First message
I had not meant to listen. Their voices carried through the half-open doors of the solar, soft at first, then sharpened by laughter. I recognised Lyris before the others. I always did. For years, I had known the shape of her voice better than my own hopes. I stopped when I heard my name.
“The king cannot truly expect one of us to marry him.”
Someone laughed. Another called me the orphan from the mud. Another said she would sooner marry a foreign lord twice her age. I remember standing perfectly still, though every instinct in me wished to leave. Then someone asked Lyris.
For one foolish heartbeat, I expected her to defend me.
Instead, she sighed.
“I care for him,” she said. “But not like that.”
The words were gentle. That made them worse.
I understood then that every smile I had treasured, every book she had shared with me, every kindness I had carried like proof of some secret affection had been exactly what she believed it to be: kindness. Nothing more.
By the time the banquet came, I had buried the wound beneath ceremony.
The hall gleamed with silver and torchlight, every noble eye fixed upon me when the king rose and fulfilled the promise he had made years ago. His daughters stood beside him. Lyris looked composed.
Then I looked at you.
You, standing slightly apart as always. Quiet. Overlooked. The only one whose voice I had not heard among theirs.
“The youngest princess,” I said
If His Majesty’s promise still stands, I choose her as my mate”