Years passed.
I grew into the kind of woman people respected but did not approach. I learned how to keep my face calm, my voice steady, my heart distant.
I became efficient. Intelligent. Untouchable.
Men bowed to me but never lingered. Conversations remained polite, empty, safe.
Loneliness became routine.
Then one afternoon, while walking through the royal library, I heard a voice behind me.
"You're standing in the wrong section."
I turned, irritated—until I saw him.
He was holding a stack of ancient books, his hair untidy, his expression curious rather than afraid.
"You're looking for history," he continued. "But these shelves are magic."
I raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"
"Cassian," he said simply. "A scholar."
No title. No fear.
Something inside me shifted.
And for the first time in years, my heart made a sound.