wildest dreams — peter pevensie x oc oneshot
Lady Seraphine serves as the sharp, pragmatic shadow to High King Peter’s golden diplomacy, prioritizing Narnian logistics over royal sentiment. While they balance each other perfectly in council, Seraphine views her disciplined distance as a necessity; to her, vulnerability is a weakness that would compromise her hard-won authority. Despite Peter’s persistent efforts to draw her out—from invitations to the cliffs to soft glances across the war table—she remains armored in her duties, fearing that any slip in composure would turn a respected strategist into a scandalous court footnote.
The friction between them reaches a breaking point during a stormy confrontation and a tense waltz at a royal feast, where the weight of the crown begins to pale in comparison to their unspoken yearning. With Queen Susan and the rest of the court watching their every move, Seraphine is forced to confront the terrifying reality that her heart may be as much a liability as her enemies. As Peter offers a love that seeks to protect rather than possess, she must decide if she is brave enough to trade her solitary strength for a shared future. Can she finally believe that she is more than just a tool for the throne, or will her fear of vulnerability keep them forever a breath apart?
The council chamber at Cair Paravel smelled faintly of beeswax, parchment, and the weight of too many egos packed into a single stone room. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows in brilliant gold streaks, catching on the gilded map of Narnia laid across the center of the table. Every lord and lady present sat straighter than usual—some out of deference, others out of the awareness that their words might reach the High King’s ear today.
Lady Seraphine stood at Peter’s right, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
“My lords,” she said, voice clipped and clear, “you are suggesting that we dispatch five hundred soldiers to the northern coast, but I would remind you: there is no evidence of hostile activity there, only rumors sparked by a fisherman who couldn’t identify the color of his own sails.”
Several nobles flushed. One of them—a portly man whose voice always seemed to rise with his bluster—opened his mouth to argue. Peter glanced sideways at Seraphine and smiled. She didn’t return it.
“Lady Seraphine,” the man huffed, “I believe the matter is one of precaution.”
Seraphine raised an eyebrow. “Then let us not waste Narnia’s military resources chasing shadows, Lord Caldrin. Precaution does not mean paranoia.”
Peter bit back a laugh. “She has a point,” he said lightly, fingers drumming against the polished table. “And if she’s wrong, I’ll eat my crown.”
The chamber rippled with reluctant chuckles. Lord Caldrin grumbled something unintelligible and lowered himself back into his seat.
The meeting dragged on, meandering through grain distribution and trade complaints. Seraphine remained motionless beside Peter’s throne, her posture rigid, her lips thinned in irritation each time someone proposed a “solution” that ignored facts or reason. She didn’t speak unless necessary—but when she did, the room fell quiet.
Peter, by contrast, was all warmth and diplomacy, his voice measured, his laughter easy. Where she cut like a blade, he diffused like sunlight. They balanced each other, whether they meant to or not.
The meeting adjourned near midday.
“Leave the reports on my desk,” Peter said as the lords filed out. “And someone remind Lord Caldrin not to send troops without direct orders again.”
Seraphine didn’t wait to be dismissed. She turned on her heel and headed for the inner corridor, her boots echoing against the marble floor. Peter caught up with her in three strides.
“You know,” he said, his tone almost teasing, “you might try being a little less terrifying in council. Caldrin looked ready to choke on his own tongue.”
Seraphine didn’t slow. “If he had, it would have spared us another five minutes of him breathing out of his mouth.”
Peter grinned. “You do have a way with words.”
She stopped suddenly, turning to face him in the sunlit hallway. “Was there something else you needed, Your Majesty?”
He winced theatrically. “Ouch. Back to titles already?”
“Some of us don’t have the luxury of lounging about between meetings.”
Peter’s grin softened, less play and more something else—something warm. “Actually, I was wondering if you were free this afternoon.”
Seraphine frowned. “Why?”
“I thought we could take a ride along the southern cliffs. The hawthorn’s in bloom. You said last week you wanted to see it.”
