In a kingdom where prophecy bound blood to fate, even royalty was not spared the weight of sorrow.
The wind clawed at Elara's hair as she balanced on the edge of her balcony, eight floors above the courtyard stones of Dravenhold. Her bare feet pressed against cold marble, and her fingers trembled against the carved balustrade, a final, fragile hold on life.
Bound to curse and crown.
The prophecy echoed through her thoughts like a cruel refrain. Royal blood was meant to rule Eryndor, but to her it felt more like iron shackles tightening around her heart.
Below, the capital city stretched into darkness. Lanterns flickered along the palace walls, and distant laughter floated up from the grand ballroom, music, wine, hollow joys echoing through a kingdom blind to her misery. From this height the city looked peaceful, almost serene. Yet she knew how false that peace was; within those streets lay whispers of rebellion, the stench of fear, and the slow rot of a kingdom that had forgotten mercy.
Elara tilted her head to the stars. "Mother," she whispered, her voice breaking, "I'm coming."
Tears stung her eyes. She loosened her grip. The fall promised silence, swift, merciful, final.
But before she could surrender to the void, strong arms seized her waist. A body pressed against hers, firm and unyielding, pulling her back from death. She gasped as warmth collided with her cold skin. The scent of steel and rain filled her senses.
She twisted in his grasp, but the moonlight betrayed her savior, a figure half-cloaked in shadow, half-bathed in silver glow. Raven-black hair framed a face too striking for mortal men; sharp-edged beauty carved from darkness and moonlight. For one suspended heartbeat, she wondered if he was death itself, come to claim her gently.
Her trembling fingers rose of their own accord, brushing against his cheek, then tracing the curve of his lips as though to test if he were spirit or flesh. Warmth met her touch. Real. Alive.
Her tears blurred her vision. The world tilted. Darkness closed in like a tide.
The last thing Elara felt was the strength of his arms, unyielding, protective, holding her as though he would never let her fall.
♤♤♤♤♤♤♤
Elara woke to brightness.
For a fleeting moment, she thought she had crossed into the afterlife. Her canopy drapes shimmered in the morning sun; the air carried the faint scent of roses and burning incense. Then the ache in her head struck like a hammer. Pain, sharp and real. Disappointment followed. She was alive.
"Disappointed?" a voice asked beside her.
She turned sharply. A man stood near her bed, tall and composed, the same raven-haired figure from the night before. His posture was straight as a blade, and though his expression was calm, his eyes held the quiet intensity of a storm.
"Good morning, Your Highness," he said, his tone smooth and formal. "I am your newly assigned personal knight. I was sent to protect you, as the future heir to the throne."
Elara blinked, stunned, then let out an incredulous laugh. "You must be joking."
He didn't so much as flinch. "I assure you, I am not."
Her amusement vanished. "Who sent you?"
"His Majesty, your father."
At that, something in her expression hardened. A bitter smile curved her lips. "So you're here to watch me, then? To report every breath I take?" Her voice rose, sharp with anger. "Get out, Ser Knight!"
"Your Highness," he replied evenly, "even if I step outside, I'll remain at your door. My duty is to ensure your safety."
Elara bit her lip, fury trembling through her veins. "I don't need your protection. No one in this cursed palace cares whether I live or die. Why should you?" She narrowed her eyes. "Or perhaps you accepted this position because you found me beautiful. I suppose you haven't seen such beauty before?"
His brows lifted slightly, but his voice stayed composed. "You are indeed beautiful, my lady, every man's desire, some might say. But I assure you, not mine."
Color rose to her cheeks. It was the first time anyone had dared speak to her like that. "How dare you-"
"I cannot protect you from afar," he interrupted softly, "especially after what you tried to do last night."
The memory struck like lightning. The wind, the fall, his arms around her waist. Elara sprang from her bed, heart pounding. "You! You were the one who saved me!"
He inclined his head. "Yes."
Her hands clenched into fists. "Why? Why would you stop me when I was finally going to be free? You ruined everything with your, your wretchedly perfect face!"
He didn't respond. His calm only seemed to fuel her frustration.
Yet as her anger simmered, she couldn't ignore the way the sunlight caught in his dark hair, or how the faintest scar traced the edge of his jaw. He was striking, too striking. Focus, Elara, she scolded herself. This was absurd.
He bowed slightly. "Your balcony remains, Your Highness. If you wish to repeat your attempt, I will still be there to catch you. My duty binds me to you; I must stay close."
Her glare faltered. Beneath his steady tone was something unreadable, concern, perhaps. Or pity. She wasn't sure which she despised more.
He continued, "Your handmaiden, Maera, is preparing your breakfast and a hangover draught. You should rest and cleanse yourself. I will remain outside should you need anything."
Without waiting for her reply, he bowed again and left the chamber.
Elara stood frozen, her breath shallow. She couldn't decide whether to scream, cry, or laugh. Her father had ordered this? The same man who ignored her existence unless it benefited his throne? He would have gladly traded her life for a treaty. No, there was a reason this knight was here, and she would uncover it.
Her gaze fell on the door where he had gone. He didn't even look like a knight of Eryndor. Traditional knights wore silver-plated armor etched with the royal crest and carried their swords openly, a symbol of their vow to the crown. But he was dressed in fitted black trousers tucked into high boots, a dark tunic belted at the waist, and a single sword sheathed at his hip. Too simple, too practical, more assassin than knight. The dark attire only made his presence more unsettling... and somehow more captivating.
Elara turned toward the mirror, and her heart sank. Her reflection was a disaster. Her hair tangled into a messy bun, her eyes rimmed red from crying, her gown crumpled, and the faint smell of wine clung to her skin. Gods, he must think I'm mad, she thought, mortified.
With a frustrated sigh, she hurried toward her bathing chamber. The marble floor cooled her bare feet as she went. Steam already rose from the bath Maera had prepared, her loyal handmaiden always seemed to anticipate her needs.
As Elara sank into the water, warmth replaced the ache in her body, but not the heaviness in her chest. The knight's words replayed in her mind, unwelcome and persistent. I'll be here to protect you always.
Protection. Surveillance. Chains by another name.
Outside, the bells of Dravenhold began to toll, calling the court to another day of false smiles and whispered betrayals. Inside, Princess Elara of Eryndor closed her eyes, knowing that whatever awaited her next, her fate was no longer hers alone.
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