is long enough for the threat to settle. “Then you will die for me.” None of the men dare move.
Slowly, Edrea smiles. “Welcome to my army.”
Silas steps forward, his voice cutting cleanly through the room. “You will report to the barracks immediately,” he tells them. “You will train until you bleed, and when you can no longer stand, you will train again.”
His eyes sweep across them coldly. “You will obey every command given to you.”
Edrea’s voice follows, softer but far more dangerous. “Because every command,” she says, “comes from me.”
The criminals bow lower, their voices rising in eager praise that echoes through the hall as the guards begin dragging them back toward the doors. Outside those castle walls, an army is beginning to form.
The last of the recruits are dragged from the throne hall under the watchful gaze of the royal guard, their murmured praises fading into the vast corridors beyond the chamber doors. For a moment, the hall grows quiet again, the pale flames of the braziers flickering along the marble floor.
Edrea remains standing where she addressed them, the ransaur still loosely gripped in her hand. Her gaze lingers on the closed doors, a slow smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.
Silas watches her carefully. “Well,” he says lightly, stepping down beside her, “they certainly seem… enthusiastic.”
Edrea gives a small hum, unconcerned. “Enthusiasm is useful. It keeps people obedient.”
She turns, handing the ransaur off to one of the waiting guards without even glancing at him, before stepping away from the throne dais. Silas falls easily into step beside her as the two of them begin walking through the long hall, their footsteps echoing sharply against the stone.
Their presence alone is enough to make every servant they pass immediately step aside.
The palace corridors open out toward the outer grounds, where tall glass doors allow pale winter light to spill across the polished floors. Beyond them stretches the palace courtyard and the city that lies beneath the towering castle walls.
Edrea pushes the doors open without hesitation. Cold air greets them immediately.
Outside, the palace grounds are vast and carefully controlled. Soldiers patrol the stone walkways in disciplined rows, while banners bearing Edrea’s crest snap sharply in the wind from tall white poles. The sky above Eirendale is a dull grey, the kind of colour that presses low against the earth as though even the heavens disapprove of what now thrives beneath them.
Silas clasps his hands behind his back as they walk. “Your army grows faster than expected,” he remarks. “Soon you’ll have more soldiers than any kingdom on this side of the continent.”
Edrea glances sideways at him, amusement flickering across her expression. “Saying it like that almost sounds like admiration.”
“Oh, it is admiration,” Silas replies smoothly. “You’ve managed in months what most rulers fail to achieve in a lifetime.”
Their steps carry them down the sloping stone path that winds from the palace toward the city below. “Once the army is ready,” Silas continues thoughtfully, “no kingdom will dare challenge you.”
Edrea’s smile grows sharper. “That is the idea.”
Her gaze drifts toward the distant forests that mark the horizon. “And when the time comes,” she adds softly, “I will make sure every one of them remembers exactly who rules this world now.”
Silas looks at her then, something almost fond passing through his cold eyes. “Our future will be magnificent.”
Before she can respond- A sudden blast cuts through the air.
The sound of a horn rings loud across the city below, sharp and commanding enough to make both of them pause mid-step. Another blast follows.
Edrea’s eyes narrow slightly. “What is that?”
Down in the main village road below the palace, movement begins to stir.
Horses gallop through the streets, pulling royal carriages behind them as soldiers clear a path through the growing crowd. People spill from homes and shops, curiosity pulling them toward the centre of the road where the noise grows louder.
Edrea turns toward the city. Silas follows her gaze. “Well,” he murmurs, intrigued, “that is unusual.” Without another word, they begin descending toward the sound.
By the time they reach the lower square, a large crowd has already gathered in the centre of the street. Villagers press close together, whispering and craning their necks as soldiers attempt to hold them back from the procession that has just arrived.
At the centre of it all stands a man dressed in royal colours. A herald. His cloak bears the crest of another kingdom entirely.
He steps forward into the open space and lifts the long brass horn once more, blowing a final sharp note that cuts through the murmuring crowd. The sound echoes between the buildings, demanding silence.
Slowly, the whispers die down. The herald unrolls a scroll in his hands. His voice rises clear and formal for all to hear.
“Let it be known—”
The words carry across the square. “—that Princess Y/N, formally of Eirendale, has been welcomed into the kingdom of Valemere and is to be wed to King Aurelian.”
The crowd erupts into startled murmurs. And behind them, Edrea stands perfectly still.
Silence settles over the square in a strange, uneasy way once the herald finishes reading.
The words seem to linger in the cold air, hanging between the stone buildings like a challenge that cannot be taken back.
Princess Y/N of Eirendale. To be wed to King Aurelian of Valemere.
The crowd murmurs again, though far more quietly now, people leaning toward one another in hushed conversation. Some look confused. Others look relieved. A few even smile at the thought that perhaps the youngest princess of the fallen royal line had found refuge somewhere beyond Edrea’s reach.
But near the edge of the square, Edrea stands frozen in place.
Silas watches her closely. Her expression does not change. Not a flicker of anger, not a curl of irritation. Her posture remains perfectly composed, her pale hands resting loosely at her sides as though the announcement means nothing at all.
That, more than anything, unsettles him. He tilts his head slightly toward her. “Well,” he murmurs under his breath, his voice carefully quiet enough that the nearby villagers cannot hear him, “that’s… unexpected.”
Edrea says nothing. Her gaze remains fixed on the herald standing at the centre of the square, the man still holding the scroll as he waits for the crowd to settle.
Silas studies her for another moment before asking casually, “Shall we stop it?” There are a dozen different meanings wrapped inside that question.
He could send the guards forward now. The herald could be dragged from the street before he even finishes his proclamations. The scroll torn apart. The horses seized. The message buried before it spreads across the kingdom. It would take only seconds.
Edrea lifts a single hand. The motion is small, but decisive. Silas falls silent immediately.
“No,” she says calmly. Her voice is almost thoughtful. “I’m surprised she made it that far.”
For the first time, her eyes flicker with genuine curiosity. “Valemere,” she continues slowly, almost tasting the word. “Of all places.” It becomes clear, in that quiet moment, that this development was never part of her design.
Edrea had expected her sister to run. To hide. To wander the wilderness long enough for the hunt to catch up with her.
But to reach another kingdom… and one powerful enough to announce an engagement publicly… That changes things. Slightly.
Silas folds his arms loosely, still watching her expression. “So,” he says, raising a brow, “the princess has found herself a king.”
Edrea exhales a soft, amused breath. “Apparently.”
Down in the centre of the square, the herald begins speaking again, repeating the announcement so the message spreads clearly among the gathered crowd.
Edrea turns away from the scene. Already bored with it. “We’ll deal with it soon enough,” she says lightly.
Silas nods, falling back into step beside her as they begin walking away from the gathering crowd.
Their conversation resumes as if nothing important has happened at all. “I must admit,” Silas muses after a moment, glancing back toward the herald still shouting proclamations in the distance, “it would be quite entertaining to send them our reply.”
Edrea glances sideways at him. “Oh?”
He smirks slightly. “Perhaps an arrow through the herald’s eyebrows.” His tone is playful in the same dark way that only the two of them seem to understand. “Very formal,” he adds. “Very memorable.”
He pauses. “Just like the courtsman.” The memory of that particular execution hangs between them for a moment then Edrea laughs.
The sound is bright and sudden, echoing strangely across the cold courtyard as they walk. “Tempting,” she admits. But her smile fades quickly. Her eyes drift once more toward the distant road leading out of the city, toward the kingdoms beyond her borders.
Toward Valemere.
Her voice lowers slightly when she speaks again. “I suppose I should congratulate my dear sister.”
Silas tilts his head. “How generous of you.”
Edrea’s lips curl slowly into something far less pleasant than a smile. “Yes,” she says softly. Her eyes gleam coldly. “After all…”
She glances back toward the herald one final time. “…nothing ruins a wedding quite like a funeral.”
Dusk settles slowly over the encampment, the golden light of the sinking sun filtering through the tall trees that surround the clearing like silent guardians. The sky above shifts into deep shades of amber and violet, and the soft glow of evening begins to replace the bright energy of the day’s training.
The camp is alive, though in a calmer way now.
Fires burn in carefully tended circles across the open field, their orange flames flickering against the canvas of red and yellow tents that stretch across the grass. The river that winds along the edge of the encampment reflects the fading sky, its surface shimmering gently as it carries the sound of flowing water through the air.
After a long day of drills and sparring, the warriors of the resistance begin settling into the rhythms of night.
Some sit beside the fires polishing their armour, cloths running methodically over dented breastplates and greaves until the metal catches the firelight in dull glimmers. Others sharpen blades against whetstones, the slow scrape of steel against stone forming a quiet background rhythm beneath the hum of conversation.
Further along the clearing, a group of centaurs share a large barrel of ale while discussing battle formations, their deep voices rising occasionally in bursts of laughter. A pair of fae hover lazily above one of the fires, their soft glowing wings casting gentle blue light over the group of humans sitting beneath them.
Near the blacksmith tents, the last of the day’s hammering fades as the forges cool, sparks dying slowly in the darkening air.
For a moment, it almost feels like peace.
Mingi sits near one of the fires on a thick log that has been dragged close enough to the flames to keep the evening chill away. His new armour rests comfortably against his frame now, the metal darker and more rugged than the polished plates he once wore under Edrea’s command. Without the markings of Eirendale carved into it, the armour feels… different. Less like a chain. More like a choice.
Beside him, Mr Brambles sits curled neatly on his haunches, his bushy tail wrapped around his paws as he watches the camp with the sharp, curious eyes of a fox who has already discovered far more mischief than any creature reasonably should.
They talk quietly together, the conversation easy and slow.
“…and then the orc actually thought he could outdrink the centaur,” Brambles is saying with obvious amusement, flicking his ears toward the group further down the fireline. “I give him another ten minutes before he collapses.”
Mingi snorts quietly. “He’s not making it ten.”
The two of them fall into comfortable silence for a moment, watching the lively scene unfolding around them.
Then- A sudden shout cuts through the camp. “What in the—?!”
Heads turn immediately.
Across the firelight, an elf sits frozen in place, his elegant silver hair now dripping with dark mead that pours down his face and tunic. The tankard that had been sitting on the log beside him lies shattered on the ground, its contents now soaking the grass and his boots.
For a moment he simply stares. Then he leaps to his feet, sputtering furiously. “My drink!”
Laughter ripples through the nearby group almost instantly.
Because standing a few steps away, is PJ. Or rather- the gnome.
The small stone figure sits perched neatly on another log, its painted grin stretched wide across its permanently cheerful face. The little statue looks almost too innocent, its round cheeks and bright painted eyes making it appear harmless to anyone who doesn’t know better.
But those in the camp clearly do. Because the moment the elf spots the gnome- “PJ!”
The name explodes from his mouth like a curse. The gnome doesn’t move, of course. But the grin somehow looks even wider than before.
The surrounding warriors burst into laughter as the elf tries to wipe the sticky mead from his tunic while glaring furiously at the small statue. “Oh for the love of—!”
Back by the fire, Mingi lets out a low chuckle. The sound surprises even him.
Mr Brambles glances sideways at him immediately, ears twitching with interest. “Well,” the fox says lightly, his voice laced with amusement, “look at that.”
Mingi raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“You laughed.”
Mingi scoffs quietly, though the corner of his mouth still hints at the lingering amusement. “He deserved it.”
Across the camp, PJ’s painted grin remains fixed proudly as the elf continues complaining to anyone who will listen.
Mr Brambles watches the scene with obvious satisfaction. “Ah,” he sighs happily, “some things never change.”
The laughter from the mead incident slowly fades into the evening air, though occasional chuckles still ripple through the camp as the unfortunate elf continues grumbling while wiping sticky drink from his clothes. PJ remains exactly where he had been placed, his painted grin still stretched wide across his stone face, clearly very pleased with himself despite not moving an inch.
The camp settles again. Voices blend together with the crackle of the fires and the quiet rush of the river nearby, creating a strange kind of warmth that drifts through the clearing.
Mingi leans back slightly on the log, resting his forearms on his knees as he watches the scene before him. For a moment he simply observes the life of the encampment - warriors sharing drinks, creatures from a dozen different races talking as though they have known one another for years, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through the cool evening air.
It is… different. Different from the rigid silence of castle barracks. Different from the cold discipline of Eirendale. Here, despite the looming threat of war, people breathe a little easier.
Beside him, Mr Brambles shifts slightly, curling his tail more comfortably around his paws as the fox gazes toward the dark treeline beyond the camp. For a while they sit in companionable quiet.
Eventually Mingi glances sideways at him. “So,” he says gruffly.
Brambles flicks an ear in his direction. “So?” the fox echoes.
Mingi nudges a loose stick into the fire, sending a small spray of sparks drifting upward. “You never finished telling me,” he mutters.
“Telling you what?”
“About your home.”
Brambles tilts his head slightly. “My home.”
“The den,” Mingi clarifies. “The one she threatened.”
The fox goes quiet for a moment. The firelight flickers across his reddish fur, catching in the bright gold of his eyes as he watches the flames dance. “They’re safe,” Brambles says after a moment.
Mingi studies him. “You moved them.”
“Of course I moved them,” Brambles replies lightly. “What kind of father would I be if I didn’t?”
The word catches Mingi’s attention immediately. “Father,” he repeats slowly.
Brambles gives a small shrug. “My mate and the cubs are far from here. Hidden deeper in the wilds than any human would ever dare travel. Even Edrea’s hunters wouldn’t find them if they searched for years.”
His voice carries a quiet certainty that leaves little room for doubt. “They’re safe,” he repeats.
Mingi nods slowly. Then, after a pause - “I still can’t believe you’re a father.”
Brambles’ ears twitch. “Oh?”
Mingi gives him a sideways look. “You’re a menace.”
The fox snorts softly. “That is an outrageous accusation.”
“You steal food.”
“I borrow food.”
“You lie constantly.”
“I embellish.”
“You annoy everyone you meet.”
Brambles lifts his head proudly. “That is simply part of my charm.”
Mingi shakes his head, a faint hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Poor cubs.”
Brambles lets out an offended huff. “My cubs,” he says firmly, “will grow up clever.”
“Gods help them.”
“They’ll need it with the world they’re inheriting.” That comment pulls the conversation into a softer silence.
The fire pops quietly. Across the clearing someone begins strumming a worn lute, the gentle melody drifting across the camp as night deepens overhead.
After a moment Brambles speaks again, his voice quieter this time. “I’m here because of them.”
Mingi glances toward him.
“My mate,” Brambles continues, “she wanted me to stay. Said the cubs needed their father close.” The fox’s gaze drifts toward the stars beginning to appear between the treetops. “But if Edrea wins… there won’t be a safe place left for them anyway.”
Mingi doesn’t respond immediately. The truth in those words hangs heavy in the air.
“So I’m here,” Brambles finishes simply. “To make sure they grow up somewhere worth living in.”
Mingi studies the fox for a moment. Then he nudges the fire again with the stick in his hand. “Well,” he mutters.
Brambles looks at him.
“Guess that means we’re stuck together.”
The fox’s tail flicks happily. “Oh, we are far more than stuck together now.”
Mingi raises an eyebrow. “How so?”
Brambles grins. “I believe the phrase you’re looking for,” the fox says smugly, “is trusted companion.”
Mingi snorts. “You’re my sidekick.”
Brambles gasps in mock offence. “Sidekick?”
“Yes.”
The fox shakes his head dramatically. “I refuse that title.”
“Too late.”
Brambles sighs heavily, though there’s a spark of clear amusement in his eyes. “Well,” he says after a moment, glancing around the lively camp once more.
“If I must be someone’s sidekick…” He smirks. “I suppose I could do worse than a grumpy knight with a broken heart.”
The fire beside Mingi crackles steadily as night settles fully across the encampment. Above the clearing the sky has deepened into dark indigo, the first scattering of stars appearing between the tall trees that ring the valley. Around them the camp hums with the quiet life of evening - warriors talking over shared meals, armour being polished beside the flames, the distant melody of a lute weaving gently through the cool air.
Mingi sits forward slightly, elbows resting against his knees as he listens to Mr Brambles continue one of his long, winding observations about the nature of love.
“…and I am simply pointing out,” the fox says with exaggerated patience, “that denying it so aggressively only makes it more obvious.”
Mingi gives him a slow look. “Obvious to who?”
“Everyone.”
“That sounds like your problem, not mine.”
Brambles lets out a theatrical sigh and lowers his head onto his paws, though the glint of amusement never leaves his eyes. “You truly are exhausting.”
Before Mingi can answer, the night is suddenly torn apart by a sound so deep and powerful that it seems to shake the very air around them.
A roar.
It is not the cry of any creature the forest normally holds. This sound carries weight- age - power. It rolls across the valley like thunder breaking over the mountains, vibrating through the ground beneath their feet.
The entire encampment reacts instantly.
Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Warriors jump to their feet. Metal rings sharply as swords are drawn from their sheaths and shields are lifted from the ground. Even the musicians fall silent, the lute’s last note fading into the sudden tension.
Another roar follows, louder this time, echoing across the dark trees and the river beyond.
Mingi is already standing. His hand moves to the hilt of his sword with the instinct of someone who has survived too many battles to hesitate when danger announces itself so clearly.
Beside him, Brambles is on his feet as well, his ears flattened and tail stiff as he peers up into the sky.
Above the encampment, something enormous sweeps across the moonlight.
A vast shadow passes over the fires, stretching across tents and warriors alike. The shape circles the clearing once, its massive wings beating slowly through the air. Each movement sends a rush of wind downward that makes the flames dance wildly and the tent ropes creak under the strain.
Across the camp, Kuldrane has already moved into the centre of the clearing. The towering centaur stands tall and immovable, spear in hand as he studies the figure circling above them.
“Archers!” someone calls. Bows snap upward all around the clearing.
A volley of arrows streaks into the sky, their tips glinting briefly in the firelight before disappearing into the dark shape above.
They never come close. The creature turns easily in the air, avoiding the arrows with unsettling grace. The great wings shift again, catching the night wind as it begins to descend toward the ground.
