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Jul 29, 2025

𝖆ll 𝖙he 𝖜ays 𝖎 𝖋ell 𝖋or 𝖞ou . 𝖕art 𝖎 ⸝⸝ 𓂃₊ ⊹

⋆˙⟡ — non idol!hanni x fem!reader — princesses!au

♯ 𝖘ynopsis : all you have to do is make princess hanni fall in love with you—willingly, of course—so both of your kingdoms can seal a powerful alliance. but hanni, proud, sharp-tongued, and utterly uninterested in marriage, was never supposed to be the one who made you fall first.

𝖈ontains : arranged marriage (sort of), angst, fluff, slowburn, one bed trope (at some point), reader gets in too deep, hanni doesnt believe in love, until she does, hanni is seen with a sword once, stubborn princess x reluctant schemer, minji appears as a knight, and as reader’s bsf, and as matchmaker (kinda)

𝖜ord 𝖈ount : 12k

𝖆uthor's 𝖓ote : i had to split this into 2 parts bc of tht stupid 1000 blcoks per post thing… also i went thru like a hiatus, burnout, 4 different ideas, and a lil crashout for this princess!hanni fic and this is what i ended up with! this lwk did NOT need to take 2 whole months to write...

requested by 🧸anon idea from 💭anon

the summons came at dawn.

not with trumpets, not with ceremony, but with a quiet knock and the kind of hush that carried urgency in its bones. the palace never slept, but in those early hours, it held its breath. you were still half-tangled in your sheets, eyes crusted with sleep and a dream you couldn’t quite remember, when the maid whispered, “the king and queen request your presence.”

and when your parents “requested,” it was never truly a request.

you were princess y/n l/n of the western kingdom, first daughter of the crown, heir by birthright and duty—though most days, it felt like a shackle rather than an honor. the kingdom loved you from a distance, with flowers thrown at carriages and curtsies rehearsed in mirrors, but love within these stone walls was a quieter, colder thing.

your parents were already waiting in the solar, dressed like they had been up for hours. your father stood with his hands behind his back, your mother seated like a blade in velvet. neither of them looked at you like a daughter.

“sit,” your father said.

you didn’t.

“this isn’t a request,” your mother added.

so you sat.

then, the words came like a guillotine—sharp, swift, final.

“there’s been an arrangement,” she said.

your father watched you like he was measuring how much defiance you’d offer before he’d need to crush it.

“an arrangement?” you echoed, your voice small, unwilling.

“you are to be wed,” she continued, “to princess hanni pham of the south-eastern kingdom.”

the name hung in the air like a stone dropped into still water.

you blinked. “i’ve never met her.”

“you will,” your father said, as if that were enough. “soon.”

you blinked. once. twice.

they said it like a blessing. like a gift they were handing you, wrapped in gold. you stared at them, and all you saw was the truth underneath their polished faces. desperation, not love. greed, not grace.

“you’re serious?” you asked.

your mother leaned in, expression tight. “this union is vital. her kingdom is rich—trade routes, land, military alliances. her parents have promised us everything. but only if she agrees. willingly.”

you understood, then, what they truly wanted.

“so i’m to make her fall in love with me,” you said, the words tasting like betrayal.

“percisely. we’re not asking you to lie,” your mother replied. “we’re asking you to be… convincing. win her trust. win her. you’re charming when you try.”

“you want me to lie,” you said, sharper now, heat rising in your throat. “to pretend—”

“it’s for the good of the kingdom.”

and there it was. the phrase they always pulled out when they needed you to stop feeling and start obeying. you clenched your fists in your lap.

your voice dropped. “you’re using me.”

“we’re protecting your future,” your father snapped. “and the future of your people. this is what it means to be royal. to sacrifice.”

you wanted to scream. instead, you nodded. not because you agreed—because you understood the rules. you didn’t have to like them. you just had to follow them.

they dismissed you soon after. like a servant. like a pawn moved to the next square.

you left the room with your heart twisting behind your ribs.

the gardens were still damp with dew when you found her—minji, your personal knight and oldest friend, lounging beneath the willow tree like she didn’t have a kingdom on her back.

sir kim minji, though she hated the title. she was born to a family of warriors, trained with steel in hand since childhood, and handpicked by the queen herself to protect you.

but long before that, she was just the girl who climbed the orchard walls with you, who held your hand through every royal lesson, who swore at the stars that she’d never let anyone hurt you.

when she saw your face, she sat up instantly.

“let me guess,” she said. “they finally told you.”

you looked at her, the weight of it pressing on your lungs. “you knew?”

she pushed off the wall and walked beside you, her boots crunching over gravel. “i overheard them a week ago.”

“and you didn’t tell me?”

she looked away. “i was hoping they'd change their minds. or choke on their own greed.”

you exhaled, shaky. “they want me to marry hanni.”

“hanni pham,” minji said, with that trademark bite in her voice. “daughter of a council that bathes in gold and shits on diplomacy.”

you laughed once, bitter. “they want me to make her fall for me. no pressure.”

minji’s mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a smirk. “so now you're a diplomat. or a con artist.”

“apparently.”

minji turned to face you fully now. her dark eyes softened, but only a little. “are you really going to go along with this?”

you didn’t answer. because you didn’t know. because the kingdom was starving, and your people whispered at night about empty granaries and colder winters. because maybe love was a luxury you’d never been meant to afford.

she touched your arm. gently. “you don’t have to lose yourself in this.”

“i have to try,” you whispered. “they made that clear.”

minji’s jaw tightened. “then promise me something.”

she was quiet for a moment. then, with a voice that knew every version of you—child, princess, liar, girl—she said, “don’t let them turn you into something you're not.”

you looked at her, something hollow behind your ribs. “what if it’s already happening?”

minji's voice softened, but her eyes stayed sharp. “then i’ll remind you who you are.”

and for a moment, that was enough. for a moment, her promise steadied you.

but across the sea and sky, somewhere behind silken walls and golden halls, princess hanni pham—strong-willed and stubborn as fire—was unaware that your world had already begun to tilt toward hers.

you had a role to play. a kingdom to save. but your heart—

your heart had not agreed to any of it.

the court of the south-eastern kingdom gleamed like a crown in the sun—polished marble floors, towering windows, and gowns stitched with enough silver to blind a god. it was a kingdom of plenty, where laughter echoed down gilded halls and the air always smelled faintly of rosewater and ink.

and in the middle of it all, seated on the edge of her father’s throne like it was made of thorns, was princess hanni pham—heir, strategist, wildfire in human shape.

she didn’t dress for softness. no corset crushed her ribs, no jewels weighed down her neck. instead, she wore dark leather under silk, a sword strapped lazily at her hip—not because she needed it, but because she could. her crown was modest, a circlet of wrought gold tucked into a loose braid, more symbolic than ceremonial.

