— Knight! Amber x Princess! Reader
• Amber always remained your loyal knight, protecting you, even from her heart. She kept her feelings, even when you walked to the altar in a wedding dress.
Finally. This turned out to be more difficult than Cupid Alysa...
Amber was twelve when she realized her life no longer belonged to her.
It didn't happen when she took her oath. Not on the training field, when a sword hit her ribs for the first time. Not the day her father — an old knight with gray whiskers — said: "You will serve the princess, and that is above any battle."
It happened when you dropped your crown.
You were seven. You were walking down the hallway — somewhere important, probably to an etiquette lesson or to the king and queen — and the crown, too big for your head, slipped down to your forehead, then over your eyes, then fell to the stone floor with a dull clatter.
You stopped. You looked at it. Then at Amber, who stood guard by the doors.
"Help me," you asked. Not ordered. Asked. The way you ask a friend. The way you ask an older sister.
Amber dropped to her knees. It was a breach of protocol — shouldn't a knight kneel before a princess? Yes. But not like this. Not at eye level. Not with that expression on her face — soft, almost tender. She picked up the crown, brushed the dust from your dress, straightened your collar. Her fingers, already beginning to roughen from the sword, were surprisingly gentle.
"Your Highness, let me carry it for you," Amber said. "When you grow up, you'll wear it yourself."
You looked at her seriously. You tilted your head — so your hair fell over your face. And you answered: "I don't want a crown. I want you to stay."
Amber felt something inside her turn over. Something she had no name for. She was too young to understand. Too inexperienced to be afraid. She just nodded, tucked the crown under her arm, and followed you into the garden.
From that day on, Amber was everywhere.
She stood outside your bedroom door when you had nightmares. You cried out in your sleep and she burst inside, breaking every security rule, sat on the edge of your bed and took your hand in hers. "Shh," she said. "It's just a dream. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
You opened your eyes, red from crying, looked at her, and your breathing slowly steadied. "Stay with me," you asked. She stayed. Until morning. Sat in the chair by your bed, sword across her knees, listening to you breathe. It was more important than any sleep.
She carried you on her shoulders through the garden because you couldn't reach the tallest roses. You laughed, bright and joyful, and grabbed her hair with your small fingers. It hurt. She didn't complain. She smiled, because your smile was the only light in her gray, training, endless life.
She endured it when you braided her hair. You weren't good at it — the braids came out crooked, too tight, sometimes you pulled so hard her eyes watered. But she sat still as a doll and waited for you to finish. "Beautiful," she said, though she had no mirror. You beamed with pride.
She trained to be a knight for you. Not for the kingdom. Not for honor. And not for her father. For the smile that appeared on your face when she walked into the room. So that no one would ever dare raise a hand to you. So that you could always sleep peacefully.
She didn't understand back then that this was called love. She thought it was duty. Loyalty. Friendship. She was wrong.
You grew up. And her love grew with you.
When you were ten, you developed a fever and drifted in and out of consciousness for three days. The healers shrugged helplessly. The king and queen never left your bedside. But when they fell asleep in their chairs, Amber was there. She sat on the floor, leaning against your bed, listening to you breathe. "If you die," she whispered into the darkness, "I won't know why I have a sword. I won't know why I need the morning."
You didn't die. You opened your eyes on the fourth day, saw her — disheveled, sleepless, eyes red and said: "Have you been crying?"
"No," Amber lied. "Dust in my eyes."
You smiled your weak smile and whispered: "You're always here."
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Because if she opened her mouth, she would say something that could never be taken back.
When you were thirteen, you fell in love for the first time. Not with her — with some page boy with golden curls and a stupid smile. You told her about him for hours, sitting on a windowsill, swinging your legs, staring out the window. "He's so handsome, Amber. You have no idea."
Amber had an idea. She imagined walking up to that page, grabbing him by the collar, whispering in his ear: "If you hurt her, I will rip out your tongue and feed it to the dogs." She did none of that. She listened. Nodded. Smiled. Because your happiness was more important than her broken heart.
The page turned out to be an idiot — like all pages. He dared to say that your dress was "ugly." You ran to Amber in tears. Amber didn't say a word. She found that page an hour later. He apologized. He had a split lip and a black eye. You never found out who did it.
Amber was always there. When you laughed. When you cried. When you danced at balls with foreign princes, and she stood against the wall, gripping her sword hilt so hard her knuckles went white. When you asked her to brush your hair before bed, because no one did it as gently as she did.
She knew every habit of yours. How you drank your morning tea. How you bit your lip when you were nervous. How you looked at the moon before sleep, as if searching for answers in it. She knew you better than you knew yourself.