Slowly. Deliberately.
As it lowers into the light cast by the campfires, the warriors below finally see what has come to visit them.
A dragon.
Its body is immense, far larger than any horse or beast the camp has seen. The scales covering its body appear black at first glance, but when the firelight touches them a deep violet sheen shimmers beneath the surface, as though the creature carries shadows within its own armour.
The wings fold gradually as the dragon lands just beyond the outer ring of tents. The impact sends a tremor through the ground, scattering dust and loose earth outward from the massive claws that grip the soil.
The warriors hold their ground, though many tighten their grips on their weapons.
Another volley of arrows flies toward the creature. This time the arrows strike.
The sharp points glance harmlessly off the dragon’s scales before falling to the ground like useless twigs.
The dragon exhales slowly, warm breath drifting through the clearing like a cloud of mist. Then its great head lowers toward the gathered camp, ancient eyes sweeping across the warriors standing before it.
When it speaks, the voice that emerges is deep and resonant, carrying the weight of centuries. “I mean no harm.” The words roll across the clearing with surprising clarity.
For a moment no one moves.
Some of the warriors shift uneasily, clearly unsure whether the creature’s claim should be believed. Others keep their bows drawn, their arrows ready despite the obvious futility of their earlier attempts.
Kuldrane studies the dragon carefully.
The centaur takes several slow steps forward, positioning himself between the creature and the rest of the camp. His expression remains stern, though his posture suggests careful consideration rather than immediate attack.
The dragon does not move. It simply waits.
After a long moment, Kuldrane lifts one powerful arm. “Lower your weapons.”
A ripple of uncertainty passes through the gathered fighters. Several hesitate, glancing toward one another as if unsure whether such a command can truly be wise.
Kuldrane’s voice grows firmer. “Lower them.”
One by one, swords begin to lower. Bowstrings ease, arrows returning to quivers. Shields dip toward the ground as the tension in the clearing slowly loosens.
Even Mingi allows the tip of his blade to fall slightly, though his eyes remain fixed on the enormous creature standing before them.
The dragon’s gaze sweeps across the camp once more. Ancient. Patient. And waiting to speak again.
The clearing remains tense, though the first sharp edge of panic has begun to soften into something closer to wary attention. Weapons are no longer raised, but they have not been put away either. Warriors stand in loose circles around the dragon, their eyes fixed on the enormous creature whose presence seems to swallow the firelight around him.
Kuldrane remains at the centre of it all.
The great centaur plants the butt of his spear firmly into the ground before him, his broad shoulders squared as he studies the dragon with the steady patience of a leader who has seen enough battles to know that fear rarely leads to wise decisions.
For several long seconds he says nothing. He simply looks. Then his deep voice carries across the clearing. “If you intend to speak,” Kuldrane says, “then speak clearly.”
The dragon’s great head lowers slightly, acknowledging the command without offense. The violet sheen beneath his dark scales shifts as the firelight moves, giving the creature an almost otherworldly presence among the gathered warriors.
Kuldrane’s eyes narrow slightly. “Dragons,” he continues, his tone thoughtful but edged with disbelief, “were thought to be extinct.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd behind him.
“Nothing more than old tales told to children,” he adds. “Stories meant to frighten young knights and entertain bored kings.”
The dragon watches him calmly. Then he speaks again. “My name is Mars.”
The voice is deep enough that it vibrates faintly in the ground beneath their feet, though there is no hostility in the sound.
“I am… one of the last of my kind.” That statement draws a sharper stir from the camp.
Several of the creatures gathered nearby exchange uneasy glances. Even the fae hovering above the fire drift closer together, their glowing wings dimming slightly as they listen.
Mars continues. “There are others,” he explains slowly. “A small flight that remains far from this land.”
His head turns slightly toward the distant horizon, as though he can see the place even from here. “In the mountains beyond the eastern sea.” The description carries a quiet weight. “Hidden,” he adds. “For many years.”
Kuldrane folds his arms slowly across his chest. “And yet you are here,” the centaur says.
Mars exhales softly, the warm breath drifting through the clearing like fog. “Because we are now no longer hidden.”
The murmuring among the warriors grows louder now.
Mingi, standing several paces behind Kuldrane, feels the shift ripple through the crowd. Beside him, Mr Brambles’ ears tilt forward sharply, the fox’s attention now entirely fixed on the dragon.
Kuldrane’s voice remains steady. “Explain.”
Mars lowers his head slightly, his massive eyes reflecting the scattered fires of the camp. “The queen of Eirendale has discovered us.”
The name alone stirs tension among those gathered. Edrea. Even here, deep within the forest, her reach casts a shadow.
Mars continues, his voice carrying a darker note now. “She has begun searching the mountains.”
A ripple of anger moves through the camp. “How?” someone mutters.
Mars does not look toward the speaker. His gaze remains fixed on Kuldrane. “There are rumours,” he says slowly, “that she has obtained something she should never possess.”
The dragon’s voice grows quieter. “Dark magic.” That phrase lands heavily.
The fire beside Mingi pops sharply as a log shifts within the flames.
Mars continues speaking, the ancient weariness in his voice becoming clearer. “Magic capable of harming dragons.”
A few of the warriors exchange uneasy glances. Dragons are not creatures easily threatened. The idea that something could threaten them at all sends a quiet ripple of dread through the clearing.
“I do not yet know her true intent,” Mars admits. “Whether she wishes to destroy us… or bend us to her will.” His wings shift slightly against his sides, the movement slow but powerful. “But I will not allow either.”
His gaze sweeps across the gathered resistance. “So I have come here.” The dragon’s great head lifts slightly again. “To those who also prepare to stand against her.”
For several moments after the dragon finishes speaking, the clearing remains quiet. The crackling of the fires and the distant rush of the river are the only sounds that dare move through the air.
Kuldrane studies the enormous creature before him, his expression thoughtful rather than fearful now. The centaur leader has faced enough danger in his long life to recognize when something powerful stands before him with honesty rather than threat.
At length, he gives a slow nod. “Then you are welcome here,” Kuldrane says. His deep voice carries clearly across the encampment, allowing every warrior gathered nearby to hear the decision.
A murmur passes through the camp, though it is no longer uneasy. Instead there is something closer to awe in the way many of them now stare at the dragon standing among them.
Kuldrane gestures toward the wider clearing. “You have come to the right place if you seek those willing to stand against Edrea,” he continues. “Every creature in this camp has been pushed from the kingdoms she seeks to dominate.”
His gaze lifts toward Mars again. “We would be glad to have your strength beside us.”
The dragon lowers his head slightly in acknowledgement, the motion careful and controlled despite the immense size of his body.
Kuldrane then glances toward the gathered warriors behind him. “For now,” he says, “I would speak with our guest privately.” The message is clear.
Most of the camp begins drifting back toward their fires and tents, the tension that had seized them earlier slowly dissolving into curious whispers and excited conversation. Kuldrane gestures for Mars to follow him toward the large open field near the back of the encampment.
The dragon’s massive wings shift once before he begins moving, his enormous form surprisingly graceful as he follows the centaur through the clearing. Before long the two disappear into the field, the heavy fog falling shut behind them.
Back near the fire where he had been sitting earlier, Mingi exhales quietly as the excitement settles around them. Mr Brambles watches the command tent for a moment longer before letting out a low whistle. “Well,” the fox says thoughtfully, “that is certainly something you don’t see every day.”
Mingi rubs a hand briefly across the back of his neck. “No.”
Brambles’ eyes sparkle with amusement. “You know,” he adds casually, “the princess would never believe this.”
That comment earns him a sideways look. “A dragon landing in the middle of camp?” Brambles continues, clearly entertained by the thought. “She would have loved it.”
The image seems to settle somewhere behind Mingi’s guarded expression. For a moment he says nothing. Then a small breath escapes him, the faintest ghost of a laugh hiding in the sound.
“Yeah,” he mutters quietly. “She probably would have.” The moment lingers only briefly before the night shifts again.
From somewhere beyond the outer ring of the encampment, the sharp blast of a horn suddenly cuts through the air.
The sound is unmistakable. Royal.
Several heads turn immediately toward the treeline.
Moments later, movement emerges from the darkness beyond the clearing. Horses step cautiously into the firelight, their hooves crunching against the dirt path that leads toward the camp. Behind them follow a pair of decorated carriages and a small escort of travelling officials wearing the crests of several distant kingdoms.
The encampment quiets again, though this time the tension feels different. Curious. Wary.
A man in royal colours steps forward once the horses stop at the edge of the clearing. He carries a long brass horn which he lifts again before blowing a second sharp note that echoes across the gathered camp.
All conversation dies. The man unrolls a scroll in his hand. His voice rises loudly enough for the entire encampment to hear.
“Let it be known—” The formal tone of the proclamation slices cleanly through the cool night air.
“—that Princess Y/N, formerly of Eirendale, has been welcomed into the kingdom of Valemere and is to be wed to King Aurelian.”
A ripple of murmurs spreads immediately among the gathered warriors.
The herald continues without pause. “A proposal of marriage has occurred, and a royal wedding shall commence!”
The words hang in the air for a long moment after he finishes.
Then, just as quickly as they arrived, the herald rolls the scroll closed and signals to the carriage drivers. The horses turn, wheels grinding against the dirt path as the royal messengers begin their departure toward the next kingdom waiting to hear the news.
Within moments, the procession disappears back into the dark forest. Leaving the encampment behind, and the announcement still echoing among those who heard it.
The last echoes of the herald’s horn fade into the forest, leaving behind a strange, hollow quiet across the encampment.
For most of those gathered, the moment becomes one of confusion. Low conversations begin almost immediately, warriors leaning toward one another with raised brows and curious murmurs.
“Valemere?”
“The princess made it that far?”
“Marriage?”
But Mingi hears none of it. The moment the words left the herald’s mouth, something inside him seemed to collapse inward.
His ears ring.
The sound is sharp at first, like metal struck too hard, before it deepens into a dull roar that drowns out the rest of the world. The voices around him blur together into indistinct noise, as though he has been dragged beneath the surface of deep water and the world above continues moving without him.
His chest tightens. His throat feels suddenly narrow, air dragging in and out of his lungs in heavy, uneven pulls.
Princess Y/N. To be wed. To King Aurelian.
The words ricochet through his mind again and again, striking against his thoughts like arrows that refuse to stop moving.
Married. The thought alone makes something twist violently inside his chest.
Beside him, Mr Brambles is speaking.
Mingi can see the fox’s mouth moving, can see the sharp concern in his eyes, but the words themselves arrive muffled and distant.
“…Mingi?” Nothing. “…hey.” Still nothing. “Mingi.”
The fox’s voice finally breaks through slightly, though it still sounds far away, distorted by the rushing noise filling Mingi’s head.
But even then, the knight barely hears him. All he hears is his own breathing. Heavy. Uneven.
She’s getting married. The thought slams into him again. She’s getting married. She’s gone.
The image of her rises uninvited in his mind- the way she laughed when he teased her about her bow grip, the stubborn fire in her eyes whenever she argued with him, the warmth of her hand against his face the morning they parted.
That final moment flashes through his memory like lightning.
Her voice. Her kiss against his cheek. The softness of it. The promise of something neither of them had dared name.
And now - Married. Gone. Gone from him.
His hands curl slowly into fists.
No.
The word arrives quietly at first, buried beneath the pounding of his pulse. Then it grows louder.
No.
His breathing steadies slightly as the thought takes hold. He cannot accept that.
He cannot accept that the last time he ever saw her was that moment on the edge of the forest, when he forced himself to let her walk away.
The idea of her standing beside another man - smiling, laughing, promising herself to someone else, it twists something deep inside him into something fierce and desperate.
Mr Brambles steps closer now, his voice finally cutting through the fog. “Mingi,” the fox says carefully, “talk to me.”
The knight doesn’t answer immediately. He stands there for several seconds longer, staring toward the dark trees beyond the camp as if he can somehow see Valemere through the miles of forest between them.
Then, slowly, he turns. His expression is different now. Not hollow. Not broken. Resolved.
He looks down at Bramble. “I have to go.”
The words are quiet, but there is no hesitation in them. Bramble blinks. “Go?” the fox asks. “Go where?”
But Mingi is already moving. Mingi turns away from the fire before the fox can say anything else, already beginning to move through the camp with long, determined strides.
Brambles blinks in surprise before scrambling after him. “Go?” the fox repeats. “Go where?”
Mingi doesn’t slow. He moves through the clearing like a man walking through a storm only he can feel, passing warriors who barely notice the tension radiating from him.
Brambles trots alongside him. “You can’t possibly be thinking—”
“I am.” The answer comes sharp.
The fox huffs in disbelief. “You just heard the announcement,” Brambles says. “They’re planning a royal wedding. That usually involves guards. Lots of guards.”
Mingi keeps walking. His jaw is set so tightly that the muscles along his neck stand out beneath the firelight.
“So what exactly is the plan?” Brambles continues. “You march into Valemere, interrupt the ceremony, and politely object?”
Mingi doesn’t respond at first. His mind is racing now, the earlier shock burning away into something far more dangerous. Determination. “She’s leaving,” he mutters under his breath.
Brambles glances up at him. “She’s not yours to lose.”
The words land harder than the fox intends. Mingi stops abruptly. For a moment the world seems to hold its breath.
The knight stands motionless beneath the dark canopy of trees at the edge of the camp, the distant fires casting flickering light across the hard lines of his face.
Then he speaks. “She is.” The words are quiet. But there is no hesitation in them.
Brambles studies him carefully. “You’re serious,” the fox says slowly.
Mingi’s gaze drifts toward the dark path leading out of the encampment, toward the kingdoms beyond the forest. Toward Valemere.
“I’m not letting her disappear like this,” he says.
His voice carries a fierce certainty now, something raw and stubborn that refuses to be silenced.
He steps away from the fire, boots striking the dirt with purpose as he begins marching toward the outer edge of the encampment.
“Mingi!” Brambles scrambles after him quickly, tail flicking with alarm. “Where exactly do you think you’re going?”
“Mingi—”
Mr Bramble hurries to keep pace beside him, weaving easily between the tents as the knight strides through the camp. “And what exactly is your master plan when you get there?” the fox asks incredulously. “You seriously think you can just march into a royal wedding and object?”
Mingi doesn’t slow. “If I have to.”
“That is not a plan.”
“It’s enough.”
Mr Bramble groans softly. “You can't be serious.”
Mingi’s jaw tightens. Every step feels heavier than the last, but the direction of his path never wavers. His mind is already made. “She deserves the truth,” he mutters.
“The truth?”
“That I didn’t walk away because I wanted to.”
Mr Bramble studies him carefully. “And if she chooses the king anyway?”
Mingi stops walking. For a moment he simply stands there beneath the dark canopy of trees, the quiet forest stretching out before him. Then he answers.
“Then I’ll leave.” His voice is calm now. Steady. “But I won’t let her marry him thinking I never came back.”
Mr Bramble watches him for a long moment. Then the fox sighs dramatically and trots forward again. “Well,” he says lightly, “if we’re marching into royal weddings and causing problems, I suppose someone needs to make sure you don’t get arrested before you even reach the gates.”
Mingi glances down at him. “You’re coming?”
“Of course I’m coming,” Mr Bramble replies. “You think I’m letting you attempt something this ridiculous without supervision?”
Despite everything swirling inside him, the faintest shadow of a smile flickers across Mingi’s face.
They reach the edge of the encampment together. Behind them, the fires continue burning and the camp slowly returns to its evening rhythms, unaware that one of its newest warriors has already chosen a different path for the night.
Mingi tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword. His gaze fixes firmly on the dark forest ahead.
And with quiet certainty, he says- His voice cuts quietly through the night.
Genre: Enemies(?) to lovers, dark fantasy, medieval au, adventure, slowburn, knight x princess, angst, eventual fluff
She fled a kingdom that wanted her blood. He fled a crown he refused to kneel to. Their paths weren't meant to cross... but fate wanted a different story. The kingdom wanted her dead. The knight wanted nothing to do with her. But the moment she saw the eyes beneath his helm... she stopped running from danger, and started running towards him.
The gates of Valemere do not creak when they open.
They part smoothly, deliberately, as though they have been waiting for this precise moment all morning, the iron hinges silent beneath the weight of polished steel and stone. The guards who flank you move with rehearsed precision, their armour brighter than any you have seen before, reflecting the sun in clean flashes that almost hurt the eyes. They bow deeply, not with fear, not with obligation, but with practiced reverence.
“Your Highness,” one of them says, voice clear and even. “Valemere welcomes you.”
The words settle over you like a cloak that does not quite fit. You step forward.
The road beyond the gates stretches wide and immaculate, paved in pale stone that shows no cracks, no uneven patches, no sign of neglect. It feels different from Eirendale - less weathered, less worn down by desperation. Here, everything appears intentional. Trimmed hedges line the streets in careful symmetry. Windows are polished. Market stalls stand in neat rows rather than clustered chaos. Even the air smells different- bread and citrus and clean linen rather than smoke and strain.
And yet, the weight in your chest does not lift. As you walk, escorted between two rows of guards, the town begins to murmur. The whispers travel like a ripple across water- soft, curious, cautious.
“That’s her.” “The lost princess.” “She survived?” “Is it true what they said?”
Faces turn toward you as you pass. Some hopeful. Some are suspicious. Some simply eager for spectacle. Mothers pull children a little closer. Shopkeepers lean subtly from their stalls. Young men stand straighter as if trying to be seen.
You keep your posture steady. You do not falter. But beneath the calm exterior, your heart pounds violently against your ribs, every step forward feeling less like arrival and more like surrender. You are not being chased. You are not running. No arrows fly. No soldiers scream.
And somehow, it feels heavier than it did in the forest.
The guards sense it too, perhaps, because they tighten their formation slightly, guiding you with subtle movements of their hands. One steps just ahead of you, another falls half a pace behind, creating a corridor of steel that shields you from the town’s eyes. They usher you forward with gentle authority, moving you out of the open square and into a narrower, more controlled path that leads toward the castle steps.
