Months passed.
Spring softened into summer, and with it, something else began to bloom across Elyndria.
Stories.
It started in the capital's teahouses—low murmurs over porcelain cups, dramatized retellings of the church signing, exaggerated versions of Leo's kneeling proposal. From there it spread to marketplaces, taverns, noble salons, and eventually beyond the city walls.
In the Kingdom of Elyndria, one story dominated every conversation:
The Knight and the Omega Prince.
No portraits existed.
None were allowed.
The king's decree had been absolute and merciless: anyone who dared capture the face of his omega son from the birth without permission would face execution. Artists were forbidden from sketching him publicly. Traveling painters were warned before entering the capital. Even foreign envoys were carefully monitored.
As a result, Nael's image remained something sacred—seen only by those permitted into royal circles.
And perhaps that made the fascination worse.
Without portraits, imagination took over.
Writers began publishing serialized romance tales inspired by them—thinly veiled, but unmistakable.
The Silver Knight and the Fragile Prince.
The Vow Beneath Stained Glass.
The Sword That Chose Love Over Glory.
Bookshops couldn't keep up with demand.
Young nobles whispered about forbidden devotion. Commoners sighed over dramatic declarations. Street performers reenacted scenes of a knight kneeling before a stubborn royal.
It was called forbidden love—not because the kingdom rejected it, but because by tradition, a prince—especially an omega prince—was meant to secure alliances through marriage.
Yet the alliance Nael chose was not political.
It was personal.
And strangely… the people accepted it.
Perhaps because they had seen mainly heard the loyalty of Leo for years at Nael's side. Perhaps because his loyalty had never once wavered. Or perhaps because in uncertain political times, a love story felt like hope.
Whenever Nael and Leo stepped outside the palace—whether to visit the royal gardens, inspect the marketplace, or attend public ceremonies—the reaction was always the same.
Bows.
Blessings.
Soft smiles.
"May you be happy, Your Highness."
"Sir Leo, protect him well."
Nael had expected resistance. Criticism. Mockery.
Instead, he found warmth.
One afternoon, they walked through the central square without heavy escort—just a small, discreet guard detail at a distance.
Children ran past them, chasing wooden toy swords.
A vendor called out, "Your Highness! Fresh peaches from the southern orchards!"
Nael laughed and accepted one, tossing a coin in return.
An elderly woman approached hesitantly. Leo instinctively shifted closer—but her hands only lifted in blessing.
"May your bond remain stronger than steel," she said softly.
Nael blinked.
"Thank you," he replied, sincerity replacing his usual playful tone.
As they continued walking, Nael nudged Leo.
"You hear that? Stronger than steel."
Leo glanced at him sideways. "Steel can break."
Nael stopped walking.
Leo took one more step before realizing and turning back.
Nael folded his arms dramatically. "Excuse me?"
Leo's expression softened faintly. "What I meant is—steel must be reforged again and again to remain strong."
Nael studied him carefully.
"And us?"
Leo held his gaze steadily, ignoring the curious glances of passersby.
"We will endure."
Nael's heart did that strange skipping thing again.
He quickly bit into the peach to hide it.
Meanwhile, in the noble districts, reactions were more complex.
Some elders still muttered behind closed doors about broken tradition. Some foreign diplomats wrote cautious letters back to their courts.
But none dared openly oppose it.
The king's stance had been clear.
And more importantly—the people's acceptance made resistance risky.
One evening, inside the palace library, Nael discovered a stack of anonymously delivered booklets hidden beneath a cushion.
He pulled one out.
The Knight Who Guarded His Omega.
Nael's eyes widened.
He flipped it open.
The first page described a stubborn, beautiful omega prince with "eyes like moonlight and a temper sharp enough to challenge gods."
Nael gasped.
"They're exaggerating."
Leo, seated across from him reviewing reports, didn't look up. "They always do."
Nael kept reading.
The knight in the story was described as "a silent warrior whose devotion burned hotter than war itself."
Nael slowly lifted his head.
Leo finally looked at him.
"What?"
"They made you… intense."
Leo raised a brow. "Am I not?"
Nael flushed faintly and threw the booklet at him.
Leo caught it easily.
He skimmed a line.
Then another.
His ears turned faintly red.
Nael burst into laughter.
"You're blushing!"
"I am not."
"You are."
Leo closed the booklet calmly and set it aside.
"These stories will fade."
Nael leaned back in his chair, spinning slightly.
"No," he said thoughtfully. "They won't."
Leo paused.
Nael's tone had shifted.
"They'll become legends," he continued. "Even if we grow old and boring."
"You?" Leo asked dryly. "Boring?"
Nael grinned.
Outside the palace, the trend only intensified.
Tailors began creating subtle fashion pieces inspired by them—silver-threaded cuffs dubbed "Knight's Oath," soft blue sashes called "Prince's Veil." Even pastries appeared in heart-shaped designs jokingly named "Forbidden Bites."
The phrase Knight x Prince became a playful shorthand among the youth.
Yet for all the dramatization, what truly moved the people were the small, visible moments.
Leo adjusting Nael's cloak when wind grew too sharp.
Nael waiting for Leo before stepping into a carriage.
Their quiet conversations during festivals.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing scandalous.
Just steady presence.
One late summer evening, they attended the Lantern Festival along the riverbanks.
Paper lanterns floated across the water like scattered stars.
The crowd parted respectfully when they arrived—but not stiffly.
Warmly.
A young couple approached shyly.
"Your Highness," the girl said, cheeks flushed. "We… we met because of your story."
Nael blinked. "My story?"
She nodded eagerly. "We read one of the novels. It gave us courage."
Her companion squeezed her hand.
Leo glanced at Nael.
Nael's playful expression softened.
"Then make your own story better than ours," he said gently.
They bowed repeatedly before leaving.
For a moment, Nael simply stood there watching the lanterns drift.
"Do you regret it?" he asked suddenly.
Leo didn't need clarification.
"No."
"Even with all this attention?"
"No."
Nael exhaled slowly.
"Good."
A breeze lifted his hair slightly.
Without thinking, Leo reached up and brushed it back into place.
A simple gesture.
But dozens of onlookers smiled at the sight.
Not scandalized.
Not outraged.
Just quietly pleased.
In Elyndria, forbidden no longer meant rejected.
It meant cherished carefully.
That night, as they returned to the palace, Nael glanced up at the stars.
"They don't even know what we're really like," he murmured.
Leo looked at him.
"And what are we really like?"
Nael smirked faintly.
"Messy. Argumentative. Annoying."
Leo considered that.
"Accurate."
Nael nudged him sharply.