You didn't know that at night she lay awake, replaying your conversations in her head. That she stored every smile of yours in her memory like a treasure. That she never allowed herself to think of you for more than a few seconds — because if she did, she would go mad.
You didn't know that she loved you. With all of herself. Every cell. Every heartbeat.
She was a knight. You were a princess. You can't love the sun too close — you'll burn. She was ready to burn.
When the war with the neighboring kingdom began, Amber felt relief.
That sounds monstrous. War is death, blood, mud, the screams of the wounded. But war gave her what peacetime could not. War gave her distance. From you. From your eyes. Fromm your smile. From the pain that ate at her from the inside every time you looked at her as a friend.
She went into battle with joy — not from cruelty, but from despair. Because in battle, she could scream. In battle, she could slash, smash, fall, rise, and not think about you for at least a few minutes.
But you were with her. Always. In every swing of the sword, in every prayer before battle, in every gulp of water from her canteen. "Bring me something beautiful," you asked before every departure. She brought you things. Silk from enemy tents. Stones that sparkled in the sun. Feathers from rare birds. You collected them in a box. You didn't know that some of them were stained with blood. You didn't know that she cried over them at night.
She fought for you. Not for land. Not for resources. Not for the king. For the chance to come home. For the chance to see you smile again. For the chance to stand guard at your door and listen to you breathe.
She survived where others fell. She pulled arrows from her own shoulder and stitched her own wounds because the field medics were busy with those who could still scream. She didn't scream. She thought of you. Of your hands, which once braided her hair. Of your voice, when you called her name.
The war ended in a stalemate.
No one won. Both kingdoms lay in ruins. The death toll was in the thousands. Amber returned home with a wounded body and a heart that still beat — defying every arrow and sword.
You met her at the gates. You ran to her, hiked up your skirts, ignoring protocol, ignoring the advisors, ignoring the king and queen. You threw your arms around her neck and cried. "I thought you wouldn't come back," you whispered. "I thought I'd lost you."
Amber stood still, not breathing. Her arms hung at her sides because she was afraid to touch you. If she touched you, she would never let go. Never.
"I'm here," she said quietly. "I always come back."
And one month after the war ended, the advisors announced their decision.
The princess would marry the prince of the enemy kingdom.
Amber stood in the council chamber when it was announced. She stood against the wall, where a knight is supposed to stand. Her face didn't flinch. Her hands didn't clench into fists. She looked the same as she did in battle: expressionless, cold, ready for the blow.
Inside, everything was screaming.
She looked at you. You sat in your place, next to the king. Your face was paler than usual. You weren't looking at her. You were looking at the table before you. At your hands. At the ring they hadn't put on you yet.
"This is necessary for peace", said the chief advisor.
"It will bring prosperity to both kingdoms," chimed another.
"The princess agrees", the king finished.
You lifted your head. Your eyes found Amber's for a fraction of a second. In that look was everything. Apology, pain, despair. And something else.
Amber felt the ground disappear beneath her feet. She nodded to herself, to something inside her that was howling with pain and continued standing against the wall. As always. As everywhere.
The one who was always there.
The wedding day was sunny.
Amber hated the sun. In her life, she had come to love rain, fog, cold — anything that hid her face. The sun was too honest. It showed every wrinkle, every scar, every tear she hadn't wiped away in time.
She wore her ceremonial armor — gold, engraved, with the kingdom's crest on her chest. She had worn it only twice in her life: when she was knighted, and today. She felt like a fraud. The gold shone, but underneath was the same thing — a broken heart, tired eyes, hands that had held a sword too much and held you too little.
She stood among the guests. Her place was among the nobility, among dukes and barons who looked at her with envy or indifference. She was a knight. Her place was to protect. Not to die alive.
But today she wasn't protecting. Today she was watching.
You walked down the aisle.
Your dress was white, so white that Amber's eyes hurt. The train stretched for several meters, carrying lace, pearls, thousands of tiny sequins that sparkled in the sun.
She had helped you choose that dress.
You asked her to come to the fitting. You stood before the mirror, turning, asking: "What do you think? What about this? Maybe this one is better?" Amber looked at you and died. Slowly. Just melting from the inside.
"It suits you," she said then. She wasn't looking at the dress. She was looking at you. At your shoulders, which trembled slightly. At your eyes, which searched her face for support. At your smile — the same one she had fallen in love with twelve years ago.
"God," you said then. "I'm so nervous. What if I don't like him? What if he doesn't like me? What if..."
"Everyone likes you," Amber interrupted. "You've always been liked. And if he doesn't see that..." She didn't finish. She couldn't finish. Because the next sentence was: "...then he's a fool, and I'll kill him." She couldn't say that out loud.