“they’re asking again,” one of her advisors muttered from the edge of the court. “a duke’s son this time. fourth one this month.”

hanni didn’t even look up from the scroll in her hands.

“and what’s wrong with this one?” she asked, tone dry as the desert.

“nothing. he’s young. wealthy. pleasant.”

“mm,” she hummed, still reading. “so he’s boring.”

her mother sighed beside her, graceful as always, her disappointment feather-light but constant.

“hanni,” she said, as if they hadn’t had this conversation a dozen times, “marriage isn’t a punishment. it’s tradition. it’s security.”

“it’s unnecessary,” hanni replied without heat. “i don’t need a husband to rule. i don’t need anyone to speak for me or stand beside me in council just to keep up appearances.”

her father chuckled under his breath. the king had always admired her fire, even when it burned him.

“you’re already twenty, hanni,” her mother pressed. “people are beginning to ask questions.”

“let them,” hanni said, finally looking up. her gaze was sharp, amused, unbothered. “maybe i’ll marry a poet. or a pirate. or no one at all.”

“hanni—”

“i said no,” she cut in, gentle but final. “and when i say no, i mean it.”

silence fell for a beat. the room held its breath, as it often did when the princess reminded them that she was not made in anyone’s image but her own.

her father’s knuckles whitened where they gripped the edge of the table. “you are not invincible, hanni. one day, you will need an ally. a partner.”

she tilted her head, mock-thoughtful. “or maybe i’ll simply do what you never could—stand alone.”

it was cruel. it landed like a stone in still water. but hanni didn’t flinch. she never did. if her words cut, it was because they were meant to. still, beneath the sharpness of her tongue, there was a strange kind of grace.

after court, hanni walked through the palace like she belonged to the air itself—untamed, but never reckless.

she listened more than she spoke, noticed things others missed. she remembered the names of the servants’ children and where they kept the candy in the kitchens. and when the younger pages tripped during sword drills, she pretended not to see—but always left a better blade on their rack the next day.

outside, in the courtyard, winter roses bloomed along the trellises—white edged with frost, petals stiff and lovely. she brushed her fingers against one, then pulled back when it pricked her thumb.

she stared at the blood. small, almost beautiful.

“perhaps you could try being less confrontational,” her mother’s voice came from behind her. soft, but never sweet.

hanni didn’t turn. “i am less confrontational. you should hear what i don’t say.”

the queen came to stand beside her. they both looked out at the roses.

“marriage could protect you,” she said. “you won’t always be able to fight alone.”

“then let me choose the battle,” hanni murmured. “not the weapon.”

a silence stretched between them. the queen didn’t push further. they both knew better.

hanni didn’t need a king.

she was one, in all but name.

hanni spent her morning wrapped in silk and ceremony. the great hall shimmered with gold light, every corner polished to perfection, every noble tongue sharpened for flattery. she listened, nodded, answered questions that felt more like traps than conversations.

“what are your thoughts on expanding the river trade?”

“what of the rebels to the east?”

“your hair is lovely today, your highness.”

she smiled when she needed to. a tight, practiced thing. it never reached her eyes.

they called it duty. she called it theatre.

by midday, she was touring the city with her retinue—waving from carriages, listening to farmers and merchants plead for lowered tariffs and more guards at the border. she took their words into her hands like delicate glass, but already knew her council would do nothing with them. not unless it turned profit.

back at the palace, she met with architects sketching blueprints for a new orphanage. she corrected the scale of the sleeping quarters herself. then sat through another meeting on diplomatic grain levies. then two hours of sword drills to keep up appearances.

by the time the moon had crept high above the citadel, she was done.

she tossed her earrings onto her vanity like they burned her skin. a long sigh left her lips as she sat on the edge of her bed, legs aching from too many stairs and too many stares.

then she saw it.

a scroll, resting neatly on her desk. new. sealed with a rose-red crest.

her hand hovered over it. she already knew what it would say.

still, she cracked it open.

it was an invitation. a royal ball.

she read it once. then again. the words were polite, almost romantic. full of honeyed diplomacy and empty celebration.

to mark the beginning of a new alliance, they said. to bring kingdoms closer together.

she knew better.

she knew a trap when she saw one—especially one tied up in ribbon and starlight.

her fingers curled around the parchment. not tight enough to tear. just enough to feel it.

a sigh slipped out.

“of course,” she murmured to the empty room. “they’re dressing the execution in silk again.”

she placed the scroll on her desk, turned off the lantern, and let the shadows take the night.

the invitation sat untouched.

but its weight lingered.

hanni arrived late. not so late that it made a statement, but late enough to remind everyone that she didn’t need their permission to make an entrance.

the ballroom glittered—columns dressed in crystal, music curling like smoke above the chandeliers. people turned as she stepped through the archway, tall and still and lovely in midnight silk. her hair was pulled back, sharp at the sides, soft at the ends. a crown of woven silver sat just above her temple, catching every flicker of candlelight.

she didn’t smile.

she walked like she was born from marble. untouchable. unreadable.

every step was measured, graceful. she moved past diplomats with too-white teeth, past noble sons standing straighter as she passed. she gave none of them her eyes.

but when she reached your parents, she bowed. low, elegant, a perfect arc.

“your majesties,” she said, voice low and even. “thank you for your invitation.”

your mother complimented her poise. your father said something about unity and futures. she nodded, made the right sounds. then drifted away before they could ask more of her.

she found a corner at the edge of the hall—half-lit, half-forgotten. a glass of wine in her hand, untouched. she watched the dancers spin in gilded circles. watched courtiers flock to one another with practiced laughter and hidden motives.

she wanted none of it.

and then—there you were.

you didn’t approach her head-on. just wandered into her view like it was an accident. you leaned against the wall beside her, not quite facing her. your dress brushed her sleeve. she didn’t move.