The whispers fade behind you. Stone rises around you. Valemere closes in - not suffocating, not yet - but enclosing, orderly, certain. You swallow hard, resisting the urge to glance back toward the forest that no longer stands in sight.
The path begins to incline as you near the heart of Valemere, the town slowly giving way to broader stone steps that climb toward the castle proper. The structure looms above you, pale and immaculate against the sky, its towers rising with measured symmetry rather than brute force. It is imposing, yes, but in a composed way, as though it does not need to shout its strength.
More guards wait at the base of the staircase. They stand in perfect alignment, armour gleaming, plumes fixed neatly atop their helmets, their posture immaculate to the point of stiffness. When you approach, they lower themselves in unison, heads bowed deeply, hands resting over their hearts in a display of respect that feels less instinctive and more ritualistic.
You study them quietly as you ascend.
They are different from the knights of Eirendale. There is no dirt beneath their nails, no scars visible along their hands, no weathered lines carved into their expressions. Their armour fits as though tailored for ceremony as much as combat, polished to a mirror shine, edges clean and untouched by the dulling scrape of repeated battle.
It makes you wonder. Are they less trained, or simply less tested?
A small part of you, the part that still craves stability after days of flight, wants to believe that the absence of roughness means safety. That perhaps Valemere does not require its knights to be hardened in quite the same way because danger does not reach its walls so easily.
The thought should soothe you. It doesn’t quite.
You reach the top of the steps, and the castle doors tower before you, carved from dark oak reinforced with ironwork so intricate it appears almost decorative. Symbols are etched into the metal, curling vines and protective sigils woven into patterns that speak of wealth rather than desperation. The doors do not merely protect; they announce.
As the guards part, the doors begin to open inward with deliberate slowness.
Inside stands an older gentleman dressed in immaculate formal attire, his silver hair swept neatly back, posture straight despite the years that rest lightly upon his shoulders. His expression is measured and dignified, eyes assessing without lingering too long.
He inclines his head deeply. “Your Highness,” he says with refined warmth. “Welcome to Valemere.”
For the briefest moment, a flicker of unease rises in your chest.
The man before you stands with such composure, such carefully cultivated authority, that you almost mistake him for the king himself, the man who has offered you sanctuary, alliance, and marriage. You search his face for youth, for charm, for something that might resemble the portrait whispered about in courts and letters.
He catches the hesitation in your gaze. A faint smile curves at his lips, not mocking, but perceptive.
“I am Lord Arcturus Vale,” he says smoothly, his voice measured and rich with refinement. “Leader of Valemere’s court. Second only to His Majesty.”
The relief you feel is subtle, but real.
“I oversee the governance of the kingdom in his stead when required,” he continues. “It is my honour to receive you.” He studies you carefully, not in suspicion but in appraisal, as though measuring strength rather than beauty.
“You have shown remarkable resilience,” he says, inclining his head once more. “To survive such treachery alone is no small feat. Valemere is… pleased that you endured.”
There is something about the phrasing that lingers. You’re not used to such poised language. You nod politely, offering gratitude without surrendering too much of yourself, and he gestures for you to follow.
The threshold closes quietly behind you.
The interior of the castle is vast and luminous, light reflecting from surfaces so pale they almost glow. The hallway stretches long and uninterrupted, its floors smooth white stone veined faintly with silver. The walls rise tall and bare, broken only by precise streaks of gold tracing architectural lines- never excessive, never gaudy, just enough to remind you of wealth without allowing it to overwhelm.
Statues line the corridor at even intervals, each one pristine, carved in immaculate detail- warriors, scholars, kings of past generations- all frozen in poised perfection. There is not a single speck of dust upon them. Not a chip. Not a crack.
Your footsteps echo faintly against the stone. There are no carpets beneath your boots. No tapestries softening the walls. No stray cushions or flowers offering distraction. The air itself feels polished, stripped of clutter, of excess, of anything that might suggest imperfection.
It is impressive. It is controlled.
And though it is beautiful in its precision, you cannot ignore the absence of something you have come to recognise as necessary.
Warmth.
For a fleeting moment, as your footsteps echo against the pale stone, your mind drifts. It betrays you.
The white walls and gold accents blur at the edges, and in their place comes the memory of warmth, the kind that cannot be polished into marble or commanded into obedience.
Mingi’s hands, large and steady around yours, adjusting your grip on the bow with patient precision. The quiet heat of his breath near your ear when he corrected you. The rough warmth of his skin beneath your palm when you finally saw him- really saw him-for the first time.
And then his eyes. Deep and dark and impossibly sharp, yet warmer than any fire you have ever stood beside. Not soft. Not gentle. But alive. Present. Human in a way that this place, for all its beauty, does not seem to be. The memory tightens something inside you.
“Your Highness?” The voice pulls you back.
Lord Vale glances toward you, polite curiosity in his expression. “Tell me of your journey. It must have been… arduous.”
You draw in a quiet breath, steadying yourself as you smooth the edges of your expression back into composure. “It was,” you say carefully. “The forest is not as forgiving as stories pretend.”
You offer him a shortened version of events- measured, contained, scrubbed clean of anything that might endanger those who helped you. You speak of travel. Of hiding. Of surviving on instinct and whatever assistance could be found along the way.
You mention the outlining village briefly,the groundskeeper who offered shelter and word of Valemere’s offer. You frame it as fortune rather than strategy.
You do not speak of Kayleigh. You do not speak of PJ. You do not speak of Mr. Bramble. And you certainly do not speak of the knight who walked beside you through every shadow. Some truths are not meant for polished corridors.
Lord Vale listens without interruption, his hands clasped neatly behind his back as you walk. His nods are subtle, approving in a detached sort of way. “You were wise to seek us,” he says at last. “Valemere honours loyalty and intelligence in equal measure.” The compliment lands lightly.
You nod again, offering the appropriate gratitude. But somewhere beneath your calm exterior, you feel the quiet shift of something protective- something you did not possess before this journey. You have learned which truths to carry carefully. And which ones to keep for yourself.
Lord Vale’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than is strictly polite, though it is not improper, more assessing than invasive, as though he is cataloguing the evidence of your journey in the set of your shoulders, the dust at the hem of your gown, the faint exhaustion you are trying to disguise.
“You must be starving,” he says at last, tone shifting to something almost fatherly.
The word catches you off guard.
You hadn’t realised how hollow your stomach feels until he said it aloud. For days, you have lived on dried fruits, salted meats, crusted bread shared beside small fires and beneath branches thick with shadow. It had been enough then. More than enough, when eaten in the quiet company of someone who understood the weight of survival.
Now, the thought of something warm- something cooked, plated, deliberate- makes your body ache with sudden awareness. “I suppose I am,” you admit, surprised at yourself.
“Of course you are,” he replies smoothly. “You have endured far more than most.”
He gestures toward a carved doorway along the corridor, its arch trimmed in gold leaf so delicate it looks almost painted. “We will have you refreshed at once. Clean clothes. A proper meal.” His expression softens fractionally. “You are no longer in hiding.”
The words should comfort you. They feel like something else.
He pauses at the door and calls out, voice clear and authoritative without rising in volume. “Attend.”
The response is immediate.
Three maids appear almost at once, stepping into view with heads bowed, movements efficient and practiced. Their gowns are simple but pristine, pale as the walls themselves, their hands folded neatly as they await instruction.
“See to Her Highness,” Lord Vale says. “Ensure she is thoroughly cleaned and dressed appropriately. The King will wish to receive her at her best.” The phrasing prickles faintly at the edges.
You straighten slightly. “That won’t be necessary,” you say politely. “If you would simply direct me to the bath, I can manage the rest myself.”
Lord Vale’s expression does not shift, but something in his posture firms.
“Absolutely not,” he says gently, though there is no room for argument in the words. “You are now royalty of Valemere. We do not allow our guests to tend to themselves.”
Before you can protest further, the maids move closer, their touch light but insistent as they guide you through the doorway and down another corridor, their pace brisk and purposeful. The sound of Lord Vale’s footsteps fades behind you.
And as you are escorted deeper into the polished heart of the castle, you feel the first quiet tightening of something invisible.
You are not sure if you’re more being cared for, than you are being managed. And the difference between the two is beginning to blur.
The bathing chamber is nothing like the simple circular tubs you have known in Eirendale.
It is carved directly into the stone floor in a perfect circle, wide enough that you could almost swim its length, the marble pale and veined with faint gold that catches the candlelight. Shallow steps descend gracefully into the water rather than the awkward climb of a basin, as though even the act of bathing must be performed with elegance. Along the rim, dozens of candles flicker in careful symmetry, their flames steady and deliberate, casting a warm glow that softens the otherwise clinical precision of the room.
The air is thick with fragrance.
Petals float across the surface of the water- white and blush and lavender- flowers you recognise only from court celebrations and rare feasts, their scent expensive and overwhelming in its abundance. Steam curls upward in delicate spirals as the maids hurry about, testing the temperature with careful fingertips, adding more heated water from polished pitchers, adjusting until it meets whatever invisible standard they have been trained to uphold.
You stand there for a moment, uncertain, before their hands begin to move.
They unfasten your dress with practiced ease, their movements efficient and impersonal, never lingering long enough to feel improper but never allowing you the dignity of slowness either. Layers are lifted away from you, dust-streaked fabric folded aside without comment, and you are guided gently toward the water.
You step in carefully, the warmth enveloping you at once, seeping into muscles that have been tight for days. For a fleeting moment, your body softens. The ache in your shoulders eases. The tension in your legs unwinds. The water carries you in a way that feels almost forgiving.
You close your eyes. You almost relax.
Then their hands return.
Cloths glide over your arms and shoulders, soap lathered into your hair, fingers scrubbing at your skin as though removing not only dirt but memory. You stiffen instinctively, unused to being handled so thoroughly, so intimately, by strangers whose eyes never meet yours.
“That won’t be necessary,” you murmur, attempting to shift away slightly.
“His Majesty’s orders,” one maid replies gently, though her hands do not stop.
You try again, a touch firmer this time. “I can wash myself.”
“His Majesty’s orders,” they repeat, almost in unison, the phrase polished smooth from repetition.
You fall silent. It is not cruel, what they are doing. It is not harsh. But it is not yours.
By the time they finish, your skin smells of roses and citrus, your hair brushed until it gleams, every trace of forest and smoke erased. When they help you from the bath, wrapping you in soft linen before dressing you again, the transformation feels complete.
The gown they choose is pale pink, almost blush, the fabric crisp and delicate as though it has never known a wrinkle. It fits you perfectly- tailored, flattering, refined- but as they fasten the final clasp and step back to admire their work, you cannot help the quiet discomfort settling in your chest.
It does not feel like you.
“It suits you beautifully,” one maid says, smoothing the skirt with careful hands. “His Majesty will be most pleased.”
Another nods eagerly. “This colour is what the King prefers.”
You glance at your reflection in the polished mirror across the room. The woman staring back is pristine. Soft. Carefully curated.
And though she is undeniably elegant, you cannot shake the sense that somewhere between the bathwater and the silk, something of you has been gently scrubbed away.
Two of the maids remain at either side of you as they guide you from the bathing chamber, their pace measured and precise, as though even your steps must now conform to Valemere’s rhythm. Your hair has been plaited carefully, woven tight and smooth before being coiled around the crown of your head, secured with a pale pink ribbon that matches the gown they chose for you. Not a single strand has been left loose. Not a curl softening your temples. Your vision feels clearer without your hair falling across your eyes, and yet you find yourself missing that small shield, that subtle curtain you used to hide behind when you did not wish to be studied.
Now there is nothing to obscure you.
The corridors stretch long and pale once more, and you catch glimpses of yourself in polished surfaces as you pass- elegant, contained, curated. A version of you that belongs here, perhaps, even if you do not quite recognise her.
The dining hall doors open before you.
Inside, the space is vast and symmetrical, ceilings arching high overhead with subtle gold filigree tracing their curves. The floors are white marble veined faintly with silver, and the long table that dominates the centre of the room is carved from the same pale stone rather than warm wood. The chairs are sculpted to match, high-backed and severe in their beauty, each one placed at exact intervals along the length of the table. There are no scratches. No softened edges. Everything gleams under the filtered light that pours in from tall windows lining the walls.
It is pristine.
And then you see him.
He stands at the far end of the table, hands clasped neatly behind his back as though he has been waiting for precisely this moment. He is tall, though not imposing in the way of a warrior; his frame is slender, almost delicate, the lines of his body long and narrow beneath his regal white attire. The fabric of his clothing is immaculate, tailored close, the cut sharp and refined.
He is more slender than you.
The observation lands quietly but firmly, and you feel a flicker of self-consciousness stir within you, a contrast you had not anticipated. His shoulders are not broad with armour or muscle, but straight with posture. His movements are controlled, economical, and deliberate.
His face is smaller than you expect, refined and symmetrical, his features softened by youth despite the crown resting lightly against his neatly slicked-back brown hair. Not a strand is out of place. His eyes are large and round, a warm brown that seems open at first glance, framed by lashes that give him an almost gentle appearance.
He is handsome. Undeniably so. But in a way that feels curated rather than lived-in.
When he steps forward to greet you, there is grace in his movement- no hesitation, no roughness, no unpredictability. Everything about him speaks of education, of control, of a life carefully shaped within walls that have never cracked.
And as he draws closer, offering you a soft, measured smile, you realise that this is King Aurelian of Valemere.
The man who intends to make you his queen.
You steady yourself before stepping forward, the polished marble cool beneath your slippers as you lower into a respectful bow.
“Your Majesty,” you begin smoothly, lifting your chin with composure. “I am—” You hesitate only a fraction too long. “— the daughter of Eirendale.”
The title nearly slips from your tongue in full: Princess of Eirendale. It feels strange to catch it, to reshape it, as though the words no longer belong entirely to you.
Aurelian notices. Even though he does, he is gracious enough not to show it.
He inclines into a bow of his own, deeper than expected, the gesture refined rather than exaggerated. “King Aurelian of Valemere,” he replies warmly, his voice smooth and carefully measured. “It is a privilege to finally meet you.”
Before you can fully prepare, he takes your hand gently in his, lifting it with deliberate care. His lips brush lightly against your knuckles- brief, formal, practiced.
The contact startles you. Not unpleasant. Not forceful. Simply unfamiliar.
His touch is cool, his skin softer than any you have grown used to in recent days, and the gesture lingers half a heartbeat longer than tradition strictly demands. When he releases you, his smile is soft and composed, his large eyes studying your reaction with subtle interest.
“Please,” he says, gesturing toward the table.
He moves beside you, and before you reach your chair, he bends slightly to place a pale silk cushion against its back, adjusting it with care as though ensuring your comfort is a matter of state importance. He pulls the marble chair out for you and guides you into your seat with a hand hovering politely near your elbow, never quite gripping but close enough to steady.
The attentiveness is immaculate.
He takes the seat at the head of the table, though he angles himself slightly toward you, closing the physical distance between you without abandoning his position of authority. “I trust the journey did not diminish your spirit,” he says as servants glide silently into the room, their movements so synchronized they almost appear rehearsed.
Dishes are placed before you one by one, steam rising in fragrant swirls.
You stare.
The food is unlike anything you have ever been served. Cuts of meat glazed in shimmering sauces the colour of amber. Vegetables arranged with artistic precision, dusted in herbs you do not recognise. Fruits carved delicately into shapes that feel almost too beautiful to disturb. Small porcelain bowls hold sauces of pale green and gold, their scents sharp and unfamiliar.
It is… otherworldly. Not rustic. Not hearty. Not simple. You are not entirely sure whether that is a good thing.
You hesitate, scanning the plate, uncertain where to begin or even what you are looking at.
Aurelian notices immediately.
A quiet laugh escapes him, low and unmocking. “It can be overwhelming,” he admits gently. “The glazed cut is a honeyed pheasant. The greens are river fennel with citrus oil. The sauce—” he gestures lightly, “— is saffron cream.”
You nod slowly, trying to commit the names to memory, though they feel like foreign language against your thoughts.
“You will find,” he continues, cutting his own portion with precise movements, “that Valemere prides itself on balance. Health and refinement are not separate things here.”
It is evident in the colour in his cheeks, the clarity of his skin, the brightness of his eyes. The kingdom’s prosperity seems to live in him physically. There is no hollowness beneath his gaze. No exhaustion etched into his features.
He speaks as you begin to taste cautiously, explaining the produce grown along Valemere’s rivers, the trade routes secured through careful diplomacy rather than force, the emphasis placed on cultivation rather than conquest.
It is impressive. Thoughtful. Structured.
And as you listen, responding when required, offering polite curiosity and measured praise, you begin to understand just how different this kingdom is from the one you fled. The conversation flows easily enough, light but deliberate.
Yet beneath it, something remains slightly off-balance, like stepping onto a floor so perfectly level that you begin to miss the comfort of uneven ground.
You set your utensils down carefully before speaking, unwilling to allow the rhythm of the meal to carry you past what needs to be said.
“Your Majesty,” you begin, your voice steady though your fingers remain lightly curled against the cool marble of the table, “I must thank you. For receiving me so… graciously. I cannot pretend to know what would have become of me had Valemere not opened its gates.”
It is not an exaggeration. You had options, perhaps, but none as certain as this.
Aurelian’s expression softens in a way that appears entirely sincere. He places his own cutlery down as well, giving you his full attention rather than splitting it between conversation and plate.
“It was no burden,” he replies gently. “When word reached us of what transpired in Eirendale, I was… deeply troubled.”
The slight pause feels intentional rather than performative. “I worked closely with your parents in matters of trade and diplomacy,” he continues. “They were honourable rulers. Fair. Measured. Devoted to their people.”
Your throat tightens subtly at the mention of them.
“They spoke of you often,” he adds, a faint smile touching his lips. “Their youngest daughter. A touch more spirited than tradition might prefer, perhaps, but fiercely intelligent.”
A quiet breath escapes you.
“They loved you deeply,” he says simply.
You look down at your plate briefly, gathering yourself before meeting his gaze again. “I loved them too,” you reply, your voice softer now.