“I said it in passing, not as a request.”
“Well,” Peter said, undeterred, “I’m making it one.”
She crossed her arms, dark eyes narrowing. “You have a dozen engagements between now and supper.”
“I canceled two.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“And yet, I did.”
She shook her head. “You can’t rearrange royal duties for a whim.”
“It’s not a whim.” He hesitated, just a breath. “I thought you might enjoy something that wasn’t council meetings or procurement orders for once.”
“I have work to finish.”
Peter exhaled slowly. “Seraphine—”
“Don’t,” she cut in, voice suddenly too sharp. “Don’t make this a thing.”
He blinked, startled. “I wasn’t—”
“Yes, you were. You were trying to turn a ride into something it’s not.”
A beat of silence passed between them, long and taut. Sunlight spilled across the floor, warm and golden. Outside, the sea could be heard faintly, waves crashing in the distance.
Peter’s voice was low when he spoke again. “You know everyone thinks we’re already—”
“I know,” she snapped, too quickly. “Let them think what they want.”
“Is it really so awful?” he asked, quieter. “Spending time with me?”
She looked away. “It’s not about you.”
Peter studied her carefully. She looked tired beneath the hard lines of discipline. Her hair was pinned with ruthless efficiency. Her robes bore the seal of Narnia, embroidered in silver thread. Always formal. Always armored.
“I’m not trying to make things harder,” he said.
“You’re not making them easier either,” she replied.
Peter hesitated. Then, gently: “Do you want me to stop?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. The answer hovered in her silence.
Seraphine finally looked back at him, and her eyes betrayed her more than words ever could. A flicker of softness. Of conflict. Of something deeply buried and too dangerous to name.
She stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty.”
And then she turned and walked away, her steps swift and composed, leaving Peter alone in the hall with nothing but the echo of his name unspoken on her lips.
☼
The gardens of Cair Paravel were in bloom, alive with the scent of lavender, orange blossom, and roses so vivid they seemed to hum with color. Courtiers wandered the gravel paths in pairs or small clusters, murmuring over trade news or gossiping about who had worn what to the last feast. The sea breeze rolled inland, stirring the silk banners that hung from balconies above. And at the far edge of the royal garden, near the row of trained pear trees and the marble bench carved with Aslan’s likeness, sat Lady Seraphine—alone.
She did not sit idly.
A leather folio was balanced across her lap, half-filled with budget estimates, supply ledgers, and a map of Telmarine port activity. Her brow was furrowed, a smudge of ink on her right hand. Anyone watching would have assumed she was completely absorbed in her task.
But her quill had paused mid-line five minutes ago, and her gaze had drifted not to the charts but to the far end of the garden—where Peter stood in the sun with a laughing courtier, tall and golden and effortlessly warm.
He was smiling. Not that unusual. Peter smiled often, almost reflexively, but this one had a softness to it—directed at the woman beside him. A lady from Archenland, Seraphine thought. The one who had arrived with honeyed compliments and eyes that lingered.
Seraphine’s jaw tensed. She forced her eyes back to the page.
"You're scowling again."
The voice, bright and amused, came from behind her. Lady Susan, Queen of Narnia, slid onto the bench without asking. She wore pale green today, the color of new leaves, and her dark hair was plaited back with pearl pins.
"I'm not scowling," Seraphine said, annoyed.
"You are. Right between your brows. That little crease shows up when you're either furious or thinking about Peter."
Seraphine gave her a look.
Susan just smiled, unbothered. “And since you’re not currently tearing apart Lord Caldrin’s latest draft decree, I can only assume it’s the latter.”
“You assume too much.”
“I assume correctly,” Susan said sweetly. She leaned back against the bench, tipping her face toward the sun. “It’s not a crime to look at him, you know.”
Seraphine looked away. “I wasn’t—”
“You were,” Susan interrupted again, gentler this time. “You always do. You just convince yourself it doesn’t count because no one catches you. Except me. I always catch you.”
