hii! omg ur actually one of my favorite writers and i love the turnfire series! Do you have any idea when the princess series will return? No rush at all!! sending lots of love! 🩷
not sure honestly, because i've been SO on and off with writing inspiration lately... but i'm happy to hear that i'm one of your favorite writers hehehe <333 here is my gift to you in return <3
Only a snow-spun sky awaits as Kinich sucks in a cold, stinging breath.
He isn't assigned to this post often—you keep his hands plenty full most days, and he has a plethora of additional duties as the Captain of the Guard. Needless to say, the nights that he is posted at the watchtower are actually some of his most relaxed.
It's just him, his thoughts, and his blade. At least, it's supposed to be.
The unexpected squeak of a ladder rung draws his attention, and he draws his blade immediately, the weight disappearing from his back.
"State your business," he demands, shoulders set firmly, nerves burning. A familiar head of hair peeks over the edge of the tower, eyes wide and searching.
"Raising a blade to the Princess is treason, you know," you reply teasingly. You're donned in your nightgown, clearly having snuck out of your window or some other unsavory place—the thought gives Kinich a headache.
(The guards that were posted at your door will get an earful later, but you won't hear anything about that.)
"Princess," Kinich rushes to greet you, carefully helping you step over the short wall that borders the crow's nest. "You shouldn't be up here, and especially not this late."
You roll your eyes. "Oh, lighten up," you huff, though your lip trembles with cold. "I just wanted to see it from up here."
It's not often that it snows in these regions, but it's not impossible, especially not in this deep season of winter. Kinich doesn't understand the obsession with the stuff—all it serves to do is make his travel more difficult and his extremities more susceptible to frostbite.
But your eyes are sparkling with awe as you stare up at the sky, so he sighs, pulling off his cloak and settling it over your shoulders. You don't react to the act, still absorbed in the snowfall, but you pull the fur tighter around you.
"Only for a few minutes," he says wearily, though he has a feeling you'll stay as long as you please no matter what he says. "Then, I'm taking you back to your room."
It's an empty threat, and you both know it—Kinich seems to lose any semblance of rigidity when it comes to you. It's made you spoiled, he thinks, though he can't seem to act any other way.
"It's really beautiful," you say aimlessly in reply, clearly ignoring his directions.
The snowflakes are lithe and small, dancing through the air and landing over your eyebrows, tangling themselves in your eyelashes. Kinich watches them melt against your skin, reaching out a thumb to rub over the surface of your cheek.
"You'll get sick, you know," he warns gently. You smile.
"I'll be okay," you assure, your breath warm against his wrist, head tilting into his hold. "I think seeing this was worth it."