You didn't notice her pause. You smiled at your reflection and said: "Thank you for being with me. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Amber knew. You would live. You would smile. You would marry the prince and be happy. And she would stand against the wall and watch.
The organ began to play. You walked down the aisle. Your father led you by the arm — proud, happy, unaware that his daughter was marrying not for love but for duty. Or perhaps aware. What did it matter.
Amber watched your feet step across the carpet. She knew your knees were trembling a little — you always trembled when you were nervous. She knew you were biting your lip — you had done that since childhood. She knew you were searching for her eyes in the crowd.
For one moment, as you passed her row, you turned your head. Your eyes met hers. And in that look was everything you couldn't say.
Amber nodded. Barely noticeably. So that no one else would notice. She didn't smile. She couldn't. She just nodded, and you understood. "It's okay. I'm fine."
You reached the altar. The prince was waiting for you — young, handsome, with dark hair and calm eyes. He wasn't evil. Amber had checked. She had watched him for a month, gathered information, interrogated servants. He wasn't a bad person. Maybe even a good one.
If he had been a monster, Amber could have hated him. Could have dreamed of his death. Could have devised a way to save you. But he was just a person. Neither good nor bad. Just a person standing at the altar now, looking at you with admiration.
"Do you consent?" asked the priest.
You looked into the hall. At your hands. At the prince. And again — at Amber. Only for a second but that second stretched into eternity.
Amber wasn't breathing. She stood, gripping her sword belt so hard her nails dug into the leather. Her heart had stopped beating — or was beating too fast, she couldn't tell. The whole world narrowed to your lips, your eyes, to the one word you were about to say.
After the ceremony came the feast.
The hall was decorated with flowers — white roses that smelled so strongly Amber's head spun. The tables groaned with food, wine flowed like water, musicians played cheerful melodies. Guests laughed, danced, toasted the newlyweds, peace, the future.
Amber stood bby a pillar. She didn't sit at the table — couldn't. She didn't touch the food — couldn't taste it. She didn't drink the wine — afraid that if she did, she wouldn't be able to hold back what was clawing to get out.
You were dancing with the prince. Your dress spun, the train slid across the floor, you smiled — that smile she hated. The smile of someone who had accepted her fate and stopped fighting it.
The prince held your waist. His hands were where Amber's hands should have been. His lips whispered something in your ear — something that made you nod and smile even wider.
Amber looked away. She couldn't watch. But she couldn't leave either. She was a knight. Her place was here — protecting you. Even from her own broken heart.
An hour later, you found her.
You left the hall — quietly, unnoticed, leaving the guests and the prince behind. You walked down the corridor, your dress rustling on the stone floor, and somewhere inside you, something led you to her, as it always did.
She was standing by a window, her back to you. Her shoulders were too straight — unnaturally straight. She was squeezing her gloves as if she wanted to tear them apart. She didn't turn when you approached because she knew your footsteps with her eyes closed.
She didn't answer.Her voice was stuck somewhere in her throat, trapped between an oath and love.
"Amber, look at me," you asked.
She looked at you and her heart sank. You were so beautiful it took her breath away. Up close, you were a painting Amber had always wanted to create. You looked just how she had always wanted you to look. But at your shared wedding, not at the wedding of you and the prince.
"Happy wedding day," she said. Her voice didn't shake. She had learned this over years of war, dying inside but not showing it. "You look beautiful, Your Highness."
You winced at the title. You had never asked her to call you that. Always said: "Amber, I'm not a stranger to you." Today you didn't argue. Because today you had become a stranger. Forever.
"I wanted to..." You trailed off. You couldn't find the words. What can you say to someone who gave you their whole life, and you married an enemy? What can you say to someone who carried feathers for you from the battlefield, who sat by your bed during your fever, who braided your hair when you were little? What can you say? "I'm sorry"? "I regret"? "I never wanted this"?
"I'm happy for you," Amber said. It was the biggest lie of her life. "Peace is most important. You did the right thing."
You stepped forward. You did what you had done a thousand times before — took her hand, brought it to your cheek. Her fingers were rough, scarred. You remembered them soft. When you were little, she touched you so carefully, as if you might fall apart. Now her hands were calloused from the sword. You kissed every scar. Every single one.
"Don't," Amber whispered. But she didn't pull her hand away.
"You were always with me," you said. "Since childhood. You braided my hair when no one else wanted to bother with me. You listened to my silly stories about princes I dreamed about. You fought for me. You fell. You rose. You were always there."