There was a silence, filled by the sound of bees and the distant cry of gulls.
Seraphine closed her folio with a soft snap. “He’s the High King.”
“Mmhmm.”
“I’m his adviser.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“He deserves someone who can—who can stand beside him. Not behind him with a ledger and a sword in her sleeve.”
Susan turned her head slowly to look at her. “Is that really what you think you are?”
“I know what I am.”
“No,” Susan said, thoughtful now. “You know what you’re afraid you are.”
Seraphine blinked, throat tightening. “Don’t do this.”
Susan reached over, her fingers brushing Seraphine’s ink-stained knuckles. “I’m not trying to meddle. But everyone sees it, Sera. You and Peter—you orbit each other. You bicker like enemies and stand like allies and look at each other like—like you’ve already promised everything without ever saying it aloud.”
Seraphine didn’t reply.
Susan sighed and leaned back again, folding her hands in her lap. “I know what it means to have people expect things of you. I know how heavy that feels. But you aren’t some passing interest to him. You’re… necessary. And he’s not exactly subtle.”
“He thinks he isn’t the crown when he’s with me,” Seraphine murmured. “He thinks I see the boy beneath the king.”
Susan glanced sideways. “Don’t you?”
“That’s the problem,” Seraphine whispered.
The words hung there. Fragile. True.
“I was born into a minor house,” she said finally. “I was the clever one. The one sent to court, trained by generals and scribes. I clawed my way into the chamber where decisions are made. I worked for this.”
“I know.”
“I’ve held my ground in war councils against men twice my age. I’ve rewritten laws that would have let merchants starve our farmers. I’ve stood beside him while others tried to tear us apart. And it still feels like if I let myself want something—for once—everything else I’ve earned will vanish.”
Susan’s voice was quiet. “Because wanting makes you vulnerable.”
“Yes.”
“Because it feels selfish.”
“Yes.”
Susan exhaled. “Do you think Peter—High King or not—would ever see you as selfish for wanting something good? For wanting him?”
Seraphine looked away.
Another silence. But not a cold one.
Finally, Susan reached over again and plucked a petal from the rose bush beside the bench, letting it fall into Seraphine’s lap.
“You know,” she said, soft and almost teasing, “when Lucy asked if Peter and Seraphine were married yet, I didn’t correct her.”
Seraphine’s head whipped around. “She what?”
“Oh, she was entirely serious. Said she assumed you two already shared chambers because you argue like an old couple and whisper during briefings.”
“We do not—”
“You do. It’s endearing.”
Seraphine put her head in her hands with a groan.
Susan laughed and stood, brushing off her gown. “I’ll leave you to your ledgers and your slow, painful emotional awakening. Do try to come to the feast tonight. You’ve been skipping far too many.”
“I’m busy.”
Susan paused, one hand on the archway’s stone column. “You’re hiding.”
Then she smiled—kind and wise and impossibly fond—and vanished into the hallway, leaving Seraphine with her silence, her heartbeat, and a garden full of flowers she’d never noticed until today.
☼
The storm rolled in without warning.
By the time Seraphine stepped out of the council chamber, the skies had gone slate-gray, the color of forged steel and gathering bruises. Thunder pulsed low in the distance—like a warning, like a drumbeat before war—and the rain had already begun to fall. Not gentle, not patient, but sharp and hard and insistent, soaking her hair and shoulders before she could even cross the archway toward her study.
She didn’t bother to run. Let the sky do its worst. She welcomed the distraction.
Behind her, boots scraped against wet stone.
“Seraphine.”
She flinched at the sound of her name in that voice.
Peter. Of course. She should have known he wouldn’t leave things alone.
“Seraphine, please stop.”
She kept walking. Faster.
“You left in the middle of the session.”
“Because someone had to,” she snapped, without turning.
He caught up anyway—he always did—and stepped in front of her, blocking her path. Rain sluiced from the arches and soaked his tunic, but he didn’t seem to feel it.
