Morning came with silver light spilling through the palace windows.
The princess woke before the maids arrived, still hearing a voice from the night before quiet, even, unshaken.
If the wind allows it.
She didn't know why those words clung to her, but they did.
Outside, the gardens glistened with dew. From the balcony she could see workers crossing the courtyards, preparing for the king's inspection. Among them, a figure moved differently from the rest steady, precise, almost graceful in silence.
Him.
Kaelion carried a crate of wood toward the stables. His movements were disciplined, efficient, never hurried. When he stopped for a moment to watch a bird land on the fountain's rim, she caught herself smiling.
No one else noticed him; that made her want to.
By mid-day she left the lessons she was meant to attend.
The guards at the lower halls knew her well enough to pretend not to see when she slipped through the side door toward the gardens. The air smelled of cedar and roses, and somewhere nearby a hammer struck rhythmically against stone.
Kaelion stood near the fountain again, repairing the edge of the marble. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, his forearms streaked with pale dust.
He didn't turn when she approached; he already knew she was there.
"You're working," she said.
"I am," he answered, still focused on the stone.
"You speak as if words are measured," she murmured.
"They should be." He set the chisel down, finally facing her. "Too many spoken, too few meant."
She looked at him for a long time. "You talk like someone older than he looks."
"Maybe I am."
For a heartbeat neither moved. The breeze played with the ends of her hair; sunlight broke across his face. There was nothing romantic in their posture, yet the air between them felt charged, alive, as if something ancient was quietly awakening.
A servant's shout broke the stillness. Kaelion straightened, expression unreadable.
"You should go," he said. "They'll notice you're gone."
She hesitated. "Will you be here tomorrow?"
His eyes met hers cool, steady.
"If the stone still needs fixing," he said, and turned back to his work.
That night she wrote his name on a scrap of parchment only to burn it before anyone could see.
He, in another corner of the palace, cleaned his hands and stared at the tiny cut across his palm where the chisel had slipped. For the first time, the sting reminded him of something worth feeling.