“balls are the worst,” you said, quietly. “don’t you think?”

hanni didn’t look at you. just sipped her wine, finally. “i think they’re effective. if you’re into masks and manipulation.”

you huffed a laugh. “so that’s a yes.”

she glanced at you then. briefly. “that’s a diplomatic response.”

you smiled, a little crooked. “i’ll take it.”

you stood beside her for a while. not quite touching. not quite leaving.

she didn’t ask your name. didn’t have to. she already knew. she’d seen your face in the letterhead. had heard your voice, once, through half-shut doors.

you were prettier in person. not that it mattered.

“you don’t dance?” you asked after a while, tilting your head.

hanni shrugged. “i don’t perform.”

you offered her your hand anyway.

“just one song,” you said. “to keep the crowd entertained.”

she sighed. and for a breath, you thought she might say no. but then she set her glass down, took your hand like it was something fragile, and stepped onto the floor with you.

it was a quiet surrender. a reluctant kind of grace.

you led gently. she followed smoothly, like she was humoring you.

“you’re not like the others,” you said, half teasing. “most people here try too hard.”

“and you’re trying just enough,” she replied, voice dry.

you laughed again, but softer this time.

you tried to charm her. she didn’t budge. didn’t give you more than a polite smile, a brief glance.

you spoke of the music, the food, the absurdity of ball gowns. she replied with short, pleasant answers. never rude, never warm. you weren’t sure if she hated you. or just the room.

and hanni—hanni thought you were just another royal. another pawn sent to flatter her, to bend her toward a marriage dressed in flattery and shared wine.

she was right, in a way. but she didn’t know that yet.

and you, in turn, thought she was impossible. beautiful, yes—but cold. arrogant. out of reach.

the song ended. she let go of your hand.

you both stepped back. bowed. nodded. and that was it.

nothing more.

but later, when she slipped back into the shadows of the ballroom, she touched her wrist—where your fingers had rested—and found that it still hummed with the ghost of your warmth.

just faintly. just enough to remember.

hanni arrived late. not so late that it made a statement, but late enough to remind everyone that she didn’t need their permission to make an entrance.

she didn’t smile.

she walked like she was born from marble. untouchable. unreadable.

every step was measured, graceful. she moved past diplomats with too-white teeth, past noble sons standing straighter as she passed. she gave none of them her eyes.

but when she reached your parents, she bowed. low, elegant, a perfect arc.

“your majesties,” she said, voice low and even. “thank you for your invitation.”

your mother complimented her poise. your father said something about unity and futures. she nodded, made the right sounds. then drifted away before they could ask more of her.

she wanted none of it.

and then—there you were.

you didn’t approach her head-on. just wandered into her view like it was an accident. you leaned against the wall beside her, not quite facing her. your dress brushed her sleeve. she didn’t move.

“balls are the worst,” you said, quietly. “don’t you think?”

hanni didn’t look at you. just sipped her wine, finally. “i think they’re effective. if you’re into masks and manipulation.”

you huffed a laugh. “so that’s a yes.”

she glanced at you then. briefly. “that’s a diplomatic response.”

you smiled, a little crooked. “i’ll take it.”

you stood beside her for a while. not quite touching. not quite leaving.

she didn’t ask your name. didn’t have to. she already knew. she’d seen your face in the letterhead. had heard your voice, once, through half-shut doors.

you were prettier in person. not that it mattered.

“you don’t dance?” you asked after a while, tilting your head.

hanni shrugged. “i don’t perform.”

you offered her your hand anyway.

“just one song,” you said. “to keep the crowd entertained.”

she sighed. and for a breath, you thought she might say no. but then she set her glass down, took your hand like it was something fragile, and stepped onto the floor with you.

it was a quiet surrender. a reluctant kind of grace.

you led gently. she followed smoothly, like she was humoring you.

“you’re not like the others,” you said, half teasing. “most people here try too hard.”

“and you’re trying just enough,” she replied, voice dry.

you laughed again, but softer this time.

you tried to charm her. she didn’t budge. didn’t give you more than a polite smile, a brief glance.

you spoke of the music, the food, the absurdity of ball gowns. she replied with short, pleasant answers. never rude, never warm. you weren’t sure if she hated you. or just the room.

and hanni—hanni thought you were just another royal. another pawn sent to flatter her, to bend her toward a marriage dressed in flattery and shared wine.

she was right, in a way. but she didn’t know that yet.

and you, in turn, thought she was impossible. beautiful, yes—but cold. arrogant. out of reach.

the song ended. she let go of your hand.

you both stepped back. bowed. nodded. and that was it.

nothing more.

but later, when she slipped back into the shadows of the ballroom, she touched her wrist—where your fingers had rested—and found that it still hummed with the ghost of your warmth.

just faintly. just enough to remember.

your parents had sent you off to the south-eastern kingdom with smiles too wide and promises too polished. they called it diplomacy. they said it was to strengthen ties, to give you time to “better understand” the beloved princess hanni.

you knew what they meant.

they meant: win her over. make her yours. secure the deal.

you thought it was all bullshit, dressed up in gold leaf and royal crests.

and yet, here you were—feet brushing against the trimmed grass of foreign soil, wind tugging at the edge of your cloak, walking the grounds of hanni’s castle like you belonged, as if your heart wasn’t heavy with the weight of a thousand false intentions.

the gardens of the south-eastern kingdom were sculpted into obedience.

the hedges were trimmed like soldiers. fountains as still as held breath. not a single petal out of place. it looked more like a painting than something that had ever touched rain.

you walked a few paces behind hanni, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes. she hadn’t said much since the polite greetings. she hadn’t looked at you, either—not really. just offered her hand in a cool, practiced gesture, and turned to lead you through the courtyard like she was fulfilling a chore.

minji followed behind, boots silent, gaze sweeping. her presence a comfort.

hanni moved like she belonged to another time. regal in quiet ways—shoulders back, head high, arms folded behind her like she had no use for anything the world hadn’t already taken from her. her dress was deep green today, like pine and shadows, and her hair was half up, half down, catching the sun in soft waves.

you watched her without trying to and hated yourself for how lovely she was when she wasn’t speaking.