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
“I didn’t need to. You were about to approve trade concessions to a coastal tribe that’s been bleeding our border dry for five years.”
“They sent a petition, Sera. Their leaders want peace.”
“They want our grain. They want your signature. And they’ve made fools of us once already.”
He stared at her. Hurt flickered across his face, swift and unguarded.
“They’re people. Starving. Desperate.”
“And you think desperation is a reason to forget diplomacy?” Her voice was rising now. “You can’t keep making decisions with your heart and hoping the numbers will magically add up later.”
“And you can’t keep pretending you don’t have a heart at all!”
That landed like a slap.
She inhaled sharply, every muscle locking. “You think I don’t care?”
“I think you won’t let yourself care.” His voice dropped, cracked at the edges. “Not about them. Not about me.”
A gust of wind swept rain into the colonnade, and both of them stood soaked, breathing hard. The storm howled like it was answering for them.
Seraphine crossed her arms, but her voice trembled when she spoke. “This isn’t about you.”
“It’s always about you and me,” Peter said quietly.
Silence. Only the rain.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied.
“Yes, you do.” He stepped closer. Not enough to touch her, but enough that she could feel the heat of him despite the cold. “Everyone else sees it. Lucy, Edmund—even Susan, and she pretends not to believe in romance anymore. They all know.”
She looked away.
“They’re waiting, Seraphine. For us to stop pretending. For you to stop running.”
“I’m not running.”
“No?” He gave a humorless laugh. “You walked out of a meeting. You disappear when I come into a room. You bury yourself in reports so you don’t have to look at me too long.”
“That’s called doing my job.”
“No, it’s called hiding.” He said it gently. Not accusing, but with the ache of someone who’s carried disappointment like a second skin.
She bit down on the words she wanted to scream. Instead, she whispered, “You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand. Let me understand.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
She looked up at him then, and the pain in her eyes could have cracked stone.
“Because if I let myself want you, Peter... if I let myself believe there’s something more here… then I become vulnerable. I stop being the person this kingdom depends on. I stop being your adviser. And I become just—just another woman who fell in love with a king.”
His jaw clenched. “Is that so terrible?”
“Yes!” she cried. “Because I can’t afford to love you!”
The words rang out and fell like swords between them.
Peter was very still.
Seraphine’s breath came shallow. “Because once I do, I’ll want things. I’ll want to be the one beside you at court. I’ll want to reach for your hand when no one’s looking. I’ll want to know what it feels like to kiss you without fearing who sees. And if I want all of that, and I can’t have it… then I’ve failed before I even begin.”
“You think I wouldn’t give you those things?”
“You think the court would let you?” she said, voice breaking. “A king who marries his adviser? A woman born without a name worth remembering? I’d be a scandal. A footnote. A weapon your enemies use against you every time they want to call your judgment into question.”
Peter’s expression shattered then—not in anger, but in sorrow.
“I don’t care about court gossip.”
“But I do!” Her eyes flashed. “Because it wouldn’t just hurt me. It would hurt you.”
The wind whipped harder now, and the rain soaked through every layer of her resolve. She didn’t even try to dry her cheeks anymore. What difference did it make if it was rain or tears?
Peter’s voice was hoarse when he spoke. “You think all I want is a love that’s convenient?”
“I think,” she said slowly, painfully, “you deserve someone who isn’t afraid of being yours.”
“And you think that isn’t you.”
She didn’t answer.
Peter stepped forward, chest rising and falling like he was holding back something deeper than fury.
“I would never ask you to stop being who you are,” he said, each word a stone. “But I would’ve thought—after all this time—you’d let me be yours. In some small, secret way, if not in the light.”
“You’re a king,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t have to settle for secrecy.”
“And you’re the only person who’s ever seen me as more than one.”
They stared at each other. Two people who had spent too long pretending duty could muffle desire.