Aurelian inclines his head in acknowledgment. “I did not believe the accusations for a moment,” he continues, the warmth in his tone sharpening slightly into quiet resolve. “Your sister’s claims were… convenient. But they lacked substance.”
There is no hostility in his voice, merely observation. “I have heard the talk about Edrea,” he adds carefully. “Her temperament. Her ambition. It would not surprise me if the truth were… less flattering than she presents.”
You allow yourself a small, humourless smile. “That would be putting it kindly.”
He watches you for a beat longer, as though gauging how much to say, how far to align himself with your perspective without overstepping into open condemnation.
“And as for you,” he says after a moment, his tone lightening deliberately, “the rumours were far more pleasant.”
Your brows lift slightly. “Rumours?”
He nods, amusement dancing faintly in his large, round eyes. “It seems the courts speak of more than politics. I had heard that the youngest princess of Eirendale was not only formidable in wit, but… exceptionally beautiful.”
The compliment lands softly, unexpected in its directness.
He holds your gaze as he continues, his voice lowering just enough to feel personal rather than public. “I see now that those rumours were understated.”
Heat rises unbidden to your cheeks. You lower your eyes for a brief moment, the pale pink of your gown suddenly feeling far more conspicuous against your skin.
“You are kind,” you say quietly, unsure whether the blush comes from the praise itself or from how easily he delivers it- measured, controlled, yet undeniably genuine.
Aurelian smiles again, but this time there is something more intentional in it. “I prefer honest to kind,” he replies.
The meal concludes in a rhythm that feels structured, the final courses appearing and disappearing with seamless efficiency until the table is cleared once more to pristine perfection. Conversation never falters, never deepens too sharply either. It flows in safe currents- trade, seasonal festivals, the health of the surrounding lands- each topic polished smooth before it can cut too close to anything raw.
When the last of the servants withdraw and the hall grows quieter, Aurelian rises from his seat with the same measured grace he has displayed all evening. “Would you join me for a stroll in the gardens?” he asks, his tone warm but composed. “The evening light does them particular justice.”
You glance toward the tall windows where the sun is beginning its slow descent, soft gold spilling across the marble floor. The idea of fresh air- real air- pulls at you instinctively.
“That sounds lovely,” you reply.
He steps around the table and offers his hand to help you rise, a gesture that is attentive without being insistent. Once you are standing, he gestures toward the far doors, which open at once as though anticipating his movement.
The gardens stretch wide beyond the castle, unfolding in immaculate symmetry. Rows upon rows of roses bloom in carefully tended beds, their petals impossibly full and vibrant. White roses cluster in one section like gathered clouds, pure and untouched, while red roses spill richly along another path, their colour deep and velvety, almost indulgent against the pale stone that surrounds them.
Every structure within the garden is white.
The gazebos arch overhead in delicate latticework, the fencing straight and flawless, the panels that support climbing vines aligned with geometric precision. Even the stone pathway beneath your feet is pale, unmarred, its surface smooth as if freshly carved that morning. There are no fallen petals scattered across it. No creeping wild growth daring to disrupt the order.
It is breathtaking. And utterly controlled.
Aurelian pauses beside you and extends his arm, elbow slightly bent in invitation. “May I?” he asks softly.
You hesitate. It is only a fraction of a second, barely visible, but you feel it within yourself, a small tightening, a fleeting comparison to another arm once offered in far rougher circumstances. His is clothed in pristine white, fabric crisp beneath your fingers.
You slide your arm through his.
His posture straightens subtly at the contact, and together you begin to walk along the path, moving between the roses in quiet unison. The scent of them hangs thick in the air, sweet, layered, almost intoxicating.
He keeps his pace slow, attentive to yours, speaking occasionally of how the gardens were designed to reflect balance between strength and beauty, how each section represents a virtue Valemere holds dear.
You nod, listening, absorbing.
The evening light casts everything in soft gold, turning the white structures luminous and the red roses almost luminous against them. It is beautiful in a way that demands admiration.
And as you walk the grounds together, arm in arm, you cannot ignore the contrast forming quietly within you, the polished serenity of this kingdom, and the wild, unpredictable pulse of the forest still echoing somewhere beneath your skin.
You walk in a quiet rhythm for several steps, the soft scrape of your shoes against the pale stone mingling with the faint rustle of roses stirred by the evening breeze. The sky has begun its slow descent into amber and lilac, the light casting a gentle warmth across Aurelian’s white attire and turning the red petals into something almost molten.
After a moment, you speak.
“I’m glad,” you say carefully, glancing up at him, “that you are not what I expected.”
He turns his head slightly, curiosity lighting his expression. “Oh?”
You draw in a measured breath, searching for honesty without offence. “I had imagined… a colder king. One concerned solely with power and politics. I expected something far more transactional.” A faint smile tugs at your lips. “Perhaps a signing of documents, a formal exchange, and then a life where we crossed paths only when the kingdom demanded it.”
There is vulnerability in the admission, but you let it sit between you.
Instead of taking offence, Aurelian’s expression softens. “And you are disappointed?” he asks lightly.
“Relieved,” you correct gently. “I am glad you are king. I feel… more at ease than I thought I would.”
He stops walking. The shift is subtle but deliberate. He turns fully toward you now, releasing your arm only to take both of your hands in his. His fingers are cool, careful, his grip steady without tightening.
“I have no intention of rushing you,” he says, voice lower now, stripped of the performative polish it held inside the hall. “Marriage is not something I intend to force upon you for the sake of expedience.”
You study him, searching for calculation.
“I want you safe,” he continues. “Protected. Given time to breathe and recover from what you have endured. Only when you are ready will I ask you to stand beside me as my bride.” The words are measured, but they do not feel insincere.
“I am willing to wait,” he adds. There is a faint flush rising to his cheeks now, the first sign of something unguarded. He lets out a quiet breath, almost sheepish in a way that softens the severity of his features.
“Though I confess,” he continues, eyes flicking briefly away before returning to yours, “I suspect I may fall for you far quicker than I intended.”
The admission catches you off guard.
He smiles faintly at your surprise. “I am rather astonished no one in Eirendale claimed your heart already. They must have been foolish men.”
A laugh escapes you before you can restrain it- genuine and unfiltered, cutting cleanly through the perfumed air of the garden.
“Foolish, perhaps,” you agree lightly.
He watches you with visible satisfaction at having drawn that sound from you. “Then I am grateful for their poor judgement,” he replies smoothly. “Valemere benefits from it.”
The sun dips fully below the horizon then, the warmth retreating as a soft chill settles into the air. The white stone begins to lose its golden glow, taking on a cooler hue beneath the deepening sky.
Aurelian notices immediately. “You mustn’t catch a cold,” he says, his tone shifting back toward attentive composure.
He releases your hands only to offer his arm once more, guiding you gently back toward the castle doors. The lights within the palace flicker warmly through the tall windows, promising shelter and structure as the night gathers around the roses.
As you step back inside, leaving the open air behind, you carry with you the faint warmth of his kindness.
And yet, somewhere deep within, something remains quietly unsettled.
As you cross the threshold back into the castle, the warmth of candlelight replacing the cool hush of the garden, something catches your attention from the corner of your eye. You pause just enough to turn your head.
Beyond the pale arches and immaculate hedges, tucked low within a cluster of darkening rose bushes, two sharp amber eyes glint back at you.
Mr. Bramble.
He stands half-hidden in the foliage, his russet fur blending almost seamlessly into the shadows, tail curled neatly around his paws as though he has always belonged there. His gaze is not mischievous now. It is searching. Assessing. Ensuring.
Ensuring you made it.
A quiet exhale leaves you, relief blooming softly in your chest. You do not wave- such a gesture would draw attention- but you offer him the smallest smile, a tilt of your head that he alone would recognise as acknowledgment.
He dips his muzzle once in return. Then he disappears back into the dark.
“Is something amiss?” Aurelian asks gently, noticing your brief hesitation.
“Nothing,” you reply smoothly, turning back toward him. “Just… admiring the garden one last time.”
He nods approvingly, evidently satisfied. “Come,” he says, gesturing toward the interior corridor. “You must be exhausted.”
The word feels accurate now that he has spoken it aloud. The weight of the day presses suddenly heavier against your limbs, the long journey, the polished introductions, the careful composure.
He guides you through another series of white corridors, each one as pristine as the last, until you arrive before a tall, carved door set slightly apart from the others. “This will be your private quarters,” he explains. “It overlooks the eastern gardens.”
Two guards stand stationed on either side of the entrance, armour gleaming faintly under the lantern light. They bow deeply as you approach. “I have assigned them specifically to you,” Aurelian continues. “They will monitor this wing throughout the night and ensure no disturbance reaches you.”
Monitor. The word lingers.
“My own chambers are not far,” he adds, offering you a reassuring look. “If you require anything at all.”
He pauses, then lets out a quiet chuckle, a faint flush returning to his cheeks.
“I do not mean that in any… crude or presumptuous manner,” he clarifies quickly. “Only that you are not alone here. Not in this castle.”
You smile at his awkwardness, the gentleness of it almost endearing. “I understand,” you assure him. “Thank you.”
He inclines his head once more, composed again now that the moment has passed. “Rest well,” he says softly. “Tomorrow will bring new beginnings.” With that, he steps back, allowing the maids to open the grand door for you.
“Good night,” he adds before turning away.
“Good night, Your Majesty,” you reply.
And as the door closes behind you with a smooth, quiet finality, you are left standing in a room that promises comfort, safety, and a future carefully arranged.
Whether it promises freedom, you are not yet certain.
The chamber is vast. White, of course.
The floors are polished marble softened only slightly by a pale rug placed precisely beneath the bed. The walls are smooth and uninterrupted, adorned not with heavy tapestries or hunting trophies, but with delicate gold inlays that trace elegant patterns along the edges. A large canopy bed stands at the centre of the room, draped in sheer ivory fabric that falls like mist around its frame. The linens are crisp and untouched, the pillows arranged with deliberate symmetry, as though even sleep here must be orderly.
A vanity table rests against one wall, its mirror spotless, reflecting a version of you that looks composed and carefully curated. A wardrobe carved from pale oak stands nearby, its doors slightly ajar to reveal dresses already prepared in soft colours- pinks, creams, muted golds. There are no deep blues. No bold fabrics. No shadows.
Even the air smells refined- rosewater and clean linen.
It is beautiful. Immaculate. And strangely silent.
You walk slowly across the room, the faint echo of your steps reminding you how little warmth lingers here. Nothing is misplaced. Nothing is worn in. It feels like a room prepared for you rather than a room that belongs to you.
The window draws you next.
You push aside the delicate curtain and step closer, pressing your fingertips lightly against the cool glass. Beyond the castle walls, the eastern gardens stretch outward in pale symmetry, and further still- just visible in the distance- the dark line of the forest cuts against the horizon.
The forest. Your chest tightens. You let the smile you have been wearing all evening finally fade, your lips settling into something more honest, more uncertain. The composure slips from your shoulders. The careful posture softens.
Everything that has happened presses back in.
The escape. The blood. The running. The bowstring beneath your fingers. The warmth of his hands guiding yours. The weight of his gaze when he finally let you see him.
“Mingi,” you whisper softly to the glass.
You imagine him out there now, somewhere beneath those trees, perhaps already at the encampment, perhaps walking alone. You wonder if he has eaten. If he has slept. If he has placed the helm back over his face and shut himself away once more.
You pray he is safe. You pray he is not bleeding in some forgotten clearing. You pray he is not alone in the way you suddenly feel.
Your thoughts drift to the man inside these walls- the king who has offered protection, patience, comfort. Aurelian is kind. Attentive. Thoughtful. He provides everything a future queen could require. Stability. Structure. Safety.
And yet. With Mingi, you felt something entirely different. Not necessarily safety- but aliveness.
The wildness of arguing beneath trees. The defiance in his voice. The heat of frustration that sparked between you and refused to fade. The feeling of standing on uncertain ground and choosing it anyway.
You swallow hard. That life is behind you now. He is not coming back. He belongs to the forest, to war, to resistance. You belong to marble halls and rose gardens and careful diplomacy.
“He’s probably forgotten me already,” you murmur to the darkened glass, though the words sting even as you say them. “He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t want me.” The lie tastes bitter.
You close your eyes briefly and let the air carry one final, fragile whisper into the night.
“Goodbye, Mingi.” The name dissolves into silence.
When you turn back toward the bed, the canopy curtains sway gently as though welcoming you into their ordered embrace. You move toward it slowly, the weight of silk brushing against your legs, and slip beneath the pristine sheets.
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
And as sleep begins to tug at you, the image of dark eyes beneath a lifted helm lingers stubbornly in your mind, refusing to fade with the candlelight.
The forest is darker than it was the night before. Not in shadow alone- but in weight.
Mingi moves through it without hesitation, boots striking against damp earth with heavy, deliberate force. Branches snap beneath his steps, and when thicker limbs obstruct his path, his sword flashes in quick, brutal arcs, cutting through wood as though the trees themselves have offended him.
He does not slow. He does not look back.
The helm rests firmly over his face once more, the steel cold against his skin, sealing away the brief vulnerability he allowed himself at the forest’s edge. Whatever softness touched him there has been pressed down, buried beneath something harder and more familiar.
A branch catches against his shoulder. He slices it cleanly in half. “Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, the word swallowed by the trees.
The frustration has nowhere to go. It sits inside him like a live coal, burning quietly, steadily, without flame. His hands tighten around the hilt of his sword as though he could carve the ache from his chest if he simply swung hard enough.
He navigates by instinct rather than sight, reading the slope of the land, the tilt of moss against bark, the subtle thinning of trees that signals direction. The encampment lies deeper still, beyond the borderlands where ordinary men fear to tread. He knows the route well enough from old training excursions, from maps studied in silence long before this war had a name, from when his destination was just a mere training field.
The night air is sharp. Cold wind threads between the trees, slipping beneath the edges of his armour, brushing against exposed skin where fabric shifts. Frost gathers lightly along the undergrowth. His breath fogs faintly with each exhale.
He does not shiver. The chill cannot compare to the hollow that has settled inside him.
He replays the moment without meaning to- the way she looked at him when the helm came off, the way her fingers trembled against his cheek, the softness in her voice when she said his name. The warmth of that kiss burns brighter in memory than any fire he has stood beside. The lingering heat of her tingled his skin, and he felt a sudden urge to wash it away.
He clenches his jaw. She is safe. That is what matters. Safe within white walls and rose gardens and a king who can give her stability rather than scars.
He pushes forward harder, cutting through another low-hanging branch with unnecessary force. The numbness inside him spreads, dull and relentless, and he welcomes it. It is easier than feeling the absence. It’s safer that way, nothing inside him, just the quiet numbness that felt so familiar. Exactly how he liked it. At least, so he thought.
Above him, the trees begin to thin just slightly, the air shifting with the faint scent of smoke carried on the wind.
The encampment is close. And with each step toward it, Mingi buries the memory of her deeper beneath steel and shadow, telling himself that what he feels no longer matters.
He feels it before he hears it. A shift in the air.
A disturbance too deliberate to be wind or wandering animals. The forest has a rhythm when it is untouched, a pattern of subtle movement and distant sound, and something within it now feels… watchful.
Mingi slows.
The weight of his steps quiets as instinct takes over, his body adjusting seamlessly into alertness. His hand tightens around the hilt of his sword before he even consciously commands it to move. The sensation of being observed prickles along the back of his neck, sharp and undeniable.
He stops entirely. Then spins. The blade is drawn in one fluid motion, steel slicing through the dark as he faces the direction of the unseen presence.
“Show yourself,” he demands, his voice cutting cleanly through the trees. “Now.”
The forest answers not with movement, but with a low, amused sigh. “Goodness,” a familiar voice drawls from somewhere just beyond the brush. “You are far too tense tonight. Not nearly as poised as you were earlier.”
Mingi exhales sharply through his nose, the sound closer to a growl than a breath.
A russet shape steps from behind a cluster of ferns, tail flicking lazily in the dim light. Mr. Bramble.
“Go away,” Mingi mutters, lowering his blade only slightly but not sheathing it. “I’m not in the mood.”
The fox tilts his head with theatrical offense. “That is remarkably rude,” he replies, padding forward with deliberate grace. “Especially considering I have just done you a favour.”
Mingi’s jaw tightens beneath the helm. “What favour?”
Mr. Bramble’s eyes glint knowingly. “I checked in on your princess.” The words land like a strike.
Mingi goes still. The forest itself seems to pause with him. He does not turn fully toward the fox at first, but something in his posture shifts- attention narrowing, frustration momentarily replaced by something sharper.
“What did you say?” he asks, voice lower now, less edged with anger and more edged with something else entirely.
Mr. Bramble’s tail sways behind him, pleased with the reaction. “I ensured she arrived safely,” he continues casually. “White walls. Polished floors. Very pristine. She has not been harmed.”
Mingi finally faces him properly. The sword lowers the rest of the way. “Is she—” he begins, then stops himself, unwilling to reveal too much.
Mr. Bramble watches him with open amusement. “She is safe,” the fox confirms. “Though I would not describe her as… settled.” That, more than anything else, roots Mingi to the spot.
Mr. Bramble circles him slowly, paws silent against the forest floor, as though this were not a conversation about something fragile but a game he fully intends to enjoy.
“The king,” the fox begins lightly, tail flicking with deliberate ease, “is exactly as described. Tall, though not quite your stature. Slender. Almost delicate, really. His frame is narrow, his posture immaculate. Handsome in a very refined way.”
Mingi does not respond.
“He has large, round eyes,” Bramble continues, as though cataloguing features for sport. “Soft brown. Clean skin. Slicked-back hair that has likely never known a strong wind. He dresses in white. Regal white. Quite pristine.”
The blade in Mingi’s hand tightens slightly. “I didn’t ask about him,” he says flatly.
“I know,” Bramble replies smoothly. “I simply enjoy hearing the way your voice shifts when I mention him.”
Mingi exhales sharply, the sound low and controlled.
“She seemed…” Bramble pauses deliberately, as though selecting the word for maximum effect. “Content.” The word lodges somewhere unpleasant in Mingi’s chest.
