"Brother! Look, I made you a crown!"
My voice sang through the crisp air of the training yard as I burst past the stone archway. It was a breach of protocol, an interruption I no longer feared. In the five years since our first stilted lunch, the world had been remade. The intimidating silhouette in the sunlit hall had become the axis around which my life turned.
The boy I was told to fear had become the only soul in this prison who truly saw me. He curated my lessons, noted the dishes I merely picked at, remembered my passing fascination with celestial maps. He protected me from court vipers with a quiet, ruthless efficiency I never had to ask for.
My love for him was a sun in my chest, fierce and absolute. He was my exception, my pride. I was his sister. The words were a sacred vow I wore beneath my silks. This position, this claimed, hard-won belonging—it was mine. I would guard it with a dragon's zeal. His attention was a language I had learned to speak, and he had never again denied me an audience.
In the yard's center, Xane lowered his practice sword, a faint smile touching his lips as I approached. He bent his head, dark hair damp with effort, and I placed the clumsily woven crown of sun-kissed lilies and ivy upon it. The contrast was absurd and perfect: the deadly prince adorned with a child's gift.
"Your Royal Highness," a mock-wounded voice called. Sir Elian, the royal knight charged with Xane's training, leaned on his own blade, a playful pout on his face. "And what of your loyal knight? My head feels tragically unadorned."
I giggled, spinning so my skirts flared. "If you beg so prettily, Sir Elian, I shall consider it next time."
"Then I am a beggar by choice," he sighed, scratching his head with a theatrical wince. His eyes, however, held a genuine, hesitant warmth. He knew my whims were ironclad; a promise from me was a future fact.
I moved to step away, the image of measuring his brow already in my mind.
A hand closed around my wrist.
The grip was not painful, but it was absolute, a cold, sudden anchor. I looked up at Xane. His expression was, as ever, a masterwork of impassivity. Only the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed any emotion at all.
"Your history lesson begins shortly," he said, his voice a low ripple in the morning quiet. "The Grand Tutor does not appreciate tardiness."
I smiled, teasing. "I know, my lord. I promise I won't be late. Just let me first…" My gaze flicked back to Elian, who stood four paces away, an amused spectator. "…map his head."
I tried to take that step. The hand on my wrist did not yield; it tightened, a fraction more. A silent, unmistakable no.
Confusion, swift and cold, trickled down my spine. I met his eyes properly then. The dark pools offered no explanation.
He released me as suddenly as he'd seized me, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze slid to Elian, and when he spoke, his words were dipped in a frost so subtle one might mistake it for mere statement.
"He is too old for flowers. They would not suit him."
Elian's jaw dropped.
"Your Highness! I may have a few years on you, but 'old' is a dagger to the heart! I am still in my prime! A paragon of knightly vigor and, if I may say, not unpleasing features—"
As Elian launched into his familiar, indignant soliloquy, I seized the diversion. With a quick, silent wave to my brother, I slipped from the training yard, the echo of Xane's grip still a phantom bracelet around my skin.
I ran toward the palace, the sweet scent of my flower crown still clinging to my fingers, but my heart beat with a new, unfamiliar rhythm. It wasn't fear. It was the first, faint tremor of understanding...a realization that the love I clutched so desperately might be a possession that, in turn, possessed me.