A bolt of lightning cracked over the sea. It cast their shadows long and trembling against the stone.
Finally, Seraphine spoke.
“I wanted to say yes,” she whispered. “Every time you looked at me like that. Every time your fingers brushed mine and I felt the air disappear. I wanted to say yes.”
Peter didn’t breathe.
“But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because I don’t get to be the girl who says yes to the king. I’m the one who tells him what battles he can afford to lose.”
Peter reached for her hand, slow and aching. His fingers curled around hers, trembling. She didn’t pull away.
“I would’ve lost a thousand battles if it meant I could keep you.”
She looked down at their joined hands. Her lips trembled. “But you’re not supposed to lose. You’re the High King.”
“And you’re the reason I win.”
That broke her.
A sob slipped out, unbidden and sharp. She turned her face away, ashamed of it, ashamed of how much she wanted to lean into him, to rest her head on his chest and let the rest of the world burn.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
Not yet.
Peter’s hand dropped from hers.
“I’ll stop asking,” he said finally. His voice was a whisper now. “If it hurts you this much, I’ll stop.”
That, more than anything, made her knees buckle.
“Peter—”
“No.” He shook his head. “No, it’s all right. You’ve made yourself clear. I just—I needed you to know. I needed you to see that this wasn’t just a passing infatuation or a courtly flirtation.”
“I know that,” she said, aching. “That’s why it hurts.”
He took a slow step back, and it felt like losing the sun.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Council reconvenes at first light.”
Then he turned and walked away.
She stood in the rain long after he disappeared, staring at the stones where he’d stood, hand pressed to her chest like she was holding herself together.
She didn’t know if she’d made the right choice.
But she knew she’d broken something that day.
And the sky cried with her.
☼
The Great Hall shimmered with candlelight.
A thousand tiny flames danced from chandeliers and candelabras, their flickers caught in goblets of gold, polished silver platters, and the ripples of silk that adorned every noble in the room. The scent of roasted pheasant, sugared apples, and Calormene spice filled the air. Somewhere, a lute began to sing.
Seraphine had never felt more out of place.
She stood at Peter’s right, as she always did—adviser to the High King, a shadow by his side. But tonight, her dress was the deep color of garnets and grief, with a neckline too low for comfort and a bodice so tightly laced she could barely breathe.
She'd told the royal seamstress she didn’t need something “feminine.”
The seamstress had smiled and ignored her.
Peter noticed the dress the second she entered.
His breath hitched—just a little—and his gaze had lingered half a second too long before he schooled his expression into one of polite approval. But the way his hand trembled as he offered her a goblet of wine… it didn’t go unnoticed.
They hadn’t spoken since the storm. Since the courtyard. Since the crack in her voice when she’d whispered, “Then I become vulnerable.”
Since she’d fled.
Now, here they were, seated side by side beneath banners of red and gold, a pair of monarchs-in-all-but-name, smiling at dignitaries and sipping wine that tasted like obligation.
“Lord Varek sends his compliments,” Peter murmured, nodding toward the table across the hall.
Seraphine’s lips barely moved. “He’s sent more than that. Did you see the way his daughter keeps leaning toward you?”
“She’s very graceful,” Peter replied, dryly. “It must be exhausting.”
That almost made her smile.
Almost.
The music swelled, and dancers flooded the floor—ladies in jewel-toned gowns, knights in crisp formalwear, foreign ambassadors with their wives, all spinning in a carefully choreographed tide of diplomacy and art.
Peter didn’t move. But he kept glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
And when he finally said, “Will you dance with me?” his voice was quiet. Almost tender.
She froze.
“I shouldn’t,” she said.
“I didn’t ask if you should.” He smiled, but there was sadness behind it. “I asked if you would.”
Her mouth opened—and closed.
“Peter…” she began.
But he was already standing. Hand outstretched.
The music waited for no one. But it slowed, somehow, when she slipped her hand into his.
They moved to the center of the floor.