"lovely day," you said finally, just to break the stillness.

hanni didn’t slow. “for those who enjoy performative serenity.”

you blinked. “so... not you.”

“not particularly.”

you huffed a small laugh, tried again. “you know, in my kingdom, people talk about the gardens of the south-east like they’re holy. like stepping inside them cures your worst thoughts.”

“that’s ridiculous,” she said, glancing at a row of perfect lilacs. “gardens don’t cure anything. they just give people prettier places to hide their messes.”

you paused, then smiled. “poetic.”

the path curved toward a rose archway, blossoms thick with perfume. minji lingered behind you, pretending not to listen but clearly tracking every breath between you.

you stepped beside hanni now, walking in pace with her.

“what’s your favourite flower?”

she turned to you with a look that could slice silk. “is that truly the kind of question your kingdom trains you to ask in diplomatic conversations?”

you met her stare. “no. that’s the kind of question someone asks when they want to know who you are.”

silence bloomed between you.

for a moment, you thought she might laugh. or soften. but she didn’t.

“you don’t need to know who i am.”

you stopped walking and after two steps, she noticed.

she turned, brows raised in quiet frustration. “what now?”

you kept your voice gentle. “why not?”

hanni stood still. the breeze caught the hem of her gown. the air between you turned still and heavy.

“because people like you ask until they find something they can use,” she said. “and i’m tired of being useful.”

behind you, minji straightened. not stepping in. not interfering. just listening.

you felt something sharp twist behind your ribs. you didn’t answer right away.

hanni folded her arms. “well?”

you licked your lips. “what if i’m not trying to use you?”

her mouth curled—barely. “then you’re a fool. which is worse.”

that made you laugh, quiet and broken at the edges.

you looked down, then back up. “i’m not your enemy, hanni.”

“no,” she said, eyes narrowing. “just another stranger who thinks they deserve a piece of me.”

you stepped back. not out of fear—just to give her space. her words weren’t loud. weren’t cruel. but they left bruises anyway.

she turned away, walked on without waiting. you didn’t follow right away.

minji came to your side, her voice low. “you okay?”

you nodded, still watching hanni’s retreating figure. “she’s impossible.”

“and yet,” minji murmured, “you’re still here.”

you didn’t answer. because you didn’t know why, not really.

or maybe you did. maybe it was the way hanni carried herself like a battlefield—lonely and unyielding, beautiful and broken. maybe it was how her voice never trembled, how her walls were so high they looked like cathedrals.

maybe it was how your heart insisted on knocking, even knowing she wouldn’t open the door.

later, when the sun dipped lower and the servants lit the golden lamps in the halls, you sat curled by the window in your guest quarters. tea untouched on the table. your fingers pressed against the cool glass.

minji entered without knocking, as always.

“so,” she said, dropping into a chair. “how’s the ‘winning her over’ plan going?”

you groaned. “she thinks i’m here to manipulate her.”

“well,” minji said, picking at a pastry. “technically…”

“don’t.”

she looked at you. really looked.

“you care,” she said, quieter now.

you didn’t respond.

“but this is gonna hurt, you know,” she added. “trying to know someone who doesn’t want to be known. and lying about why you’re here.”

you leaned your head against the window. “i know.”

outside, the stars were beginning to wake.

and somewhere in the palace, hanni stood in her chambers, staring at a half-unfolded letter from her council. her fingers rested on your name, written in formal ink.

she didn’t rip it.

but she didn’t finish reading it either.

the rain came fast, sudden and silver, pouring down from a sky that had been clear just an hour before.

you had been halfway through a diplomatic tour of the kingdom’s southern provinces—a carefully choreographed performance of alliances, handshakes, and hollow smiles. hanni had been by your side the whole time, cold and radiant as ever, like a blade dressed in velvet.

the two of you had split off from the others to inspect a new irrigation system. minji had stayed behind at the stables, negotiating with a local blacksmith over your mare’s temper. and so, when the rain came, it was just you and hanni, caught beneath a crumbling stone archway that barely shielded you from the storm.

you stood side by side in silence, water dripping from your cloaks, the scent of wet earth rising between you. the wind howled through the hills.

“i thought south-eastern kingdom was supposed to be the kingdom of eternal sun,” you muttered, tugging your hood tighter.

hanni didn’t laugh. but the corner of her mouth twitched. “we like to pretend it is. makes us seem more benevolent.”

“and here i thought your reputation for charm was exaggerated.”

that earned you a glance. sharp, assessing. “you think i’m charming?”

you blinked. the question had come out smooth, too smooth. like she knew what it would do to you.

you looked away. “i think you know how to wield silence like a weapon.”

“better than wielding empty promises.”

the air shifted. you could feel her watching you now, not just with suspicion—but curiosity, like she was trying to read between your words.

you crossed your arms, trying to keep your voice steady. “i don’t make promises i can’t keep.”

“well, you’re still here,” she said quietly. “maybe that’s worse.”

you turned to her, startled.

she was looking past you now, into the rain. her brows drawn. something unreadable beneath her voice.

you swallowed. “i’m not here because i have to be.”

“no?” she asked, still not looking. “then why?”

you hesitated.

lightning flashed somewhere in the distance, illuminating the line of her jaw, the dip of her collarbone, the storm caught in her eyes. she wasn’t just beautiful. she was terrifying. and lonely. and so alive it made your chest ache.

you could’ve said something then. something honest. something that would’ve cracked the silence wide open.

but instead, you said, “why do you always assume the worst of me?”

her gaze snapped to yours, sharp again. familiar. safe.

“because it’s safer,” she said. “expect nothing. owe nothing. lose nothing.”

your throat tightened. “and is that how you plan to rule? from a distance?”

“if it means protecting my people, then yes.”

“and what about protecting yourself?”

“i don’t need protecting.”

you took a step closer. not touching. just... closer.