“He is gentle with her,” the fox continues, strolling a few paces ahead now, forcing Mingi either to follow or to stop entirely. “Held her hands in the garden. Offered his arm. Complimented her beauty with quite a sincere flush to his cheeks.”
Mingi’s jaw flexes beneath the helm.
“He told her,” Bramble adds, “that he believes he will fall for her quickly. That he will wait for marriage until she is ready. That her kingdom’s men were fools not to have claimed her sooner.”
Silence follows. The forest seems to press inward around them.
Inside Mingi, something fractures.
It is not only anger. It is not only jealousy. It is something more complicated- something sharper and quieter. The image forms unbidden: her hand in another’s. Another man standing close enough to touch her face. Another voice murmuring promises of patience and protection.
Fear coils beneath it all. Fear that she might prefer that life. That she might prefer the safety, the structure, the certainty. Fear that she might forget the forest, forget the arguments, forget the warmth shared in shadow.
Insecurity follows swiftly behind it. He is a knight. A weapon. A man of scars and steel. Aurelian is a king.
Mingi sheathes his sword abruptly, the motion harsher than necessary. “She’s safe,” he says shortly. “That’s all that matters.”
Mr. Bramble glances back at him, eyes narrowing with quiet amusement. “Is it?”
Mingi does not answer. He steps forward again, boots striking the ground with renewed force as he resumes his path toward the encampment. The pace is quicker now, less measured, as though he could outrun the images Bramble has planted in his mind.
The fox falls into step beside him effortlessly. “You truly are dreadful at pretending indifference,” Bramble remarks lightly.
“Go home,” Mingi mutters.
“I am heading the same direction you are.”
Mingi does not ask why.He does not want to hear any more about white garments or soft hands or promises of patience. But as he moves deeper into the forest, the storm within him refuses to settle, twisting sharp and unfamiliar in a place he has never allowed anything to grow.
Mr. Bramble walks a few paces ahead of him, tail swaying lazily as though the conversation has only just begun. “You are in love with her,” the fox says at last.
Not as a question. As a verdict.
Mingi’s steps falter for half a heartbeat before he recovers, his boots striking the earth harder than before. “No,” he growls.
Bramble does not slow. “You are.”
“I said no.” The word comes sharper now, edged with something that sounds dangerously close to warning. “Love is for fools.”
The forest absorbs the declaration without judgment.
“For men who sing their affection in warm voices,” Mingi continues, the bitterness in his tone rising despite himself. “For men who offer flowers and promises and soft words. For idiots who don’t know what war feels like.”
Bramble hums thoughtfully. “Then it would seem the king is precisely the kind of man suited for it.”
Mingi does not respond.
“He told her she was beautiful,” the fox continues mildly. “Told her he would wait for her. Told her he might fall for her quickly.”
The words feel like stones dropped into deep water. Mingi keeps walking.
“By your definition,” Bramble adds gently, “that would make him one of those fools.”
Silence answers him. Inside the helm, Mingi’s jaw tightens until it aches.
Love is weakness. Love is distraction. Love is the crack in armour that enemies exploit.
That is what he has always believed. And yet- Her voice saying his name.Her hand against his cheek. The way she looked at him as though he were not steel and violence, but something human. The memory refuses to obey his rules.
She does not need him. The thought settles heavy and undeniable.
She has a kingdom now. A king who can offer stability, wealth, protection. A man who speaks gently and moves carefully and belongs in polished halls rather than blood-soaked clearings.
What can he offer? Scars. Steel. A life spent chasing war. He cannot give her roses. He cannot give her marble floors. He cannot give her peace. He is someone of an empty shell of existence. Someone like him would die without being remembered. A mere insignificance compared to her.
And he is certain- utterly certain- that whatever this feeling clawing at his chest is, it is not something she would ever return. They were too different, she’s much too soft, too kind. Whereas, he would happily live the rest of his life alone for the sake of survival. She would never sing her love for him.
Pathetic. That’s the only way he could describe himself. He was just like those fools, trapped by their own emotions. Only he wasn’t trapped with excuses like alcohol or affiliations, but he was trapped in the memory of her. Of the woman who would never truly look at him like that. She would never sing to him.
Eventually, the trees begin to thin.
Smoke curls faintly into the night sky ahead, and the scent of fire reaches them on the wind. The ground slopes downward into a wide clearing carved into the forest’s heart, lanterns flickering between tents and rough-built structures.
Voices carry softly in the distance. The clang of metal. The murmur of preparation. The encampment.
Mingi slows at its edge, standing at the threshold between shadow and firelight. Behind him lies the road he walked beside her. Ahead lies something else entirely.
“This,” Bramble says quietly, pausing at his side, “is where your path changes.”
Mingi does not look back toward the forest he emerged from. He adjusts the helm slightly, the weight of it settling into place as though reclaiming him fully. His journey with her has ended. What begins now is different. Colder. Purposeful. The emptiness is consuming. The void was persistent, the lack of warmth and affection he’s grown used to since a small child was gnawing its way back into his bones.
He steps forward into the light of the resistance, leaving behind the softness he refuses to name, and with it, the version of himself that once allowed someone to see beneath the steel.
It does not rush or stumble the way it once did in Eirendale. It does not race as it did in the forest, where every heartbeat felt measured against survival. Here, the days unfold with quiet order, each one polished and predictable, gliding seamlessly into the next.
Weeks and weeks pass.
You begin to recognise the rhythm of the kingdom- the morning bells that echo across the pale courtyards, the steady hum of markets thriving beneath careful oversight, the distant laughter of children who do not seem to know hunger the way your people once did. The streets remain clean. The air smells of bread and citrus rather than smoke. Even the weather feels kinder here, as though Valemere exists beneath its own deliberate sky.
Your wardrobe fills quickly.
Silks in shades you had never worn before. Creams and blushes and soft golds. Gowns embroidered with fine thread so delicate it seems a shame to let them brush the floor. Jewels are presented to you not as spectacle, but as expectation, necklaces resting at your collarbone, bracelets cool against your wrist, earrings catching the light with every turn of your head.
You find yourself learning how to carry them. The weight of gold. The weight of expectation.
The maids, once distant and rehearsed, grow warmer in your presence as the days soften around you. When they realise you are not cruel, not sharp-tongued like the rumours they have surely heard of your sister, their formality eases. They begin to whisper gossip while braiding your hair, laughing softly when you roll your eyes at some particularly dull court affair. They confide in you about petty rivalries within the castle walls, about which lord cannot hold his wine, about which noblewoman insists on wearing perfumes far too strong for the season.
You laugh with them. And they begin to look at you not as a guest, but as something closer to belonging.
The dinners remain grand.
Long tables lined with candlelight. Plates arranged like art. Conversations flowing easily among courtiers who seem genuinely pleased with their king. The court in Valemere does not feel tense. It does not feel brittle. There is a confidence in its structure, a prosperity that seems rooted in genuine governance rather than fear.
The towns thrive.
You see it when you ride through the city beside Aurelian, when merchants bow with sincere gratitude rather than obligation, when farmers speak proudly of yields rather than anxiously of shortages. Disease does not cling to the air here. Children’s cheeks are full. The elderly walk without stooping beneath invisible burdens.
It is difficult not to be impressed. And slowly, almost without realising it, you grow closer to the king.
He is consistent in his kindness. Measured in his affection. He does not overwhelm you. He does not push. He speaks of future plans with patience, includes you in discussions of trade and defence, listens when you offer your thoughts rather than dismissing them.
He laughs more easily around you now. He stands closer than he once did.
And as the days pass, the distance between you narrows- not in passion, not yet- but in familiarity.
Valemere begins to feel less like a refuge and more like a possible future.
And you find yourself wondering, quietly, whether comfort can ever truly replace the wildness you once mistook for life.
Spring arrives quietly in Valemere, not in sudden bursts of chaos but in a gradual softening of the air, a gentler warmth that settles over the gardens and coaxes colour from every corner of the earth. The roses have grown fuller, their petals thick and fragrant, and new blossoms push through freshly turned soil in orderly rows. The grass is trimmed evenly, a vibrant green beneath the clear sky, and the white gazebos stand framed by climbing vines that have begun to bloom in pale lavender.
You stand on the lawn with a croquet mallet in hand.
The game had been Aurelian’s suggestion- “Something light,” he had said with an amused smile, “to remind us that rulers are allowed to enjoy their afternoons.” A small wooden ball rests before you, and a series of polished hoops arch across the garden in a precise pattern. The mallets are carved elegantly, their handles wrapped in soft leather, far removed from anything crude or improvised.
Aurelian stands opposite you, sleeves rolled slightly to reveal pale forearms, his posture relaxed in a way you have come to recognise as genuine rather than rehearsed.
“You hesitate,” he remarks lightly, watching you line up your shot. “Surely the princess who survived a forest does not fear a wooden ball.”
You glance up at him, a spark of mischief in your expression. “I am merely calculating my strategy. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in your own garden.”
He laughs, a sound that carries easily through the open air. “Bold words.”
You swing. The mallet strikes cleanly, the ball rolling smoothly through the first hoop with satisfying precision. You straighten, allowing yourself a small, triumphant smile.
“Calculated,” you say.
He raises a brow in impressed amusement before stepping forward to take his turn. His movements are graceful but not aggressive, controlled rather than competitive. When he misses his first attempt by a narrow margin, you cannot help the soft laugh that escapes you.
“Careful,” you tease gently. “The court will hear of this.”
“I trust you would defend my honour,” he replies, adjusting his stance. “Or at least delay the rumours.”
The warmth in the air is comfortable, sunlight brushing your skin without burning, and the scent of blooming flowers drifts between you as you circle the lawn. Servants watch discreetly from a distance, but their presence feels less intrusive now, more like background to a moment that belongs to you both.
As the game progresses, your banter grows easier. He compliments your aim; you challenge his focus. There is lightness here, a rhythm that feels natural rather than forced.
“You improve daily,” he says at one point, stepping closer to adjust your stance slightly, though his touch lingers only briefly at your elbow. “Valemere seems to agree with you.”
“Or perhaps,” you reply, glancing at him from beneath your lashes, “I am simply competitive.”
He smiles, eyes bright in the spring light. “I find that quality rather admirable.”
Laughter drifts across the garden again as you send another ball neatly through its hoop, and for a moment- just a moment- you allow yourself to settle into the ease of it. The warmth. The laughter. The steady presence of a man who offers comfort without force.
The garden blooms around you, alive with colour and gentle sunlight, and as you stand there beneath the open sky of Valemere, it is easy to believe that perhaps peace can be learned.
The game stretches longer than either of you intended.
One hoop becomes two, then three, the wooden balls rolling across the immaculate lawn beneath the steady rhythm of your swings. The light shifts slowly overhead, the golden warmth deepening into something softer as afternoon leans toward evening. Your laughter grows easier with each round, and the small competitiveness between you sharpens into playful challenge rather than restraint.
When your final strike sends the ball cleanly through the last hoop, you straighten with a triumphant breath, lifting the mallet slightly as though claiming a victory far greater than the game itself.
“I believe,” you say lightly, unable to hide the smile spreading across your face, “that the King of Valemere has been defeated.”
Aurelian studies the field theatrically before letting out a resigned chuckle. “It appears so.”
“You were going easy on me,” you accuse gently, narrowing your eyes in mock suspicion.
“Perhaps,” he replies, though the corner of his mouth betrays him. “Or perhaps I underestimated you.”
“You did not deny it,” you press.
He laughs again, warm and unguarded. “Very well. I may have shown a measure of leniency.”
You shake your head, amused, and together you retreat toward a small white wrought-iron table set beneath a flowering arch. Porcelain cups await you, steam curling delicately into the air from freshly poured tea. The china is thin and elegant, patterned faintly with gold along its rim.
You sit opposite one another at first, but as the conversation resumes, he shifts his chair closer, angling himself toward you as though distance has become unnecessary.
The breeze stirs lightly through the garden. A single fallen leaf, loosened prematurely by the changing season, drifts from a nearby tree and settles unnoticed in your hair.
Aurelian pauses mid-sentence, his gaze softening. “May I?” he asks quietly.
You nod without fully understanding.
His fingers lift gently, brushing the leaf from your plait with careful precision. The contact lingers, his hand hovering just slightly longer than needed before his palm rests lightly against your cheek. His touch is warm, steady, reverent.
“You are beautiful,” he says softly. The words are not rushed. Not dramatic. They are offered plainly, sincerely.
Your breath catches.
He holds your gaze a moment longer before continuing, his voice lowering just enough to carry weight without carrying spectacle.
“These weeks have been… more than I anticipated,” he admits. “I expected duty. Alliance. Stability.” A faint, almost uncertain smile touches his lips. “I did not expect to admire you so completely.”
There is hesitation in him now. Something vulnerable. “I have fallen for you,” he says quietly. “More quickly than I intended.”
You feel your pulse quicken, though confusion flickers beneath it. There is something in his eyes, something almost anxious.
Before you can respond, he withdraws his hand from your cheek and stands.
For a heartbeat, you think the moment has passed. Then he steps around the table.
And lowers himself to one knee.
The movement is deliberate, but not theatrical. Controlled, but weighted with intention. From within the pocket of his pristine coat, he draws a small velvet box- deep burgundy, plush and immaculate. He opens it slowly.
Inside rests a ring.
Silver, polished to a mirror sheen, crowned with a jewel so grand it seems to hold its own light. The stone catches the fading sun and fractures it into shards of brilliance, clear and cold and impossibly perfect.
He looks up at you, eyes steady despite the slight tension at their corners.
“Will you,” he begins carefully, “become my queen?”
The garden seems to hold its breath. For a moment, the world narrows to the velvet box in his hands.
The jewel gleams in the soft evening light, flawless and brilliant, a symbol of stability, of power, of everything Valemere represents. The garden around you feels suspended in silence, roses swaying gently as though the earth itself waits for your answer.
Inside you, however, there is no stillness.
Your thoughts scatter.
Mingi’s face rises unbidden in your mind- dark eyes sharp beneath lifted helm, the warmth of his breath against your ear as he corrected your stance, the rough honesty in his voice when he confessed what armour had cost him. You remember the wildness of the forest, the way your heart pounded not from fear alone but from something alive and unrestrained. The arguments. The stubbornness. The fire between you that refused to be polite or measured.
You remember how you felt beside him. Untamed. Unfiltered. Free.
And yet- You look down at the man kneeling before you now.
Aurelian has given you kindness without force. He has offered protection without demand. He has included you in his council, valued your thoughts, promised patience. You have grown closer to him in ways that are steady rather than explosive. There is warmth here too, but it is softer, cultivated, safe.
Safe. Your mind wrestles with itself. Does safety diminish feeling? Does passion outweigh peace?
He shifts slightly, searching your face. “Will you marry me?” he asks again, his voice gentler now, threaded with hope rather than command.
Mingi is not here. He walked back into the forest. He chose war. He chose distance. He is not coming back.
This- this marble kingdom, these blooming gardens, this patient king- this is your reality now.
And it is not terrible. It is not cruel. It is not empty.
Your breath comes heavy in your chest as you steady yourself, forcing the storm inside you into something quieter, something livable. You cannot build a future on a memory of wild eyes and unfinished words. You cannot wait for a man who never asked you to.
With a slow inhale, you lift your gaze to Aurelian’s.
“Yes,” you say softly.
The word feels both fragile and irrevocable.
“I will marry you.”
Relief floods his expression instantly, bright and unguarded. He rises to his feet, slipping the ring gently onto your finger, his hands warm and steady. The jewel catches the last light of the sun, flashing brilliantly as though sealing the promise.
He draws you into a careful embrace, and the court at a distance begins to murmur with celebration.
Above you, the sky deepens into twilight.
And somewhere far beyond the walls of Valemere, beneath darker trees and harsher stars, the forest does not yet know that a choice has been made.
Genre: Enemies(?) to lovers, dark fantasy, medieval au, adventure, slowburn, knight x princess, angst, eventual fluff
She fled a kingdom that wanted her blood. He fled a crown he refused to kneel to. Their paths weren't meant to cross... but fate wanted a different story. The kingdom wanted her dead. The knight wanted nothing to do with her. But the moment she saw the eyes beneath his helm... she stopped running from danger, and started running towards him.
The gates of Valemere do not creak when they open.
They part smoothly, deliberately, as though they have been waiting for this precise moment all morning, the iron hinges silent beneath the weight of polished steel and stone. The guards who flank you move with rehearsed precision, their armour brighter than any you have seen before, reflecting the sun in clean flashes that almost hurt the eyes. They bow deeply, not with fear, not with obligation, but with practiced reverence.
“Your Highness,” one of them says, voice clear and even. “Valemere welcomes you.”
The words settle over you like a cloak that does not quite fit. You step forward.
The road beyond the gates stretches wide and immaculate, paved in pale stone that shows no cracks, no uneven patches, no sign of neglect. It feels different from Eirendale - less weathered, less worn down by desperation. Here, everything appears intentional. Trimmed hedges line the streets in careful symmetry. Windows are polished. Market stalls stand in neat rows rather than clustered chaos. Even the air smells different- bread and citrus and clean linen rather than smoke and strain.
And yet, the weight in your chest does not lift. As you walk, escorted between two rows of guards, the town begins to murmur. The whispers travel like a ripple across water- soft, curious, cautious.
“That’s her.” “The lost princess.” “She survived?” “Is it true what they said?”
Faces turn toward you as you pass. Some hopeful. Some are suspicious. Some simply eager for spectacle. Mothers pull children a little closer. Shopkeepers lean subtly from their stalls. Young men stand straighter as if trying to be seen.
You keep your posture steady. You do not falter. But beneath the calm exterior, your heart pounds violently against your ribs, every step forward feeling less like arrival and more like surrender. You are not being chased. You are not running. No arrows fly. No soldiers scream.
And somehow, it feels heavier than it did in the forest.
The guards sense it too, perhaps, because they tighten their formation slightly, guiding you with subtle movements of their hands. One steps just ahead of you, another falls half a pace behind, creating a corridor of steel that shields you from the town’s eyes. They usher you forward with gentle authority, moving you out of the open square and into a narrower, more controlled path that leads toward the castle steps.