Around them, couples twirled and laughed. But the moment their hands met, the world seemed to quiet—just a little. Like the Hall itself was holding its breath.
Peter’s hand rested lightly at her waist; her other hand hovered over his shoulder, stiff and uncertain.
“Relax,” he whispered. “You’re not under oath.”
“I’m not used to this,” she murmured back. “All this... pretend.”
Peter’s gaze dropped to hers, serious now. “It’s not pretend. Not for me.”
Her throat tightened.
They moved in time to the waltz—graceful, practiced. But their steps weren’t effortless tonight. They were measured. Controlled. As if both of them were too aware of the heat between them. The ache of almost.
“I keep thinking,” Peter said, barely above a breath, “of what you said. About being vulnerable.”
Seraphine flinched, eyes fixed over his shoulder.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel cornered,” he continued. “But I meant every word. I would never use your feelings against you.”
“I know.” Her voice was thin. “That’s the problem.”
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
She pulled back slightly—not enough to break the hold, just enough to look him in the eyes. “You don’t make it easy to resist you.”
A pause. His hand tightened at her waist.
“Then don’t,” he said.
“Peter,” she whispered, and her voice cracked again.
His eyes searched her face. “I love you, Seraphine.”
There it was.
No pomp. No courtly declarations. Just the truth, offered quietly, like a gift.
She didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
Because if she answered, she’d have to admit that she loved him too. That she'd loved him from the beginning—through war rooms and late-night maps, through his laughter in the gardens and his stubborn loyalty to every lost cause.
But she couldn’t love him. Not openly. Not as he wanted her to.
She was his adviser. His equal in thought, not in affection. The moment she became more, she would become less in the eyes of the court. A woman compromised. A distraction. A liability.
Her silence stretched like a blade between them.
Peter’s smile faded.
“You don’t have to say it,” he said, voice tight. “I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“No,” she admitted. “I’m not.”
They finished the dance in silence. Still connected. Still pretending.
When the music ended, Peter didn’t let go right away. He looked at her like someone memorizing a goodbye.
“I would have loved you forever,” he said, softly.
Her heart shattered quietly, without a sound.
Then he bowed—and left the floor.
Leaving her standing there alone, like the end of something.
☼
The feast had ended hours ago. The moon was high now, silver and sharp like a blade, cutting clean through the night sky. Cair Paravel had fallen silent, save for the ocean's ceaseless whisper, and the occasional clink of armor as guards rotated their watch.
Seraphine stood at the battlements, wind curling her hair loose from its pins. The cold bit at her shoulders, but she welcomed it. Needed it. Needed to feel anything but the ache that had been burrowing deeper into her ribs with every passing day.
She should have left after the feast. Slipped into her chambers, drawn the heavy curtains, and buried herself in ledgers and treaty revisions until dawn. But her hands trembled too much to write. Her chest ached too much to breathe.
Dancing with Peter had been a mistake.
Letting him look at her like that—like she was more than just an adviser, like she was his equal, his partner, his beloved—had cracked something in her she’d spent years fortifying.
He had always looked at her that way.
But tonight, under golden lights and the scent of wine, she hadn’t had the strength to look away.
“You’re out late.”
The voice was quiet, warm. Familiar.
Peter.
Of course he found her.
He always did.
Seraphine didn’t turn around. “So are you.”
A beat of silence.
“I waited to see if you’d come back to the council chamber,” he said. “You didn’t.”
“I needed air.”
“I figured.”
More silence.
The waves crashed, relentless and indifferent.
Peter came to stand beside her, close enough that she could feel his warmth, but not touching. Never touching. Always a breath away.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she said at last, the words sharp with exhaustion.
Peter didn’t ask what she meant. He knew.
“I thought I could,” she continued, voice shaking. “I thought I could stay by your side, keep my place, serve the realm, and ignore—everything else. Pretend nothing’s changed.”
“But something has changed,” he said quietly.
She closed her eyes. “That’s the problem.”