“everyone does.”

she held your gaze, unmoving. and then, softer than before, she whispered, “i can’t afford to.”

that was the closest she had ever come to letting you in.

and still, the moment passed like mist.

minji found you both fifteen minutes later, soaked to the bone and snapping at each other again. she raised a brow, muttered something about “glorious diplomacy,” and handed you a dry cloak.

neither of you spoke on the ride back to the castle.

but that night, when you closed your eyes, you dreamed of rain.

and of hanni’s voice, low and quiet in the storm.

you found her in the courtyard when the moon was high and the palace had fallen into that strange, hushed kind of sleep. no guards pacing, no ministers murmuring behind doors—just stillness, wide and cool and silver. you'd wandered out without thinking, the walls of your guest chambers pressing too tightly around your chest, your thoughts loud enough to echo.

the courtyard was quiet, but not empty.

there she was—hanni, crown princess of the south-eastern kingdom—barefoot in the grass, her sword glinting under torchlight like it belonged to her more than any crown ever could.

her hair was undone, damp with sweat, strands clinging to her neck and temples. she moved like a storm slowed to a dance—sharp turns, clean lines, each strike full of a grace that came from years of discipline. not for show. not for ceremony. for survival. for silence.

you didn’t mean to watch but you couldn’t look away.

she faltered—not in the blade, but in her body. her stance shifted too suddenly, her breath caught, and her hand twitched against her ribs like something had cracked where no one could see.

you stepped forward before you could think.

“are you hurt?”

she froze. the blade stilled mid-air.

her eyes caught yours, flickering like startled flame, but she didn’t move. didn’t sheath the sword. didn’t speak.

then—cool and clipped—“i’m fine.”

you tilted your head, folding your arms. “you don’t look fine.”

“then stop looking.”

you snorted, which startled her more than it probably should’ve. “it’s not every day i catch a princess mid-brood with a sword in her hand and murder in her eyes.”

a beat. then: “you talk too much.”

“it’s part of my charm.”

she didn’t laugh. but her gaze dropped, just for a moment, to hide something you couldn’t quite catch. you moved slowly, settling onto the stone bench nearby, careful not to crowd her space.

you watched her a while longer in silence.

“i don’t suppose anyone’s ever told you sword fighting isn’t very... princess material?” you said eventually.

she raised a brow. “i wasn’t aware i needed to be anything but alive.”

“valid,” you said. “but i think i’ll stick to sneaking sweets from the kitchens. less bruising.”

“and less discipline.”

“you sound like my parents.”

“i sound like someone who knows how to survive.”

the humor faded from your mouth. you watched the way her hands gripped the hilt. tight. controlled.

after a moment, you nodded to the sword. “will you show me?”

she blinked.

“what?”

“teach me,” you said. “just a little. so next time we’re caught in a rebellion or some grand betrayal, i can at least trip someone dramatically.”

hanni hesitated. you could almost see her weighing it—if this was a trap, if this was another ploy, if you were like the others.

but then she stepped forward.

“fine. come here.”

you stood. took the sword when she offered it, surprised by its weight. it sagged in your arms almost immediately. she didn’t laugh—but gods, she looked like she wanted to.

“your grip is wrong,” she murmured, stepping behind you.

you froze.

her hands ghosted near yours, close but not touching. just the suggestion of closeness. like if she wanted to, she could correct you. she could steady you. she didn’t.

“hold it higher,” she said, her voice low, like it wasn’t just meant for sword lessons. “elbows in. you’re not waving a flag, you’re protecting your life.”

you did as she said, awkward but trying.

you swung. it was terrible.

she tilted her head, considering.

“you’d be dead in two seconds,” she said simply.

you let out a loud, offended sound. “i’d haunt you forever.”

“you’d be too dramatic to rest peacefully.”

“you’re one to talk.”

that earned a flash of teeth. the smallest smile. quick as a blink. and then it was gone.

you tried again. then again. your arms ached, your chest burned. but you liked the way she watched you—focused, serious, like you weren’t just some royal pawn. like you were something she could almost respect.

finally, you dropped the blade, panting. “alright. i yield. take my kingdom. spare my people.”

hanni reached for the sword and sheathed it wordlessly. her hair clung to her temples, sweat shimmering on her neck, her lips parted just slightly from the effort of breathing.

you watched her for a moment. watched the way her shoulders didn’t quite relax. the way she looked up at the stars like they owed her something.

“you come here often?” you asked, softer now. “to fight the air?”

“it’s quieter than court,” she replied.

“quieter doesn’t mean easier.”

“no,” she agreed. “but it means no one’s lying.”

you swallowed. the wind picked up around you, sweeping through the open stone arches. hanni’s expression shifted—not softer, but rawer. like the blade had cut something inside her, too.

“do you sleep at all?” you asked gently.

she didn’t answer.

you didn’t press.

you sat back down on the bench, pulling your cloak tighter. after a moment, she joined you. not close enough to touch. but close enough that you could feel the heat of her, quiet and steady in the cold.

you didn’t speak after that. just sat in the silence. breathing. not quite friends. not quite enemies.

but something.

something that almost hurt.

evening settled over the castle in shades of lavender and ash. the gardens were empty, the stars still waking in the sky, and the only sound was the soft hush of leaves brushing against one another in the breeze.

you sat on the low stone wall beside the eastern rose path, your cloak tucked beneath you, your shoes long abandoned near the archway. hanni sat beside you—shoulders straight, hands in her lap, gaze tilted upward toward a sky that never answered back.

it had become a sort of ritual, these quiet talks after long days. not arranged. not demanded. just found. somewhere between dusk and sleep, when the world slowed enough for truth to breathe.

“what do you think stars would say,” you murmured, “if they could speak?”

hanni didn’t look at you. her voice was soft when it came. “probably that we ask too much of them.”

you smiled faintly, tracing a seam in the stone with your finger. “you think they’d be tired of wishes?”

“i think they’d want to burn in peace.”

you turned your head, watching her. her expression was unreadable. always just a little out of reach. but the moonlight painted her face gently tonight—no harsh edges, no distance carved in her brow. just the quiet curve of her mouth, the calm steadiness in her posture.

“do you ever wish?” you asked.

hanni shrugged. “not lately.”

you tilted your head. “not even for peace? for something more?”

her lips pressed together.