The whispers fade behind you. Stone rises around you. Valemere closes in - not suffocating, not yet - but enclosing, orderly, certain. You swallow hard, resisting the urge to glance back toward the forest that no longer stands in sight.
The path begins to incline as you near the heart of Valemere, the town slowly giving way to broader stone steps that climb toward the castle proper. The structure looms above you, pale and immaculate against the sky, its towers rising with measured symmetry rather than brute force. It is imposing, yes, but in a composed way, as though it does not need to shout its strength.
More guards wait at the base of the staircase. They stand in perfect alignment, armour gleaming, plumes fixed neatly atop their helmets, their posture immaculate to the point of stiffness. When you approach, they lower themselves in unison, heads bowed deeply, hands resting over their hearts in a display of respect that feels less instinctive and more ritualistic.
You study them quietly as you ascend.
They are different from the knights of Eirendale. There is no dirt beneath their nails, no scars visible along their hands, no weathered lines carved into their expressions. Their armour fits as though tailored for ceremony as much as combat, polished to a mirror shine, edges clean and untouched by the dulling scrape of repeated battle.
It makes you wonder. Are they less trained, or simply less tested?
A small part of you, the part that still craves stability after days of flight, wants to believe that the absence of roughness means safety. That perhaps Valemere does not require its knights to be hardened in quite the same way because danger does not reach its walls so easily.
The thought should soothe you. It doesn’t quite.
You reach the top of the steps, and the castle doors tower before you, carved from dark oak reinforced with ironwork so intricate it appears almost decorative. Symbols are etched into the metal, curling vines and protective sigils woven into patterns that speak of wealth rather than desperation. The doors do not merely protect; they announce.
As the guards part, the doors begin to open inward with deliberate slowness.
Inside stands an older gentleman dressed in immaculate formal attire, his silver hair swept neatly back, posture straight despite the years that rest lightly upon his shoulders. His expression is measured and dignified, eyes assessing without lingering too long.
He inclines his head deeply. “Your Highness,” he says with refined warmth. “Welcome to Valemere.”
For the briefest moment, a flicker of unease rises in your chest.
The man before you stands with such composure, such carefully cultivated authority, that you almost mistake him for the king himself, the man who has offered you sanctuary, alliance, and marriage. You search his face for youth, for charm, for something that might resemble the portrait whispered about in courts and letters.
He catches the hesitation in your gaze. A faint smile curves at his lips, not mocking, but perceptive.
“I am Lord Arcturus Vale,” he says smoothly, his voice measured and rich with refinement. “Leader of Valemere’s court. Second only to His Majesty.”
The relief you feel is subtle, but real.
“I oversee the governance of the kingdom in his stead when required,” he continues. “It is my honour to receive you.” He studies you carefully, not in suspicion but in appraisal, as though measuring strength rather than beauty.
“You have shown remarkable resilience,” he says, inclining his head once more. “To survive such treachery alone is no small feat. Valemere is… pleased that you endured.”
There is something about the phrasing that lingers. You’re not used to such poised language. You nod politely, offering gratitude without surrendering too much of yourself, and he gestures for you to follow.
The threshold closes quietly behind you.
The interior of the castle is vast and luminous, light reflecting from surfaces so pale they almost glow. The hallway stretches long and uninterrupted, its floors smooth white stone veined faintly with silver. The walls rise tall and bare, broken only by precise streaks of gold tracing architectural lines- never excessive, never gaudy, just enough to remind you of wealth without allowing it to overwhelm.
Statues line the corridor at even intervals, each one pristine, carved in immaculate detail- warriors, scholars, kings of past generations- all frozen in poised perfection. There is not a single speck of dust upon them. Not a chip. Not a crack.
Your footsteps echo faintly against the stone. There are no carpets beneath your boots. No tapestries softening the walls. No stray cushions or flowers offering distraction. The air itself feels polished, stripped of clutter, of excess, of anything that might suggest imperfection.
It is impressive. It is controlled.
And though it is beautiful in its precision, you cannot ignore the absence of something you have come to recognise as necessary.
Warmth.
For a fleeting moment, as your footsteps echo against the pale stone, your mind drifts. It betrays you.
The white walls and gold accents blur at the edges, and in their place comes the memory of warmth, the kind that cannot be polished into marble or commanded into obedience.
Mingi’s hands, large and steady around yours, adjusting your grip on the bow with patient precision. The quiet heat of his breath near your ear when he corrected you. The rough warmth of his skin beneath your palm when you finally saw him- really saw him-for the first time.
And then his eyes. Deep and dark and impossibly sharp, yet warmer than any fire you have ever stood beside. Not soft. Not gentle. But alive. Present. Human in a way that this place, for all its beauty, does not seem to be. The memory tightens something inside you.
“Your Highness?” The voice pulls you back.
Lord Vale glances toward you, polite curiosity in his expression. “Tell me of your journey. It must have been… arduous.”
You draw in a quiet breath, steadying yourself as you smooth the edges of your expression back into composure. “It was,” you say carefully. “The forest is not as forgiving as stories pretend.”
You offer him a shortened version of events- measured, contained, scrubbed clean of anything that might endanger those who helped you. You speak of travel. Of hiding. Of surviving on instinct and whatever assistance could be found along the way.
You mention the outlining village briefly,the groundskeeper who offered shelter and word of Valemere’s offer. You frame it as fortune rather than strategy.
You do not speak of Kayleigh. You do not speak of PJ. You do not speak of Mr. Bramble. And you certainly do not speak of the knight who walked beside you through every shadow. Some truths are not meant for polished corridors.
Lord Vale listens without interruption, his hands clasped neatly behind his back as you walk. His nods are subtle, approving in a detached sort of way. “You were wise to seek us,” he says at last. “Valemere honours loyalty and intelligence in equal measure.” The compliment lands lightly.
You nod again, offering the appropriate gratitude. But somewhere beneath your calm exterior, you feel the quiet shift of something protective- something you did not possess before this journey. You have learned which truths to carry carefully. And which ones to keep for yourself.
Lord Vale’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than is strictly polite, though it is not improper, more assessing than invasive, as though he is cataloguing the evidence of your journey in the set of your shoulders, the dust at the hem of your gown, the faint exhaustion you are trying to disguise.
“You must be starving,” he says at last, tone shifting to something almost fatherly.
The word catches you off guard.
You hadn’t realised how hollow your stomach feels until he said it aloud. For days, you have lived on dried fruits, salted meats, crusted bread shared beside small fires and beneath branches thick with shadow. It had been enough then. More than enough, when eaten in the quiet company of someone who understood the weight of survival.
Now, the thought of something warm- something cooked, plated, deliberate- makes your body ache with sudden awareness. “I suppose I am,” you admit, surprised at yourself.
“Of course you are,” he replies smoothly. “You have endured far more than most.”
He gestures toward a carved doorway along the corridor, its arch trimmed in gold leaf so delicate it looks almost painted. “We will have you refreshed at once. Clean clothes. A proper meal.” His expression softens fractionally. “You are no longer in hiding.”
The words should comfort you. They feel like something else.
He pauses at the door and calls out, voice clear and authoritative without rising in volume. “Attend.”
The response is immediate.
Three maids appear almost at once, stepping into view with heads bowed, movements efficient and practiced. Their gowns are simple but pristine, pale as the walls themselves, their hands folded neatly as they await instruction.
“See to Her Highness,” Lord Vale says. “Ensure she is thoroughly cleaned and dressed appropriately. The King will wish to receive her at her best.” The phrasing prickles faintly at the edges.
You straighten slightly. “That won’t be necessary,” you say politely. “If you would simply direct me to the bath, I can manage the rest myself.”
Lord Vale’s expression does not shift, but something in his posture firms.
“Absolutely not,” he says gently, though there is no room for argument in the words. “You are now royalty of Valemere. We do not allow our guests to tend to themselves.”
Before you can protest further, the maids move closer, their touch light but insistent as they guide you through the doorway and down another corridor, their pace brisk and purposeful. The sound of Lord Vale’s footsteps fades behind you.
And as you are escorted deeper into the polished heart of the castle, you feel the first quiet tightening of something invisible.
You are not sure if you’re more being cared for, than you are being managed. And the difference between the two is beginning to blur.
The bathing chamber is nothing like the simple circular tubs you have known in Eirendale.
It is carved directly into the stone floor in a perfect circle, wide enough that you could almost swim its length, the marble pale and veined with faint gold that catches the candlelight. Shallow steps descend gracefully into the water rather than the awkward climb of a basin, as though even the act of bathing must be performed with elegance. Along the rim, dozens of candles flicker in careful symmetry, their flames steady and deliberate, casting a warm glow that softens the otherwise clinical precision of the room.
The air is thick with fragrance.
Petals float across the surface of the water- white and blush and lavender- flowers you recognise only from court celebrations and rare feasts, their scent expensive and overwhelming in its abundance. Steam curls upward in delicate spirals as the maids hurry about, testing the temperature with careful fingertips, adding more heated water from polished pitchers, adjusting until it meets whatever invisible standard they have been trained to uphold.
You stand there for a moment, uncertain, before their hands begin to move.
They unfasten your dress with practiced ease, their movements efficient and impersonal, never lingering long enough to feel improper but never allowing you the dignity of slowness either. Layers are lifted away from you, dust-streaked fabric folded aside without comment, and you are guided gently toward the water.
You step in carefully, the warmth enveloping you at once, seeping into muscles that have been tight for days. For a fleeting moment, your body softens. The ache in your shoulders eases. The tension in your legs unwinds. The water carries you in a way that feels almost forgiving.
You close your eyes. You almost relax.
Then their hands return.
Cloths glide over your arms and shoulders, soap lathered into your hair, fingers scrubbing at your skin as though removing not only dirt but memory. You stiffen instinctively, unused to being handled so thoroughly, so intimately, by strangers whose eyes never meet yours.
“That won’t be necessary,” you murmur, attempting to shift away slightly.
“His Majesty’s orders,” one maid replies gently, though her hands do not stop.
You try again, a touch firmer this time. “I can wash myself.”
“His Majesty’s orders,” they repeat, almost in unison, the phrase polished smooth from repetition.
You fall silent. It is not cruel, what they are doing. It is not harsh. But it is not yours.
By the time they finish, your skin smells of roses and citrus, your hair brushed until it gleams, every trace of forest and smoke erased. When they help you from the bath, wrapping you in soft linen before dressing you again, the transformation feels complete.
The gown they choose is pale pink, almost blush, the fabric crisp and delicate as though it has never known a wrinkle. It fits you perfectly- tailored, flattering, refined- but as they fasten the final clasp and step back to admire their work, you cannot help the quiet discomfort settling in your chest.
It does not feel like you.
“It suits you beautifully,” one maid says, smoothing the skirt with careful hands. “His Majesty will be most pleased.”
Another nods eagerly. “This colour is what the King prefers.”
You glance at your reflection in the polished mirror across the room. The woman staring back is pristine. Soft. Carefully curated.
And though she is undeniably elegant, you cannot shake the sense that somewhere between the bathwater and the silk, something of you has been gently scrubbed away.
Two of the maids remain at either side of you as they guide you from the bathing chamber, their pace measured and precise, as though even your steps must now conform to Valemere’s rhythm. Your hair has been plaited carefully, woven tight and smooth before being coiled around the crown of your head, secured with a pale pink ribbon that matches the gown they chose for you. Not a single strand has been left loose. Not a curl softening your temples. Your vision feels clearer without your hair falling across your eyes, and yet you find yourself missing that small shield, that subtle curtain you used to hide behind when you did not wish to be studied.
Now there is nothing to obscure you.
The corridors stretch long and pale once more, and you catch glimpses of yourself in polished surfaces as you pass- elegant, contained, curated. A version of you that belongs here, perhaps, even if you do not quite recognise her.
The dining hall doors open before you.
Inside, the space is vast and symmetrical, ceilings arching high overhead with subtle gold filigree tracing their curves. The floors are white marble veined faintly with silver, and the long table that dominates the centre of the room is carved from the same pale stone rather than warm wood. The chairs are sculpted to match, high-backed and severe in their beauty, each one placed at exact intervals along the length of the table. There are no scratches. No softened edges. Everything gleams under the filtered light that pours in from tall windows lining the walls.
It is pristine.
And then you see him.
He stands at the far end of the table, hands clasped neatly behind his back as though he has been waiting for precisely this moment. He is tall, though not imposing in the way of a warrior; his frame is slender, almost delicate, the lines of his body long and narrow beneath his regal white attire. The fabric of his clothing is immaculate, tailored close, the cut sharp and refined.
He is more slender than you.
The observation lands quietly but firmly, and you feel a flicker of self-consciousness stir within you, a contrast you had not anticipated. His shoulders are not broad with armour or muscle, but straight with posture. His movements are controlled, economical, and deliberate.
His face is smaller than you expect, refined and symmetrical, his features softened by youth despite the crown resting lightly against his neatly slicked-back brown hair. Not a strand is out of place. His eyes are large and round, a warm brown that seems open at first glance, framed by lashes that give him an almost gentle appearance.
He is handsome. Undeniably so. But in a way that feels curated rather than lived-in.
When he steps forward to greet you, there is grace in his movement- no hesitation, no roughness, no unpredictability. Everything about him speaks of education, of control, of a life carefully shaped within walls that have never cracked.
And as he draws closer, offering you a soft, measured smile, you realise that this is King Aurelian of Valemere.
The man who intends to make you his queen.
You steady yourself before stepping forward, the polished marble cool beneath your slippers as you lower into a respectful bow.
“Your Majesty,” you begin smoothly, lifting your chin with composure. “I am—” You hesitate only a fraction too long. “— the daughter of Eirendale.”
The title nearly slips from your tongue in full: Princess of Eirendale. It feels strange to catch it, to reshape it, as though the words no longer belong entirely to you.
Aurelian notices. Even though he does, he is gracious enough not to show it.
He inclines into a bow of his own, deeper than expected, the gesture refined rather than exaggerated. “King Aurelian of Valemere,” he replies warmly, his voice smooth and carefully measured. “It is a privilege to finally meet you.”
Before you can fully prepare, he takes your hand gently in his, lifting it with deliberate care. His lips brush lightly against your knuckles- brief, formal, practiced.
The contact startles you. Not unpleasant. Not forceful. Simply unfamiliar.
His touch is cool, his skin softer than any you have grown used to in recent days, and the gesture lingers half a heartbeat longer than tradition strictly demands. When he releases you, his smile is soft and composed, his large eyes studying your reaction with subtle interest.
“Please,” he says, gesturing toward the table.
He moves beside you, and before you reach your chair, he bends slightly to place a pale silk cushion against its back, adjusting it with care as though ensuring your comfort is a matter of state importance. He pulls the marble chair out for you and guides you into your seat with a hand hovering politely near your elbow, never quite gripping but close enough to steady.
The attentiveness is immaculate.
He takes the seat at the head of the table, though he angles himself slightly toward you, closing the physical distance between you without abandoning his position of authority. “I trust the journey did not diminish your spirit,” he says as servants glide silently into the room, their movements so synchronized they almost appear rehearsed.
Dishes are placed before you one by one, steam rising in fragrant swirls.
You stare.
The food is unlike anything you have ever been served. Cuts of meat glazed in shimmering sauces the colour of amber. Vegetables arranged with artistic precision, dusted in herbs you do not recognise. Fruits carved delicately into shapes that feel almost too beautiful to disturb. Small porcelain bowls hold sauces of pale green and gold, their scents sharp and unfamiliar.
It is… otherworldly. Not rustic. Not hearty. Not simple. You are not entirely sure whether that is a good thing.
You hesitate, scanning the plate, uncertain where to begin or even what you are looking at.
Aurelian notices immediately.
A quiet laugh escapes him, low and unmocking. “It can be overwhelming,” he admits gently. “The glazed cut is a honeyed pheasant. The greens are river fennel with citrus oil. The sauce—” he gestures lightly, “— is saffron cream.”
You nod slowly, trying to commit the names to memory, though they feel like foreign language against your thoughts.
“You will find,” he continues, cutting his own portion with precise movements, “that Valemere prides itself on balance. Health and refinement are not separate things here.”
It is evident in the colour in his cheeks, the clarity of his skin, the brightness of his eyes. The kingdom’s prosperity seems to live in him physically. There is no hollowness beneath his gaze. No exhaustion etched into his features.
He speaks as you begin to taste cautiously, explaining the produce grown along Valemere’s rivers, the trade routes secured through careful diplomacy rather than force, the emphasis placed on cultivation rather than conquest.
It is impressive. Thoughtful. Structured.
And as you listen, responding when required, offering polite curiosity and measured praise, you begin to understand just how different this kingdom is from the one you fled. The conversation flows easily enough, light but deliberate.
Yet beneath it, something remains slightly off-balance, like stepping onto a floor so perfectly level that you begin to miss the comfort of uneven ground.
You set your utensils down carefully before speaking, unwilling to allow the rhythm of the meal to carry you past what needs to be said.
“Your Majesty,” you begin, your voice steady though your fingers remain lightly curled against the cool marble of the table, “I must thank you. For receiving me so… graciously. I cannot pretend to know what would have become of me had Valemere not opened its gates.”
It is not an exaggeration. You had options, perhaps, but none as certain as this.
Aurelian’s expression softens in a way that appears entirely sincere. He places his own cutlery down as well, giving you his full attention rather than splitting it between conversation and plate.
“It was no burden,” he replies gently. “When word reached us of what transpired in Eirendale, I was… deeply troubled.”
The slight pause feels intentional rather than performative. “I worked closely with your parents in matters of trade and diplomacy,” he continues. “They were honourable rulers. Fair. Measured. Devoted to their people.”
Your throat tightens subtly at the mention of them.
“They spoke of you often,” he adds, a faint smile touching his lips. “Their youngest daughter. A touch more spirited than tradition might prefer, perhaps, but fiercely intelligent.”
A quiet breath escapes you.
