My name is Charlotte Winterwood, Princess of Winterwood. In three weeks, I will be turning nineteen. As tradition deticates to my birth, my father will host a banquet for nobles and royals from other lands on my birthday. The day after, there will be a festival for my people — music in the streets, lanterns hanging from frosted trees, children running through the square as if winter itself does not bite at their cheeks.
When I was younger, I never liked the idea of such celebrations. I preferred something small — just my family, perhaps a few gifts and laughter that stayed within the castle walls. I never understood why my birth needed to be witnessed by an entire kingdom.
But this year, I agreed.
Perhaps because Winterwood has been too quiet lately.
Too still.
Two weeks ago, we went to battle against Spring. Winterwood won. We always win. Our soldiers are hardened by cold, by discipline, by survival. But victory does not feel like victory when so many lives are lost.
The snow outside the castle walls had not melted red for long, yet it felt as though the stain lingered in the air.
Sir Brian, the guard who had been beside me since I was a little girl, did not return.
He had taught me how to hold a blade properly. How to ride without fear. How to walk through the market without letting nobles intimidate me. He used to say that a princess who cannot stand alone is not fit to rule.
And now he was gone.
So now I must choose someone to take his place.
I sat in the courtyard for hours, reviewing knight after knight. Most were graduates from the academy. Skilled. Disciplined. Perfect posture. Perfect responses. Perfect bows.
Yet none felt right.
None felt steady in the way Sir Brian had been steady.
That evening, when the sun dipped low and the cold deepened, I wandered through the garden to clear my mind. Frost clung to the hedges, and the stone paths shimmered faintly beneath a thin layer of ice. My breath came out in quiet clouds as I watched the remaining knights depart.
That was when I noticed him.
He stood near the iron gate, speaking quietly with my father's butler. His posture was straight, but not rigid. There was something composed about him — not eager, not desperate.
When he turned and bowed to me before leaving, that was when I saw it.
A flower attached to his sword.
A gladiolus.
The sight of it made my steps falter.
Only Spring soldiers carry flowers on their blades. A tradition meant to symbolize honor and the fleeting nature of life. The gladiolus signifies strength. Integrity. Moral character.
His sword itself was crafted from fine steel, polished but not overly adorned. The hilt bore a faint lining of gold — subtle, refined. The kind only nobles could afford.
Everything about him spoke of meaning.
I did not forget that sword.
So when he stood before me the next day in the courtyard, I recognized him immediately.
"You may speak," I said, keeping my expression calm.
"My name is Keyne—"
I cut him off without meaning to. "Meaning man of the eastern sky. Blessed. Precious jewel." I paused, studying him more carefully now. "You are from the east."
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, though he masked it quickly.
"Yes, Your Highness. East Spring. Gawnwyn."
Gawnwyn.
Light piercing through the dark veil of winter.
Winterwood's greatest enemy.
A faint murmur rose among the other knights and advisors gathered nearby.
"Are you a spy, Keyne?" I asked plainly.
There was no anger in my voice. Only curiosity.
He looked more surprised than offended.
"Why would you assume that, Princess?"
"Your sword bears a gladiolus. You carry noble steel. You are from Gawnwyn, and your name alone speaks of nobility." I held his gaze, refusing to look away first. "And you come here after Winterwood defeated Spring."
The air felt sharper between us.
He was silent for a moment, as though choosing his words carefully.
Then he said quietly, "Sir Brian believed I was more than the land I was born in. I am here to prove he was right."
My breath caught before I could stop it.
The courtyard seemed to fade slightly around us.
"Sir Brian showed you mercy, didn't he?" I asked.
Keyne glanced briefly at the sword at his side, his fingers tightening near the hilt before lifting his head again.
"Yes."
He told me it was during the Battle of Frostmere. He was being reckless. Too eager to prove himself worthy of his name.
Sir Brian had disarmed him easily.
"He could have killed me," Keyne said, his voice steady but lower now. "I expected him to."
But he didn't.
"He said strength is not proven in slaughter," Keyne continued, "but in restraint."
Those were Sir Brian's words. I had heard them countless times — when I was stubborn, when I was angry, when I was afraid.
"My father ordered me to march again against Winterwood," Keyne said. "I refused."
The murmurs grew louder.
"I lost my title. My inheritance. My standing in Gawnwyn."
A noble without a land.
The courtyard felt very still, as if even the wind had paused to listen.
"If I were a spy," he said, meeting my eyes steadily, "I would still have those things."
I studied him carefully.
There was no desperation in his expression. No pleading. Only certainty.
Sir Brian had always believed mercy could change a man.
Perhaps he had.
Perhaps the man standing before me was proof of that.
And if I turned him away, what would that say of everything Sir Brian had stood for?
"Kneel," I said at last.
He lowered himself without hesitation.
"Keyne of Gawnwyn," I declared, my voice carrying across the courtyard, "you will serve as my personal knight."
Gasps rose softly around us, but I ignored them.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice so only he could hear.
"If you betray Winterwood," I said quietly, "you will regret it."
He lifted his gaze to mine.
There was no fear there.
"I would expect nothing less, Princess."
For a moment, we simply looked at one another — winter and spring standing only a breath apart.
And for the first time since Sir Brian's death, the silence of Winterwood did not feel quite so heavy.