“peace isn’t something you wish for,” she said. “it’s something you fight for.”

you leaned back, eyes flicking toward the sky. “maybe that’s why it never lasts.”

silence stretched between you, long and almost comfortable.

you let yourself glance sideways again. not at her face this time—but her hand. resting on the stone between you, not far from your own. her fingers were still, elegant, calloused just slightly from sword training.

you thought about all the closeness between you that had never turned into touch. all the words you’d exchanged, the moments, the glances. how easily your knees could bump if one of you leaned just an inch. how your hand might fit inside hers if you reached out.

but you didn’t.

you stared instead, aching with the weight of what couldn’t be said.

not because you had to. not because of treaties or kingdoms or promises whispered behind closed doors. but because you looked at me one day and decided—yes. her. even if it costs me everything.

you swallowed that thought before it reached your tongue. it wasn’t the right time. it might never be.

hanni turned slightly toward you, catching your eyes. “what?”

“nothing,” you said quickly. “just... tired.”

she hummed in quiet agreement, and for a moment her gaze lingered on you—like she could see through the quiet lie, but wouldn’t call it out.

“you always ask questions,” she said, after a beat. “but you rarely answer them.”

you blinked. “what do you want to ask me?”

hanni considered, looking back toward the stars. “if you weren’t a princess... what would you be?”

you stared at her.

“i don’t know,” you said softly. “i’ve never had the chance to imagine it.”

“imagine it now.”

you looked down, brows furrowing slightly. “a painter, maybe. or a baker. i’d like to sleep past dawn. live somewhere where no one knew my name. wear linen and get dirt on my hands.”

hanni’s lips curved, just faintly.

“you?”

she didn’t answer at first. then, quietly: “i’d be free.”

your breath caught a little.

she turned her head again, met your eyes.

“but,” she added, “maybe i’d miss these moments. just a little.”

you laughed—soft, startled.

“are you saying you enjoy my company now?”

hanni looked at you, and this time, her smile wasn’t hidden. it was small. rare. real.

“don’t let it get to your head.”

you smiled back, the ache in your chest blooming gentle and sad.

you still hadn’t touched. but it felt like something sacred anyway.

you found her staring out the window, framed by silk curtains and late dusk. the light poured in soft and gold across her shoulder, but it didn’t touch her expression. she looked distant, eyes following the sky like it was the only thing that didn’t ask anything of her.

you didn’t say her name. didn’t need to.

“get dressed,” you said, stepping into her room, a crooked smile blooming on your face. “we’re going out.”

she blinked. slowly. “i’m sorry?”

“out,” you repeated. “into town. there’s a festival. music, fire-dancers, stolen sweets, maybe a drunk bard or two.”

she glanced at the bundle of worn clothes you’d brought with you—dark cloak, simple tunic, boots that looked more like mud than leather. then back at you.

she frowned. “we’re not allowed to—”

“i won’t tell if you won’t.”

she hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of the tunic. “this is ridiculous.”

“absolutely,” you said. “so? you in?”

she sighed. muttered something under her breath. then turned toward the dressing screen without another word.

you beamed.

you slipped into the night with a hood drawn low and hanni trailing just behind, quiet as a shadow, suspicious as always.

“this better not be some political stunt,” she muttered under her breath as your boots crunched over gravel and dusk crept up the castle walls.

“please,” you whispered back, grinning. “you think i’d dress you in peasant clothes for a trade treaty?”

she looked at her tunic, visibly unimpressed. “they’re itchy.”

“you’re impossible.”

“and yet you keep inviting me places.”

the gate creaked open, and the city greeted you with sound and color. lanterns like warm fireflies lined the cobblestone streets, glowing soft amber and deep red. every window shimmered with candlelight, every breeze carried spices, roasted almonds, sugar and laughter. the midsummer moon festival had bloomed again—old as the town itself, born from harvest myths and stardust tales. it was meant to honor the earth, the stars, and the lives that had passed. and tonight, it felt like a secret you’d finally been allowed to share.

“don’t look so stunned,” you teased as hanni blinked at the crowd. “they’re just happy. not everyone is out for your crown.”

“that’s not what i’m worried about,” she murmured.

you didn’t ask what she meant.

instead, you led her down the lantern path, through music and motion and warmth.

at the first corner, a woman with wild gray curls offered you both flower crowns. you gave her two copper coins and placed one gently atop hanni’s head. she looked at you like you’d lost your mind.

“you’re not putting dead plants on my—”

“you look beautiful,” you interrupted, half-joking.

her mouth snapped shut. then she sighed, muttering something sharp and inaudible as she adjusted the flowers like it didn’t matter.

next, you bought fried sweets from a cart where a man sang about moonlight and missing home. hanni bit into one—crispy, honey-drenched, shaped like a star—and stilled.

“what?”

“…nothing.”

you smirked. “you like it.”

“i don’t like anything.”

you nudged her. “liar.”

you tried everything after that. dragged her to the charm stalls where she refused to take her fortune scroll (but still read yours over your shoulder). watched fire jugglers and street dancers spin sparks into the air. she laughed once—just once—when a young boy handed her a flower and told her she had “sad eyes, like the moon.”

you watched that laugh like a rare comet.

“it’s not polite to stare,” she said after.

“it’s not polite to lie either. you’re having fun.”

she didn’t answer, but she didn’t deny it.

in the square’s center, a circle had formed around an old storyteller. his voice was cracked and deep, weaving myths from stars and rivers. hanni didn’t sit, but she stood beside you, arms crossed, listening. he spoke of two goddesses who ruled the seasons—one made of fire, the other of frost. lovers once, until time turned their names to wind.

“every midsummer,” he said, “they return for one night, dancing across the sky.”

hanni glanced upward then, quiet.

later, when the fiddles started again, you found a bench near a patch of grass where couples danced barefoot. the air smelled like clover and roasted peaches. hanni stood stiff beside you, still cloaked in wariness. still watching like she’d missed some crucial piece of the joke.

you didn’t ask her to dance. you just stood beside her, shoulder to shoulder, watching the world be soft for once.

she didn’t step away.

“i used to think festivals were for fools,” she said, her voice soft. “distractions. easy happiness.”

“and now?”

she paused. “now i’m wondering if i ever let myself have any.”

you didn’t speak. just reached for a shared silence. not empty—gentle.

you watched as two young girls passed by with lanterns in their hands. they were laughing, arguing about who would tie the better wish to the flame. hanni watched them too.

“do you want one?” you asked. “a lantern?”