“They loved you deeply,” he says simply.
You look down at your plate briefly, gathering yourself before meeting his gaze again. “I loved them too,” you reply, your voice softer now.
Aurelian inclines his head in acknowledgment. “I did not believe the accusations for a moment,” he continues, the warmth in his tone sharpening slightly into quiet resolve. “Your sister’s claims were… convenient. But they lacked substance.”
There is no hostility in his voice, merely observation. “I have heard the talk about Edrea,” he adds carefully. “Her temperament. Her ambition. It would not surprise me if the truth were… less flattering than she presents.”
You allow yourself a small, humourless smile. “That would be putting it kindly.”
He watches you for a beat longer, as though gauging how much to say, how far to align himself with your perspective without overstepping into open condemnation.
“And as for you,” he says after a moment, his tone lightening deliberately, “the rumours were far more pleasant.”
Your brows lift slightly. “Rumours?”
He nods, amusement dancing faintly in his large, round eyes. “It seems the courts speak of more than politics. I had heard that the youngest princess of Eirendale was not only formidable in wit, but… exceptionally beautiful.”
The compliment lands softly, unexpected in its directness.
He holds your gaze as he continues, his voice lowering just enough to feel personal rather than public. “I see now that those rumours were understated.”
Heat rises unbidden to your cheeks. You lower your eyes for a brief moment, the pale pink of your gown suddenly feeling far more conspicuous against your skin.
“You are kind,” you say quietly, unsure whether the blush comes from the praise itself or from how easily he delivers it- measured, controlled, yet undeniably genuine.
Aurelian smiles again, but this time there is something more intentional in it. “I prefer honest to kind,” he replies.
The meal concludes in a rhythm that feels structured, the final courses appearing and disappearing with seamless efficiency until the table is cleared once more to pristine perfection. Conversation never falters, never deepens too sharply either. It flows in safe currents- trade, seasonal festivals, the health of the surrounding lands- each topic polished smooth before it can cut too close to anything raw.
When the last of the servants withdraw and the hall grows quieter, Aurelian rises from his seat with the same measured grace he has displayed all evening. “Would you join me for a stroll in the gardens?” he asks, his tone warm but composed. “The evening light does them particular justice.”
You glance toward the tall windows where the sun is beginning its slow descent, soft gold spilling across the marble floor. The idea of fresh air- real air- pulls at you instinctively.
“That sounds lovely,” you reply.
He steps around the table and offers his hand to help you rise, a gesture that is attentive without being insistent. Once you are standing, he gestures toward the far doors, which open at once as though anticipating his movement.
The gardens stretch wide beyond the castle, unfolding in immaculate symmetry. Rows upon rows of roses bloom in carefully tended beds, their petals impossibly full and vibrant. White roses cluster in one section like gathered clouds, pure and untouched, while red roses spill richly along another path, their colour deep and velvety, almost indulgent against the pale stone that surrounds them.
Every structure within the garden is white.
The gazebos arch overhead in delicate latticework, the fencing straight and flawless, the panels that support climbing vines aligned with geometric precision. Even the stone pathway beneath your feet is pale, unmarred, its surface smooth as if freshly carved that morning. There are no fallen petals scattered across it. No creeping wild growth daring to disrupt the order.
It is breathtaking. And utterly controlled.
Aurelian pauses beside you and extends his arm, elbow slightly bent in invitation. “May I?” he asks softly.
You hesitate. It is only a fraction of a second, barely visible, but you feel it within yourself, a small tightening, a fleeting comparison to another arm once offered in far rougher circumstances. His is clothed in pristine white, fabric crisp beneath your fingers.
You slide your arm through his.
His posture straightens subtly at the contact, and together you begin to walk along the path, moving between the roses in quiet unison. The scent of them hangs thick in the air, sweet, layered, almost intoxicating.
He keeps his pace slow, attentive to yours, speaking occasionally of how the gardens were designed to reflect balance between strength and beauty, how each section represents a virtue Valemere holds dear.
You nod, listening, absorbing.
The evening light casts everything in soft gold, turning the white structures luminous and the red roses almost luminous against them. It is beautiful in a way that demands admiration.
And as you walk the grounds together, arm in arm, you cannot ignore the contrast forming quietly within you, the polished serenity of this kingdom, and the wild, unpredictable pulse of the forest still echoing somewhere beneath your skin.
You walk in a quiet rhythm for several steps, the soft scrape of your shoes against the pale stone mingling with the faint rustle of roses stirred by the evening breeze. The sky has begun its slow descent into amber and lilac, the light casting a gentle warmth across Aurelian’s white attire and turning the red petals into something almost molten.
After a moment, you speak.
“I’m glad,” you say carefully, glancing up at him, “that you are not what I expected.”
He turns his head slightly, curiosity lighting his expression. “Oh?”
You draw in a measured breath, searching for honesty without offence. “I had imagined… a colder king. One concerned solely with power and politics. I expected something far more transactional.” A faint smile tugs at your lips. “Perhaps a signing of documents, a formal exchange, and then a life where we crossed paths only when the kingdom demanded it.”
There is vulnerability in the admission, but you let it sit between you.
Instead of taking offence, Aurelian’s expression softens. “And you are disappointed?” he asks lightly.
“Relieved,” you correct gently. “I am glad you are king. I feel… more at ease than I thought I would.”
He stops walking. The shift is subtle but deliberate. He turns fully toward you now, releasing your arm only to take both of your hands in his. His fingers are cool, careful, his grip steady without tightening.
“I have no intention of rushing you,” he says, voice lower now, stripped of the performative polish it held inside the hall. “Marriage is not something I intend to force upon you for the sake of expedience.”
You study him, searching for calculation.
“I want you safe,” he continues. “Protected. Given time to breathe and recover from what you have endured. Only when you are ready will I ask you to stand beside me as my bride.” The words are measured, but they do not feel insincere.
“I am willing to wait,” he adds. There is a faint flush rising to his cheeks now, the first sign of something unguarded. He lets out a quiet breath, almost sheepish in a way that softens the severity of his features.
“Though I confess,” he continues, eyes flicking briefly away before returning to yours, “I suspect I may fall for you far quicker than I intended.”
The admission catches you off guard.
He smiles faintly at your surprise. “I am rather astonished no one in Eirendale claimed your heart already. They must have been foolish men.”
A laugh escapes you before you can restrain it- genuine and unfiltered, cutting cleanly through the perfumed air of the garden.
“Foolish, perhaps,” you agree lightly.
He watches you with visible satisfaction at having drawn that sound from you. “Then I am grateful for their poor judgement,” he replies smoothly. “Valemere benefits from it.”
The sun dips fully below the horizon then, the warmth retreating as a soft chill settles into the air. The white stone begins to lose its golden glow, taking on a cooler hue beneath the deepening sky.
Aurelian notices immediately. “You mustn’t catch a cold,” he says, his tone shifting back toward attentive composure.
He releases your hands only to offer his arm once more, guiding you gently back toward the castle doors. The lights within the palace flicker warmly through the tall windows, promising shelter and structure as the night gathers around the roses.
As you step back inside, leaving the open air behind, you carry with you the faint warmth of his kindness.
And yet, somewhere deep within, something remains quietly unsettled.
As you cross the threshold back into the castle, the warmth of candlelight replacing the cool hush of the garden, something catches your attention from the corner of your eye. You pause just enough to turn your head.
Beyond the pale arches and immaculate hedges, tucked low within a cluster of darkening rose bushes, two sharp amber eyes glint back at you.
Mr. Bramble.
He stands half-hidden in the foliage, his russet fur blending almost seamlessly into the shadows, tail curled neatly around his paws as though he has always belonged there. His gaze is not mischievous now. It is searching. Assessing. Ensuring.
Ensuring you made it.
A quiet exhale leaves you, relief blooming softly in your chest. You do not wave- such a gesture would draw attention- but you offer him the smallest smile, a tilt of your head that he alone would recognise as acknowledgment.
He dips his muzzle once in return. Then he disappears back into the dark.
“Is something amiss?” Aurelian asks gently, noticing your brief hesitation.
“Nothing,” you reply smoothly, turning back toward him. “Just… admiring the garden one last time.”
He nods approvingly, evidently satisfied. “Come,” he says, gesturing toward the interior corridor. “You must be exhausted.”
The word feels accurate now that he has spoken it aloud. The weight of the day presses suddenly heavier against your limbs, the long journey, the polished introductions, the careful composure.
He guides you through another series of white corridors, each one as pristine as the last, until you arrive before a tall, carved door set slightly apart from the others. “This will be your private quarters,” he explains. “It overlooks the eastern gardens.”
Two guards stand stationed on either side of the entrance, armour gleaming faintly under the lantern light. They bow deeply as you approach. “I have assigned them specifically to you,” Aurelian continues. “They will monitor this wing throughout the night and ensure no disturbance reaches you.”
Monitor. The word lingers.
“My own chambers are not far,” he adds, offering you a reassuring look. “If you require anything at all.”
He pauses, then lets out a quiet chuckle, a faint flush returning to his cheeks.
“I do not mean that in any… crude or presumptuous manner,” he clarifies quickly. “Only that you are not alone here. Not in this castle.”
You smile at his awkwardness, the gentleness of it almost endearing. “I understand,” you assure him. “Thank you.”
He inclines his head once more, composed again now that the moment has passed. “Rest well,” he says softly. “Tomorrow will bring new beginnings.” With that, he steps back, allowing the maids to open the grand door for you.
“Good night,” he adds before turning away.
“Good night, Your Majesty,” you reply.
And as the door closes behind you with a smooth, quiet finality, you are left standing in a room that promises comfort, safety, and a future carefully arranged.
Whether it promises freedom, you are not yet certain.
The chamber is vast. White, of course.
The floors are polished marble softened only slightly by a pale rug placed precisely beneath the bed. The walls are smooth and uninterrupted, adorned not with heavy tapestries or hunting trophies, but with delicate gold inlays that trace elegant patterns along the edges. A large canopy bed stands at the centre of the room, draped in sheer ivory fabric that falls like mist around its frame. The linens are crisp and untouched, the pillows arranged with deliberate symmetry, as though even sleep here must be orderly.
A vanity table rests against one wall, its mirror spotless, reflecting a version of you that looks composed and carefully curated. A wardrobe carved from pale oak stands nearby, its doors slightly ajar to reveal dresses already prepared in soft colours- pinks, creams, muted golds. There are no deep blues. No bold fabrics. No shadows.
Even the air smells refined- rosewater and clean linen.
It is beautiful. Immaculate. And strangely silent.
You walk slowly across the room, the faint echo of your steps reminding you how little warmth lingers here. Nothing is misplaced. Nothing is worn in. It feels like a room prepared for you rather than a room that belongs to you.
The window draws you next.
You push aside the delicate curtain and step closer, pressing your fingertips lightly against the cool glass. Beyond the castle walls, the eastern gardens stretch outward in pale symmetry, and further still- just visible in the distance- the dark line of the forest cuts against the horizon.
The forest. Your chest tightens. You let the smile you have been wearing all evening finally fade, your lips settling into something more honest, more uncertain. The composure slips from your shoulders. The careful posture softens.
Everything that has happened presses back in.
The escape. The blood. The running. The bowstring beneath your fingers. The warmth of his hands guiding yours. The weight of his gaze when he finally let you see him.
“Mingi,” you whisper softly to the glass.
You imagine him out there now, somewhere beneath those trees, perhaps already at the encampment, perhaps walking alone. You wonder if he has eaten. If he has slept. If he has placed the helm back over his face and shut himself away once more.
You pray he is safe. You pray he is not bleeding in some forgotten clearing. You pray he is not alone in the way you suddenly feel.
Your thoughts drift to the man inside these walls- the king who has offered protection, patience, comfort. Aurelian is kind. Attentive. Thoughtful. He provides everything a future queen could require. Stability. Structure. Safety.
And yet. With Mingi, you felt something entirely different. Not necessarily safety- but aliveness.
The wildness of arguing beneath trees. The defiance in his voice. The heat of frustration that sparked between you and refused to fade. The feeling of standing on uncertain ground and choosing it anyway.
You swallow hard. That life is behind you now. He is not coming back. He belongs to the forest, to war, to resistance. You belong to marble halls and rose gardens and careful diplomacy.
“He’s probably forgotten me already,” you murmur to the darkened glass, though the words sting even as you say them. “He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t want me.” The lie tastes bitter.
You close your eyes briefly and let the air carry one final, fragile whisper into the night.
“Goodbye, Mingi.” The name dissolves into silence.
When you turn back toward the bed, the canopy curtains sway gently as though welcoming you into their ordered embrace. You move toward it slowly, the weight of silk brushing against your legs, and slip beneath the pristine sheets.
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
And as sleep begins to tug at you, the image of dark eyes beneath a lifted helm lingers stubbornly in your mind, refusing to fade with the candlelight.
The forest is darker than it was the night before. Not in shadow alone- but in weight.
Mingi moves through it without hesitation, boots striking against damp earth with heavy, deliberate force. Branches snap beneath his steps, and when thicker limbs obstruct his path, his sword flashes in quick, brutal arcs, cutting through wood as though the trees themselves have offended him.
He does not slow. He does not look back.
The helm rests firmly over his face once more, the steel cold against his skin, sealing away the brief vulnerability he allowed himself at the forest’s edge. Whatever softness touched him there has been pressed down, buried beneath something harder and more familiar.
A branch catches against his shoulder. He slices it cleanly in half. “Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, the word swallowed by the trees.
The frustration has nowhere to go. It sits inside him like a live coal, burning quietly, steadily, without flame. His hands tighten around the hilt of his sword as though he could carve the ache from his chest if he simply swung hard enough.
He navigates by instinct rather than sight, reading the slope of the land, the tilt of moss against bark, the subtle thinning of trees that signals direction. The encampment lies deeper still, beyond the borderlands where ordinary men fear to tread. He knows the route well enough from old training excursions, from maps studied in silence long before this war had a name, from when his destination was just a mere training field.
The night air is sharp. Cold wind threads between the trees, slipping beneath the edges of his armour, brushing against exposed skin where fabric shifts. Frost gathers lightly along the undergrowth. His breath fogs faintly with each exhale.
He does not shiver. The chill cannot compare to the hollow that has settled inside him.
He replays the moment without meaning to- the way she looked at him when the helm came off, the way her fingers trembled against his cheek, the softness in her voice when she said his name. The warmth of that kiss burns brighter in memory than any fire he has stood beside. The lingering heat of her tingled his skin, and he felt a sudden urge to wash it away.
He clenches his jaw. She is safe. That is what matters. Safe within white walls and rose gardens and a king who can give her stability rather than scars.
He pushes forward harder, cutting through another low-hanging branch with unnecessary force. The numbness inside him spreads, dull and relentless, and he welcomes it. It is easier than feeling the absence. It’s safer that way, nothing inside him, just the quiet numbness that felt so familiar. Exactly how he liked it. At least, so he thought.
Above him, the trees begin to thin just slightly, the air shifting with the faint scent of smoke carried on the wind.
The encampment is close. And with each step toward it, Mingi buries the memory of her deeper beneath steel and shadow, telling himself that what he feels no longer matters.
He feels it before he hears it. A shift in the air.
A disturbance too deliberate to be wind or wandering animals. The forest has a rhythm when it is untouched, a pattern of subtle movement and distant sound, and something within it now feels… watchful.
Mingi slows.
The weight of his steps quiets as instinct takes over, his body adjusting seamlessly into alertness. His hand tightens around the hilt of his sword before he even consciously commands it to move. The sensation of being observed prickles along the back of his neck, sharp and undeniable.
He stops entirely. Then spins. The blade is drawn in one fluid motion, steel slicing through the dark as he faces the direction of the unseen presence.
“Show yourself,” he demands, his voice cutting cleanly through the trees. “Now.”
The forest answers not with movement, but with a low, amused sigh. “Goodness,” a familiar voice drawls from somewhere just beyond the brush. “You are far too tense tonight. Not nearly as poised as you were earlier.”
Mingi exhales sharply through his nose, the sound closer to a growl than a breath.
A russet shape steps from behind a cluster of ferns, tail flicking lazily in the dim light. Mr. Bramble.
“Go away,” Mingi mutters, lowering his blade only slightly but not sheathing it. “I’m not in the mood.”
The fox tilts his head with theatrical offense. “That is remarkably rude,” he replies, padding forward with deliberate grace. “Especially considering I have just done you a favour.”
Mingi’s jaw tightens beneath the helm. “What favour?”
Mr. Bramble’s eyes glint knowingly. “I checked in on your princess.” The words land like a strike.
Mingi goes still. The forest itself seems to pause with him. He does not turn fully toward the fox at first, but something in his posture shifts- attention narrowing, frustration momentarily replaced by something sharper.
“What did you say?” he asks, voice lower now, less edged with anger and more edged with something else entirely.
Mr. Bramble’s tail sways behind him, pleased with the reaction. “I ensured she arrived safely,” he continues casually. “White walls. Polished floors. Very pristine. She has not been harmed.”
Mingi finally faces him properly. The sword lowers the rest of the way. “Is she—” he begins, then stops himself, unwilling to reveal too much.
Mr. Bramble watches him with open amusement. “She is safe,” the fox confirms. “Though I would not describe her as… settled.” That, more than anything else, roots Mingi to the spot.
Mr. Bramble circles him slowly, paws silent against the forest floor, as though this were not a conversation about something fragile but a game he fully intends to enjoy.
“The king,” the fox begins lightly, tail flicking with deliberate ease, “is exactly as described. Tall, though not quite your stature. Slender. Almost delicate, really. His frame is narrow, his posture immaculate. Handsome in a very refined way.”
Mingi does not respond.
“He has large, round eyes,” Bramble continues, as though cataloguing features for sport. “Soft brown. Clean skin. Slicked-back hair that has likely never known a strong wind. He dresses in white. Regal white. Quite pristine.”
The blade in Mingi’s hand tightens slightly. “I didn’t ask about him,” he says flatly.
“I know,” Bramble replies smoothly. “I simply enjoy hearing the way your voice shifts when I mention him.”