Amber looked at your hands. She remembered every second. When you were seven and dropped your crown. When you were ten and had a fever, and she sat by your bed for three nights straight, not sleeping. When you were fifteen and cried over a page with golden curls, and she found that page and made him apologize.
She remembered everything. Every breath of yours. Every smile. Every tear. She stored them in her memory like sacred relics.
"I'm still here," she said. Her voice wavered. For the first time that evening. For the first time in many years.
You shook your head. "No," you said. "Now you'll stand on the sidelines. Like everyone else. And I will live in a foreign castle, bear his children, smile at his guests. And every day I will remember you."
"Don't," Amber asked. Her voice cracked — like ice underfoot in spring.
"I will always remember how you braided my hair," you continued, not listening. "How you brought me feathers from the war. How you looked at me as if I were the only light in this world. I never thanked you. I never told you..."
Amber knew what you wanted to say. And you knew she knew. The words "I love you" hung between you like a sword on a thread. But they were not spoken. They never would be. Because it was too late now.
"I love you," Amber said. Not "loved." "Love." Present tense. Because her feelings hadn't died. They would never die. Even when she grew old. Even when her sword rusted. Even when you forgot her name. "I've loved you since the day you dropped your crown. I was twelve, and I didn't understand what it was. Now I understand. I love you in every battle, every night, every breath. I love you now. And I will love you when you grow old, and I stay in this armor that you put on me for the first time."
A tear fell on the stone floor. You didn't know whose. Maybe hers. Maybe yours.
"Go," she said. "Your husband is waiting. Your kingdom is waiting. Your happiness is waiting." Her voice broke on the last word. "And I... I will always be here. By the door. Like when we were children. If you have a nightmare — call me. I will come. Even if it's another castle. Even if there's a war between us. I will come."
You stood for another minute. Then you turned and left. Your dress rustled again on the stone. Amber watched you until you disappeared around the corner. She heard you sob once. Very quietly. She didn't follow you.
Then she sank to her knees.
Not because she was bowing to anyone. To God. To fate. To the emptiness. She pulled from under her armor an old ribbon — the same one you had used to braid her hair when you were little. The ribbon had faded. The edges were frayed. Amber had kept it for twelve years. She had taken it to every battle. In her left breast pocket, close to her heart.
She pressed the ribbon to her lips.
"My princess," she whispered. "My goddess. My light. My meaning. My war. My victory. My defeat. I will keep you. Even if you never come back to me. Even if you bear his children. Even if you forget my name. I will keep you here."
She touched her chest with her hand. Under the armor, under her shirt, under her skin, a heart beat — stupid, faithful, unkillable.
"For a thousand years I will stand at your door," she said. "For a thousand lives I will search for you. In each one I will be your knight. In each one I will watch you marry another. In each one I will shatter against your wedding like a cliff. And in each one I will come when you call."
In the hall, music played. Guests laughed. You danced with the prince.
And Amber Glenn, the greatest knight in the kingdom, sat on the cold floor of an empty corridor, pressing an old ribbon to her lips, and cried. For the first time in many years. For the first time since the day she was told she would guard a little princess whose crown kept falling over her eyes.
She wasn't crying because you got married. She was crying because for all twelve years, she had known this day would come. Known and done nothing. Never said anything. Never confessed. Never tried to steal you the way she stole feathers for you from the battlefield. She just loved. Silently. Faithfully. Hopelessly.
But many years later you never called for her.
Not after one year. Not after five. Not after ten.
Amber wasn't waiting. She just existed. She guarded the kingdom — the one you had saved with your wedding. She trained new knights, taught them to hold a sword, endure pain, never give up. She never told them about you.
But at night, when the castle grew quiet, she took out the old ribbon. Pressed it to her face. Closed her eyes and imagined you were still there.
That you were still the little girl with the crooked crown. That you still called her — "Amber, help." That you still laughed when she tossed you in the air.
She knew it wasn't true. She knew you had children by now. That your husband had become a good king. That you rarely thought of her — except perhaps in those moments when your daughter asked you to brush her hair, and you suddenly remembered someone's rough, gentle fingers.
Amber wasn't angry. She never knew how to be angry at you.
When word came of your death — quietly, in your sleep, surrounded by grandchildren — Amber didn't cry. She sat in her room, clutching the old ribbon, and stared out the window. Outside, the sun was setting.
"You were the light," she said to the emptiness. "You were always the light. And now that light has gone out. But I'm still burning. Because you lit me. And I will burn until I crumble to dust."
She lived another ten years. She never loved anyone else. Never danced at weddings. Never took off her armor at night — as if she were waiting for you to call.
But she was still at your door.
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