“i wouldn’t know what to write.”

“doesn’t have to be real,” you said. “just something you want. even if you’ll never say it aloud.”

her hands folded in her lap. “that’s dangerous.”

“so is wanting nothing.”

she didn’t reply, but you saw her eyes flicker. like she wanted to believe. like some part of her already did.

you bought two lanterns anyway.

the woman selling them handed you a brush and ink. hanni hesitated, then wrote something small and tight in the corner of hers before folding it shut.

you didn’t look. you didn’t ask.

when the hour turned, people gathered at the river’s edge, lighting flames and letting them drift upward or float downstream. it was quiet here—peaceful. like even the stars held their breath.

you and hanni lit yours together. side by side.

your flames kissed the wind. and slowly, they rose.

it was the first time you’d seen her without armour.

not her silks or her jewels or her crown.

but her armour—the one she wore in every glance, every pause, every word sharpened into a blade.

tonight, she had set it down. not fully. but enough.

you didn’t dare touch her hand. but your fingers brushed.

and she didn’t pull away.

for the first time in a long while, she looked almost unburdened. still cautious, still composed—but something softer had crept into the edges of her.

and then the sky cracked open.

the rain came suddenly, fast and wild, turning the world to silver and blur.

people scattered, laughter turning to shrieks, cloaks pulled overhead.

you grabbed hanni’s wrist and ran, weaving between crowds and shouting something that was lost to the downpour. you both laughed—truly laughed—soaked and breathless and stumbling through the street until you found a crooked little inn tucked between stone buildings.

you ducked beneath a crooked sign and into a warm, humming inn. the door slammed behind you, the storm singing wild against the windows.

you were both soaked. your cloak dripped steadily onto the floor, and her hair clung to her cheeks like night strands. she looked like a painting half-finished.

the innkeeper—a rosy-cheeked man with arms like tree trunks—gave you both a once-over and chuckled.

“storm won’t let up till morning,” he said. “you two need a room? got one left. and we’ve got clothes from the lost-and-never-found.”

you nodded. “please.”

“only one bed, i’m afraid.”

you froze. just for a breath.

hanni sighed. loud. “don’t flatter yourself.”

you raised your brows. “i wasn’t even—”

she swept past you, up the stairs. you followed, heart pounding for reasons you didn’t want to name.

you followed her up the creaking stairs, through a narrow hall that smelled of old cedar and rain. the room was small, tucked beneath the roof, with wooden beams low enough to duck under and a hearth where the fire whispered softly.

the spare clothes were laughable—too short, too mismatched, definitely older than both of you combined. hanni emerged in a tunic that looked like it had once belonged to a farmer’s son and pants that barely reached her ankles.

she looked so unlike a princess and yet, somehow, still entirely herself.

you laughed when you saw her.

she glared. “say a word and i’ll throw you out the window.”

you didn’t say a word. just sat on the edge of the bed, watching the fire glow and the storm dance behind the window.

after a while, she joined you. not close, not far. quiet.

“thank you,” she said, barely above a whisper. “for tonight.”

you turned to her. “it was nothing.”

“it wasn’t.”

you wanted to reach for her. just for a second.

but instead, you leaned back. looked at the ceiling.

“you should come with me more often,” you said. “i think you’d like being ordinary.”

she didn’t answer.

but she stayed.

and outside, the rain kept falling—soft, steady, and endless.

you woke to warmth, still and quiet, the kind that lingered like a held breath. it took a moment to remember where you were—to piece together the worn inn walls, the scent of rain-damp wood, the faint echo of festival songs fading into night.

and then you felt her.

hanni, beside you. not quite close, but not far either. lying on her side, one hand curled under her cheek, the other resting between you both like a truce drawn in sleep.

her breathing was steady, soft.

you didn’t move. didn’t dare.

there was something holy in the hush of morning, something fragile in the way the light slipped through the curtain, gilding the ends of her dark hair. you studied the slope of her nose, the gentle crease in her brow, the way her lips parted just slightly with each exhale. she looked… different like this. less carved from frost. more human. more breakable.

and for a brief, dangerous moment, you let yourself imagine what it would be like to stay. to wake like this again. to be chosen, not out of duty, not for treaties or thrones—but simply because she wanted to.

but the warmth was already fading.

you sat up slowly, dragging your eyes from her face to the window. the sky was pale with morning. the streets below would be stirring soon.

hanni shifted behind you. a small sound, barely there. you didn’t turn.

“you snore,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“i don’t,” you said, too quickly.

“you do.”

you glanced back to find her half-awake now, one eye open, the other buried in the pillow.

“do you regret it?” you asked quietly.

her brow twitched. “regret what?”

“last night.”

she stared at you for a long beat. then: “no. do you?”

you shook your head. “not even a little.”

but the softness didn’t last. it couldn’t. not when duty was a shadow always waiting at the door.

“we should go,” you said.

she nodded, already swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. “before someone sends out a search party.”

you both changed in silence. the borrowed clothes were still a little damp, the laces clumsily tied. no one spoke as you slipped out the back door and into the gray morning. the festival streets were hushed now, littered with confetti and wilted flowers. even the lanterns had burned out.

you walked with your head down. hanni walked with her spine straight.

and when the castle gates came into view, both of your stomachs dropped.

waiting just inside the entrance—arms crossed, face like thunder—stood minji.

beside her, looking equally grim, were hanni’s parents.

“well,” minji said, voice dry as kindling, “look who decided to grace us with their presence.”

hanni didn’t flinch. she stepped forward with all the composure of a queen. “good morning.”

“don’t ‘good morning’ me,” minji snapped. “do you have any idea what we thought—what i thought—when i found your rooms empty?”

you opened your mouth to speak, but hanni held up a hand. “i’m fine. we were safe.”

“that’s not the point,” her mother cut in. the queen looked tired—more furious than frightened now, her expression sharp with disappointment. “you disappeared. without notice. without protection.”

“i am the protection,” hanni said evenly.

minji huffed. “well, that definitely soothes my nerves.”

“it was just one night,” you tried. “we went to the festival.”

“alone?” the king asked, brows furrowed. “without informing anyone? do you understand the risk, the scandal—”

“there were no titles,” hanni said. “no crowns. no press. no danger.”