Mingi exhales sharply, the sound low and controlled.
“She seemed…” Bramble pauses deliberately, as though selecting the word for maximum effect. “Content.” The word lodges somewhere unpleasant in Mingi’s chest.
“He is gentle with her,” the fox continues, strolling a few paces ahead now, forcing Mingi either to follow or to stop entirely. “Held her hands in the garden. Offered his arm. Complimented her beauty with quite a sincere flush to his cheeks.”
Mingi’s jaw flexes beneath the helm.
“He told her,” Bramble adds, “that he believes he will fall for her quickly. That he will wait for marriage until she is ready. That her kingdom’s men were fools not to have claimed her sooner.”
Silence follows. The forest seems to press inward around them.
Inside Mingi, something fractures.
It is not only anger. It is not only jealousy. It is something more complicated- something sharper and quieter. The image forms unbidden: her hand in another’s. Another man standing close enough to touch her face. Another voice murmuring promises of patience and protection.
Fear coils beneath it all. Fear that she might prefer that life. That she might prefer the safety, the structure, the certainty. Fear that she might forget the forest, forget the arguments, forget the warmth shared in shadow.
Insecurity follows swiftly behind it. He is a knight. A weapon. A man of scars and steel. Aurelian is a king.
Mingi sheathes his sword abruptly, the motion harsher than necessary. “She’s safe,” he says shortly. “That’s all that matters.”
Mr. Bramble glances back at him, eyes narrowing with quiet amusement. “Is it?”
Mingi does not answer. He steps forward again, boots striking the ground with renewed force as he resumes his path toward the encampment. The pace is quicker now, less measured, as though he could outrun the images Bramble has planted in his mind.
The fox falls into step beside him effortlessly. “You truly are dreadful at pretending indifference,” Bramble remarks lightly.
“Go home,” Mingi mutters.
“I am heading the same direction you are.”
Mingi does not ask why.He does not want to hear any more about white garments or soft hands or promises of patience. But as he moves deeper into the forest, the storm within him refuses to settle, twisting sharp and unfamiliar in a place he has never allowed anything to grow.
Mr. Bramble walks a few paces ahead of him, tail swaying lazily as though the conversation has only just begun. “You are in love with her,” the fox says at last.
Not as a question. As a verdict.
Mingi’s steps falter for half a heartbeat before he recovers, his boots striking the earth harder than before. “No,” he growls.
Bramble does not slow. “You are.”
“I said no.” The word comes sharper now, edged with something that sounds dangerously close to warning. “Love is for fools.”
The forest absorbs the declaration without judgment.
“For men who sing their affection in warm voices,” Mingi continues, the bitterness in his tone rising despite himself. “For men who offer flowers and promises and soft words. For idiots who don’t know what war feels like.”
Bramble hums thoughtfully. “Then it would seem the king is precisely the kind of man suited for it.”
Mingi does not respond.
“He told her she was beautiful,” the fox continues mildly. “Told her he would wait for her. Told her he might fall for her quickly.”
The words feel like stones dropped into deep water. Mingi keeps walking.
“By your definition,” Bramble adds gently, “that would make him one of those fools.”
Silence answers him. Inside the helm, Mingi’s jaw tightens until it aches.
Love is weakness. Love is distraction. Love is the crack in armour that enemies exploit.
That is what he has always believed. And yet- Her voice saying his name.Her hand against his cheek. The way she looked at him as though he were not steel and violence, but something human. The memory refuses to obey his rules.
She does not need him. The thought settles heavy and undeniable.
She has a kingdom now. A king who can offer stability, wealth, protection. A man who speaks gently and moves carefully and belongs in polished halls rather than blood-soaked clearings.
What can he offer? Scars. Steel. A life spent chasing war. He cannot give her roses. He cannot give her marble floors. He cannot give her peace. He is someone of an empty shell of existence. Someone like him would die without being remembered. A mere insignificance compared to her.
And he is certain- utterly certain- that whatever this feeling clawing at his chest is, it is not something she would ever return. They were too different, she’s much too soft, too kind. Whereas, he would happily live the rest of his life alone for the sake of survival. She would never sing her love for him.
Pathetic. That’s the only way he could describe himself. He was just like those fools, trapped by their own emotions. Only he wasn’t trapped with excuses like alcohol or affiliations, but he was trapped in the memory of her. Of the woman who would never truly look at him like that. She would never sing to him.
Eventually, the trees begin to thin.
Smoke curls faintly into the night sky ahead, and the scent of fire reaches them on the wind. The ground slopes downward into a wide clearing carved into the forest’s heart, lanterns flickering between tents and rough-built structures.
Voices carry softly in the distance. The clang of metal. The murmur of preparation. The encampment.
Mingi slows at its edge, standing at the threshold between shadow and firelight. Behind him lies the road he walked beside her. Ahead lies something else entirely.
“This,” Bramble says quietly, pausing at his side, “is where your path changes.”
Mingi does not look back toward the forest he emerged from. He adjusts the helm slightly, the weight of it settling into place as though reclaiming him fully. His journey with her has ended. What begins now is different. Colder. Purposeful. The emptiness is consuming. The void was persistent, the lack of warmth and affection he’s grown used to since a small child was gnawing its way back into his bones.
He steps forward into the light of the resistance, leaving behind the softness he refuses to name, and with it, the version of himself that once allowed someone to see beneath the steel.
It does not rush or stumble the way it once did in Eirendale. It does not race as it did in the forest, where every heartbeat felt measured against survival. Here, the days unfold with quiet order, each one polished and predictable, gliding seamlessly into the next.
Weeks and weeks pass.
You begin to recognise the rhythm of the kingdom- the morning bells that echo across the pale courtyards, the steady hum of markets thriving beneath careful oversight, the distant laughter of children who do not seem to know hunger the way your people once did. The streets remain clean. The air smells of bread and citrus rather than smoke. Even the weather feels kinder here, as though Valemere exists beneath its own deliberate sky.
Your wardrobe fills quickly.
Silks in shades you had never worn before. Creams and blushes and soft golds. Gowns embroidered with fine thread so delicate it seems a shame to let them brush the floor. Jewels are presented to you not as spectacle, but as expectation, necklaces resting at your collarbone, bracelets cool against your wrist, earrings catching the light with every turn of your head.
You find yourself learning how to carry them. The weight of gold. The weight of expectation.
The maids, once distant and rehearsed, grow warmer in your presence as the days soften around you. When they realise you are not cruel, not sharp-tongued like the rumours they have surely heard of your sister, their formality eases. They begin to whisper gossip while braiding your hair, laughing softly when you roll your eyes at some particularly dull court affair. They confide in you about petty rivalries within the castle walls, about which lord cannot hold his wine, about which noblewoman insists on wearing perfumes far too strong for the season.
You laugh with them. And they begin to look at you not as a guest, but as something closer to belonging.
The dinners remain grand.
Long tables lined with candlelight. Plates arranged like art. Conversations flowing easily among courtiers who seem genuinely pleased with their king. The court in Valemere does not feel tense. It does not feel brittle. There is a confidence in its structure, a prosperity that seems rooted in genuine governance rather than fear.
The towns thrive.
You see it when you ride through the city beside Aurelian, when merchants bow with sincere gratitude rather than obligation, when farmers speak proudly of yields rather than anxiously of shortages. Disease does not cling to the air here. Children’s cheeks are full. The elderly walk without stooping beneath invisible burdens.
It is difficult not to be impressed. And slowly, almost without realising it, you grow closer to the king.
He is consistent in his kindness. Measured in his affection. He does not overwhelm you. He does not push. He speaks of future plans with patience, includes you in discussions of trade and defence, listens when you offer your thoughts rather than dismissing them.
He laughs more easily around you now. He stands closer than he once did.
And as the days pass, the distance between you narrows- not in passion, not yet- but in familiarity.
Valemere begins to feel less like a refuge and more like a possible future.
And you find yourself wondering, quietly, whether comfort can ever truly replace the wildness you once mistook for life.
Spring arrives quietly in Valemere, not in sudden bursts of chaos but in a gradual softening of the air, a gentler warmth that settles over the gardens and coaxes colour from every corner of the earth. The roses have grown fuller, their petals thick and fragrant, and new blossoms push through freshly turned soil in orderly rows. The grass is trimmed evenly, a vibrant green beneath the clear sky, and the white gazebos stand framed by climbing vines that have begun to bloom in pale lavender.
You stand on the lawn with a croquet mallet in hand.
The game had been Aurelian’s suggestion- “Something light,” he had said with an amused smile, “to remind us that rulers are allowed to enjoy their afternoons.” A small wooden ball rests before you, and a series of polished hoops arch across the garden in a precise pattern. The mallets are carved elegantly, their handles wrapped in soft leather, far removed from anything crude or improvised.
Aurelian stands opposite you, sleeves rolled slightly to reveal pale forearms, his posture relaxed in a way you have come to recognise as genuine rather than rehearsed.
“You hesitate,” he remarks lightly, watching you line up your shot. “Surely the princess who survived a forest does not fear a wooden ball.”
You glance up at him, a spark of mischief in your expression. “I am merely calculating my strategy. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in your own garden.”
He laughs, a sound that carries easily through the open air. “Bold words.”
You swing. The mallet strikes cleanly, the ball rolling smoothly through the first hoop with satisfying precision. You straighten, allowing yourself a small, triumphant smile.
“Calculated,” you say.
He raises a brow in impressed amusement before stepping forward to take his turn. His movements are graceful but not aggressive, controlled rather than competitive. When he misses his first attempt by a narrow margin, you cannot help the soft laugh that escapes you.
“Careful,” you tease gently. “The court will hear of this.”
“I trust you would defend my honour,” he replies, adjusting his stance. “Or at least delay the rumours.”
The warmth in the air is comfortable, sunlight brushing your skin without burning, and the scent of blooming flowers drifts between you as you circle the lawn. Servants watch discreetly from a distance, but their presence feels less intrusive now, more like background to a moment that belongs to you both.
As the game progresses, your banter grows easier. He compliments your aim; you challenge his focus. There is lightness here, a rhythm that feels natural rather than forced.
“You improve daily,” he says at one point, stepping closer to adjust your stance slightly, though his touch lingers only briefly at your elbow. “Valemere seems to agree with you.”
“Or perhaps,” you reply, glancing at him from beneath your lashes, “I am simply competitive.”
He smiles, eyes bright in the spring light. “I find that quality rather admirable.”
Laughter drifts across the garden again as you send another ball neatly through its hoop, and for a moment- just a moment- you allow yourself to settle into the ease of it. The warmth. The laughter. The steady presence of a man who offers comfort without force.
The garden blooms around you, alive with colour and gentle sunlight, and as you stand there beneath the open sky of Valemere, it is easy to believe that perhaps peace can be learned.
The game stretches longer than either of you intended.
One hoop becomes two, then three, the wooden balls rolling across the immaculate lawn beneath the steady rhythm of your swings. The light shifts slowly overhead, the golden warmth deepening into something softer as afternoon leans toward evening. Your laughter grows easier with each round, and the small competitiveness between you sharpens into playful challenge rather than restraint.
When your final strike sends the ball cleanly through the last hoop, you straighten with a triumphant breath, lifting the mallet slightly as though claiming a victory far greater than the game itself.
“I believe,” you say lightly, unable to hide the smile spreading across your face, “that the King of Valemere has been defeated.”
Aurelian studies the field theatrically before letting out a resigned chuckle. “It appears so.”
“You were going easy on me,” you accuse gently, narrowing your eyes in mock suspicion.
“Perhaps,” he replies, though the corner of his mouth betrays him. “Or perhaps I underestimated you.”
“You did not deny it,” you press.
He laughs again, warm and unguarded. “Very well. I may have shown a measure of leniency.”
You shake your head, amused, and together you retreat toward a small white wrought-iron table set beneath a flowering arch. Porcelain cups await you, steam curling delicately into the air from freshly poured tea. The china is thin and elegant, patterned faintly with gold along its rim.
You sit opposite one another at first, but as the conversation resumes, he shifts his chair closer, angling himself toward you as though distance has become unnecessary.
The breeze stirs lightly through the garden. A single fallen leaf, loosened prematurely by the changing season, drifts from a nearby tree and settles unnoticed in your hair.
Aurelian pauses mid-sentence, his gaze softening. “May I?” he asks quietly.
You nod without fully understanding.
His fingers lift gently, brushing the leaf from your plait with careful precision. The contact lingers, his hand hovering just slightly longer than needed before his palm rests lightly against your cheek. His touch is warm, steady, reverent.
“You are beautiful,” he says softly. The words are not rushed. Not dramatic. They are offered plainly, sincerely.
Your breath catches.
He holds your gaze a moment longer before continuing, his voice lowering just enough to carry weight without carrying spectacle.
“These weeks have been… more than I anticipated,” he admits. “I expected duty. Alliance. Stability.” A faint, almost uncertain smile touches his lips. “I did not expect to admire you so completely.”
There is hesitation in him now. Something vulnerable. “I have fallen for you,” he says quietly. “More quickly than I intended.”
You feel your pulse quicken, though confusion flickers beneath it. There is something in his eyes, something almost anxious.
Before you can respond, he withdraws his hand from your cheek and stands.
For a heartbeat, you think the moment has passed. Then he steps around the table.
And lowers himself to one knee.
The movement is deliberate, but not theatrical. Controlled, but weighted with intention. From within the pocket of his pristine coat, he draws a small velvet box- deep burgundy, plush and immaculate. He opens it slowly.
Inside rests a ring.
Silver, polished to a mirror sheen, crowned with a jewel so grand it seems to hold its own light. The stone catches the fading sun and fractures it into shards of brilliance, clear and cold and impossibly perfect.
He looks up at you, eyes steady despite the slight tension at their corners.
“Will you,” he begins carefully, “become my queen?”
The garden seems to hold its breath. For a moment, the world narrows to the velvet box in his hands.
The jewel gleams in the soft evening light, flawless and brilliant, a symbol of stability, of power, of everything Valemere represents. The garden around you feels suspended in silence, roses swaying gently as though the earth itself waits for your answer.
Inside you, however, there is no stillness.
Your thoughts scatter.
Mingi’s face rises unbidden in your mind- dark eyes sharp beneath lifted helm, the warmth of his breath against your ear as he corrected your stance, the rough honesty in his voice when he confessed what armour had cost him. You remember the wildness of the forest, the way your heart pounded not from fear alone but from something alive and unrestrained. The arguments. The stubbornness. The fire between you that refused to be polite or measured.
You remember how you felt beside him. Untamed. Unfiltered. Free.
And yet- You look down at the man kneeling before you now.
Aurelian has given you kindness without force. He has offered protection without demand. He has included you in his council, valued your thoughts, promised patience. You have grown closer to him in ways that are steady rather than explosive. There is warmth here too, but it is softer, cultivated, safe.
Safe. Your mind wrestles with itself. Does safety diminish feeling? Does passion outweigh peace?
He shifts slightly, searching your face. “Will you marry me?” he asks again, his voice gentler now, threaded with hope rather than command.
Mingi is not here. He walked back into the forest. He chose war. He chose distance. He is not coming back.
This- this marble kingdom, these blooming gardens, this patient king- this is your reality now.
And it is not terrible. It is not cruel. It is not empty.
Your breath comes heavy in your chest as you steady yourself, forcing the storm inside you into something quieter, something livable. You cannot build a future on a memory of wild eyes and unfinished words. You cannot wait for a man who never asked you to.
With a slow inhale, you lift your gaze to Aurelian’s.
“Yes,” you say softly.
The word feels both fragile and irrevocable.
“I will marry you.”
Relief floods his expression instantly, bright and unguarded. He rises to his feet, slipping the ring gently onto your finger, his hands warm and steady. The jewel catches the last light of the sun, flashing brilliantly as though sealing the promise.
He draws you into a careful embrace, and the court at a distance begins to murmur with celebration.
Above you, the sky deepens into twilight.
And somewhere far beyond the walls of Valemere, beneath darker trees and harsher stars, the forest does not yet know that a choice has been made.
Hii I changed my username from fxckinbreathe to okiedokiespookie. Can I still please be added to your permanent taglist for future updates of all of your fics? 🥺❤️
heyy guys! sorry for the long pause between updates :(
with my life becoming more hectic with my new job and unfortunately being diagnosed with a life-long chronic medical condition, i’m struggling to update two stories at the same time (saltwake and ebth)
that being said, it’s definitely best for me to just focus on one at a time. i know this is probably disappointing for those waiting which is why im asking you to decide which one for me to complete first!
should i write Eyes Beneath the Helm (shorter series) to completion first or Saltwake (longer series)
Hiii, this is my first time writing a message here.
First, I wanted to say that I love your narrative! I came across Tidebound and I've been supporting you since then. I've seen the way your writing just keeps improving each chapter. You really know how to set the scenarios and ambiance. And the description of emotions in complex characters is just insane.
I have read all of your works here and I just love them all, but I'm currently fixated on Saltwake and Eyes beneath the helm😭.
I took a break from reading because of my exams but now that I'm back, I wanted to know if you're going to follow a schedule for updates or just when you have free time? <3
Hiii 🖤 this genuinely means so much to me, especially coming from someone who’s been here since Tidebound
I’m really glad you think my writing has improved, that’s actually so reassuring to hear because Tidebound was my first time properly writing anything. I’ve always had ideas for so many different stories in my notes, but that was the first time I actually committed to telling a full story, and it was honestly terrifying at first. So hearing that you’ve noticed growth means more than you know.
Thank you so much for reading all my works and sticking around- that kind of support is what makes me want to keep going 🥹
As for updates, I don’t currently have a strict schedule unlike i thought i’d have. I recently started a new job, so I’m still figuring out how to balance everything, and I probably won’t be able to update as frequently as I did during the Tidebound era (which im quite sad about)
That said, I’m completely dedicated to these stories. Even if updates are a little slower, I promise I won’t abandon them. I’m hoping for something close to weekly when things settle, but it may depend on my work schedule
Thank you again for your message, it honestly made my day 🖤🫶🏻🫶🏻
