Arathen once sang. 

Its cobbled streets once echoed with the laughter of festival dancers, its spires once caught the sun like golden spears, and its markets had once overflowed with spices and song. But ten years of war have left the city hollowed. 

Now, its voice is a whisper. 

I watch from the highest window in the castle—my window, though it has never quite felt like mine. Below, the common folk move like ghosts. Shoulders hunched. Faces drawn. Scarves pulled over mouths not for the cold, but to hide the hunger. 

The market stalls still open every morning, out of habit more than hope. Most are half-empty. The fruit is shriveled. The bread stale. Soldiers stand at corners with dull eyes and rusted swords. The ones who’ve stayed, anyway. Children chase after crows now, not ribbons, their laughter sharp and thin. 

The city smells of ash and damp stone. There’s rot in the bones of it. I can hear it in the groan of wagon wheels, in the way people whisper instead of speak. Arathen is tired. And so am I. 

Yet the palace above it gleams like it’s untouched. Marble towers stretch into the pale sky, all pristine and white, as if the war never touched them. Silk banners fly high. The lion of Valenor roars proudly from every tower. Inside these walls, the wine still pours. The music still plays. Supper is served on silver, and no one speaks of rationing. Here, the war is just strategy. Politics. Something talked about over polished maps. 

I lean against the windowsill and rest my forehead on the cool stone. They tell me I’ll be married soon. To Prince Eiran of Evasia. Three weeks. An alliance of peace, they say. A union to end the war. I wonder if he knows what this city smells like. If he’s ever walked these streets or spoken to a man who’s lost three sons to a war he doesn’t understand. 

I have. I do. I remember them all. 

They told me a knight would be arriving today. The one chosen to guard me until the wedding. I don’t want a guard. I want peace. Not the kind scrawled in ink by men who’ve never bled for it. The kind that grows from quiet places. From truth. From rebuilding. 

But maybe that’s foolish. Maybe peace is just another word we’ve buried too deep to find again. 

I turn away from the window when the knock comes. Sharp. Measured. 

"Enter," I say, already straightening my posture. It’s instinct, this need to seem more like a princess than a girl staring at a broken city. 

The door opens, and Captain Sorell steps in first, all stern brow and starched uniform. "Your Highness," he says, clearing his throat. "May I present Sir Kaelis Varen." 

Kaelis. 

The name has weight. I’ve heard it before—whispers in the hall, fragments of reputation: hardened soldier, never married, served on the northern front for nearly a decade. Disappeared for a time. Returned with more scars than medals. 

And now, he’s here. 

He steps into the room like he owns it. Not with arrogance—but with presence. He’s taller than I expected. Broader. Weathered, like he was carved from the same stone as the mountain passes. His armor isn’t ceremonial—it’s battered, practical, still dusted with the road. 

He bows low, but there’s no flourish. Just form. "Your Highness," he says. His voice is rough around the edges, like a blade that’s seen use. 

I nod, slowly. "Sir Kaelis." 

He straightens and meets my gaze. Eyes the color of cold iron. There’s no hesitation in them—but there is weight. He sees me. Not the crown. Not the castle. Me. 

And for reasons I can’t name, that’s the part that startles me most. 

There’s a stillness that lingers after they leave—the kind that settles in your bones. I sit on the edge of my desk, hands folded like I’m waiting for something, though I don’t know what. 

Kaelis Varen. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. There was something in the way he looked at me—like he already knew I wasn’t the princess they whispered about behind tapestries. He saw through the silk and the ceremony, right to the marrow. 

And it rattled me. Not because it was unsettling. Because it was... grounding. I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by flatterers and cowards, by voices that say what they must, not what they mean. Kaelis said little, but it all felt real. Like he meant it. 

Like if I asked him to stay, he would. And if I asked him to leave, he wouldn’t argue. 

He’s older. Worn. And yet, when he stood there, I didn’t feel protected. 

I felt... known. 

That scares me more than I’d like to admit. Because if someone truly sees you—what happens when they decide they don’t like what they find. 

That evening, I wandered. 

The castle grows quieter after dusk, as though even the stones grow tired of courtly noise. I often walk the halls when sleep won’t come, trading the weight of silk for shadow. Tonight, I drifted past the archery green, past the lower barracks. 

I hadn’t meant to find him. 

But there he was. 

Kaelis stood in the training yard, half-shadowed by torchlight. His armor was gone, replaced by a simple tunic and worn leather. He moved with slow, practiced grace—guiding a younger guard through sword drills. Not barking commands. Just... guiding. Showing. Correcting with quiet words and nods. 

There was no audience. No fanfare. Just steel kissing steel and the low hum of instruction. 

He was different out here. Not less. Not more. Just— 

Real. 

I should have left. It felt like trespassing, somehow. Like seeing something I wasn’t meant to. But I couldn’t pull myself away. 

He looked up, once. Only briefly. Not startled. Not surprised. He didn’t bow. He didn’t speak. Just offered a small nod—an acknowledgment, not an apology. 

Then he turned back to the drill, unbothered by my presence. 

I stood there long enough for the torch to flutter low. And when I finally turned to go, the thought that followed me down the corridor was this: He didn’t need to pretend. And I didn’t want him to. 

This wasn’t the first time I had seen Kaelis. 

He didn’t see me, not then. 

I was fourteen, and he was a ghost on the training field. Not a myth—I’d heard too many stories by then—but something close. I remember the way he moved through the morning fog, helping recruits sharpen their swords, tighten their grips. He never raised his voice. He didn’t need to. He had that kind of gravity that pulled obedience out of people. I was hidden behind one of the arched walkways that looked out over the yard. Supposed to be in my history lesson. But I watched him instead. I remember thinking he looked like he belonged in the stories carved into the great hall walls. A knight of old, weathered by time but untouched by age. Solid. Grounded. I didn’t know his name then. But I never forgot his face. Not once. 

 My room is too quiet. 

The fire has burned low in the grate, and the shadows are longer than I remember. I peel the outer layers of silk and brocade from my body and toss them carelessly across the chaise. A princess shouldn’t be allowed to feel tired, but I do. 

The silence presses in from every side. I used to talk to the paintings in this room when I was small. Now I just talk to myself. 

"He’s just a knight," I murmur into the stillness. "Another soldier. Another face." 

But my voice doesn’t sound convinced. 

I sink onto the edge of the bed, letting my hands fall between my knees. I glance toward the window. The city’s lights are dying, one by one. I wonder if Kaelis can sleep through silence, or if he needs noise—like sword strikes, or marching boots. 

"He looked at me," I whisper. "Not the way others do." 

The fire crackles in reply. I lie back on the mattress and stare at the canopy above. Ornate carvings. A lion, mid-roar, forever frozen in wood. 

"What do you want from me, Sir Kaelis Varen?" But no one answers. And I wouldn't know what to do with the truth if they did.