The silence stretched long. The waves beat like a heart.
“You’ve always served the realm,” Peter said softly. “But you’ve never served me. You’ve stood with me. Advised me. Fought beside me. Challenged me. But never served.”
She turned to him then, eyes blazing with something between grief and fury.
“And what would you call this?” she demanded. “What do you call what I do every day, Peter? I’ve given you everything. My time, my knowledge, my counsel, my loyalty. I have sacrificed friends, comfort, any hope of a simple life—”
“And I never asked for any of that!” His voice cracked—louder than he meant. “I never wanted your service at the cost of your joy.”
She recoiled as if slapped.
He stepped forward. “I wanted you to stand beside me because you wanted to. Not because you thought you had to.”
“I do have to!” she hissed. “Don’t you see? That’s the whole point. I’m the only one who will say no to you. The only one who keeps you grounded. I have to be the one who sees clearly.”
Peter stared at her, eyes wide with disbelief. “You think I love you because you’re useful?”
The wind howled.
Her breath caught.
“I love you,” Peter said, voice breaking now, “because you are brave. Because you’re brilliant and infuriating and relentless and good. Because I’ve never met anyone who burns the way you do when you believe in something. I love you because you never flinch, even when I’m at my worst. I love you for everything you are, not what you give me.”
Tears blurred her vision.
“I’m not safe to love,” she whispered.
Peter’s face twisted. “Who told you that?”
She didn’t answer.
But her silence said everything.
He closed the distance then, slowly, deliberately.
“You don’t have to say it,” he murmured. “Not now. Not ever. But don’t lie to me. Not tonight.”
Her breath hitched. “I’m not lying.”
“Yes, you are.”
She looked away. “Even if I did… feel something... what future is there, Peter? If I let myself love you, I lose everything else. They’ll say I’m compromised. They’ll say I’ve become another courtly ornament.”
“I would never let that happen.”
“You couldn’t stop it. You’re the High King. Your affection is a sword people will use against me.”
“And your love is a shield,” he said quietly. “It always has been.”
She trembled.
“I see you,” Peter said. “Every day. Every time you walk into a war room, every time you speak against me when I’m wrong. Every time you stay up through the night rewriting strategy plans. I see you. I admire you. I love you.”
The word hung there—raw, holy, terrifying.
She shook her head, eyes wet. “You shouldn't.”
“I do.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll ruin you,” she whispered.
Peter’s expression softened. “You saved me.”
That undid her.
The tears came hot and fast, her composure finally shattering like glass. She pressed a hand to her mouth, as if that could hold back everything unraveling inside her.
Peter reached out—slow, asking without words—and when she didn’t pull away, he gathered her into his arms.
She collapsed into him, sobbing silently into the folds of his cloak.
They stood like that for a long time, beneath a sky full of stars and the weight of everything unsaid.
When she finally spoke, her voice was broken. “I don’t know how to love you and still be myself.”
Peter held her tighter. “Then let’s figure it out together.”
She pulled back slightly, eyes red. “What if I fail?”
“Then I’ll still be here.”
She laughed—a bitter, shaking thing. “You say that now.”
“I’ll say it tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.”
She stared at him.
He didn’t flinch.
And for once—just once—she let herself believe him.
She leaned up. Pressed her forehead to his. Closed her eyes.
“I’m scared,” she breathed.
“So am I.”
“But I don’t want to lose you.”
“Then don’t,” he whispered. “Stay.”
And in the hush of that moment, as the moon bore witness and the sea sighed below, she kissed him.
Not with fire. Not with fury.
But with surrender.
It was quiet. Gentle. Fragile.
Like a first thaw after winter.
When they broke apart, she was crying again—but not with despair.
Peter touched her cheek, reverent. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. “Whatever comes next. We’ll do it together.”
She nodded.
For the first time in her life, Seraphine didn’t feel like she had to hold everything on her own.
And for the first time, she let someone carry the weight with her.