“you cannot afford to act like a child,” her mother hissed. “not now. not when everything is so—”

“fragile?” hanni’s voice was calm, but laced with something bitter underneath. “is that the word you’re looking for?”

the queen’s jaw locked. “you may think this is harmless, but appearances matter. and so does trust.”

minji stepped forward then, eyes not on hanni, but on you. “did you plan this?” she asked, low. “was this part of your little mission?”

your heart twisted. “no.”

“funny,” she said. “because it’s starting to look a lot like you’re getting exactly what your parents wanted.”

you stepped back, hurt flashing across your face before you could hide it.

hanni’s gaze shifted between the three of you. something unreadable passed through her eyes—some mix of defense and doubt.

“i made the choice,” she said at last. “not her.”

but she didn’t look at you when she said it. not really.

the silence that followed was heavy.

in the end, they let it go.

no punishment. no lecture behind closed doors. just cold stares and the weight of what wasn’t said.

you returned to your rooms separately.

and all you could think about, long after the door closed behind you, was how soft the morning had felt—how warm. how gentle.

and how easily it had all slipped away.

you felt the shift before you saw it.

it wasn’t dramatic—hanni didn’t storm off or slam a door. there was no sharp turn, no cutting remark. only silence. only absence. like she’d folded herself inward, tucked away the version of her that smiled in candlelight and danced beneath rain-soaked banners.

hanni had returned to her role with all the grace and distance of someone who had never once laid beside you in the dark.

you told yourself not to take it personally. but wasn’t it always personal with her?

minji noticed, of course. she always did. she raised an eyebrow over breakfast when hanni didn’t show. muttered something under her breath about princesses and pride before dropping a fresh piece of bread on your plate and telling you to eat before your stomach turned to regret.

still, you waited.

you waited through the meetings you used to hope she might attend. you waited through the diplomatic dinners, where every noble wore their smiles like daggers and spoke of alliances like chess moves. you waited in the library, the training yard, the garden where the apples were just starting to ripen.

she didn’t come.

when she did appear, she stood a little further away. spoke a little less. not cruel, not cold—just unreachable. like the tide pulled out too far.

you caught glimpses of her at council meetings. her voice even, sharp, unwavering. she offered no more than she needed to. and when your gaze lingered too long, she didn’t meet it.

you tried to approach her once in the corridor. her back was turned, dark hair caught in a braid down her shoulder. she was reading something—a scroll, you thought, or maybe a report. you said her name. softly.

she turned. her face was unreadable.

“did you need something?”

not unkind. not warm.

“no,” you said. “just—wondered if you wanted company.”

she looked at you for a long moment. then she shook her head.

“i have work,” she said.

you nodded. stepped back. watched her walk away without another word.

minji found you later that evening, sitting in the empty ballroom, staring at your reflection in the polished floor.

“you look like you’ve just been slapped by a ghost,” she said, flopping into the chair beside you.

you didn’t answer.

“let me guess,” she continued. “the elusive crown jewel is being elusive again?”

you sighed.

“she’s just… distant. like she was never there at all.”

minji hummed. “maybe she’s scared.”

you blinked. “scared?”

“you forget,” minji said, tilting her head toward the ceiling, “some people run when things start to feel real. especially the ones who swore they’d never need anyone.”

you were quiet.

“and you?” you asked, voice small. “what would you do?”

minji looked at you then, really looked. her gaze steady and full of the kind of affection that had never once wavered.

“i’d stay,” she said. “even when it hurt. even if they didn’t ask me to.”

your throat felt tight.

you didn’t sleep well that night. the bed felt too big, too cold. your dreams were half-formed things—flashes of rain and candlelight, of laughter that sounded like hers and vanished before you could reach it.

the next morning, you found yourself back in the library, not even sure why. you wandered past the shelves until your fingers grazed the spine of a book she once mentioned. something about history or poetry or war—you couldn’t remember.

you sat there for hours, the pages open, unread.

time passed like water through your hands.

and then—

“you’re early.”

her voice. behind you. low. careful.

you turned.

she stood at the entrance, arms crossed, expression unreadable. but she was here. and she was looking at you.

you gave her a smile, unsure. “couldn’t sleep.”

she nodded once. didn’t step closer. didn’t step away.

“the council’s meeting early today,” she said. “your father wants to review trade proposals.”

you swallowed. “will you be there?”

“of course.”

you nodded. fiddled with the edge of the page. “it’s… good to see you.”

silence stretched between you like a taut string.

“you shouldn’t get used to it,” she said quietly, and left.

you sat there long after she was gone. your heart was full of a thousand words you couldn’t say.

and still—you stayed.

because even though she was pulling away, you weren’t ready to let her go. not when you’d seen the way she looked at fireworks. not when you’d heard her laugh under lantern light. not when you knew—deep down—that she wasn’t cold.

just scared. just protecting something soft inside.

just like you.

and so you waited.

not because you were told to. not because the crown demanded it. but because your heart—traitorous, stubborn, full—was already hers.

even if she didn’t want it. even if she never reached back.

you’d stay just in case.

the garden lay still beneath the hush of late afternoon, its trees painted in gold and quiet. wind slipped through the leaves like a secret, rustling against ivy and stone, and the sun sank lower, casting long shadows that stretched like longing across the earth.

hanni sat on the stone bench at the edge of the garden, spine straight, gaze distant. she looked as though she’d been carved from marble and left to weather—beautiful and unmoved. her sword leaned against the bench beside her, its hilt catching bits of sun, though her hands did not reach for it. they rested instead on her lap, fingers folded, still and unreadable.

she didn’t turn when you approached. didn’t glance over or shift to make space. she didn’t have to. there was always space for you.

so you sat—not beside her exactly, but close enough. a careful kind of closeness. like standing in a doorway instead of stepping inside.

you didn’t speak. neither did she. the only sound between you was the breeze, and the birds flitting through the hedges, and the slow, steady breath of the world turning toward dusk.

and then, after some time had passed, you said softly, “it’s beautiful tonight.”

your voice didn’t startle her. maybe she’d been waiting for it.

hanni nodded, just barely. her eyes remained on the horizon. “it is.”

more silence, but it didn’t feel heavy. only thoughtful.

you leaned back slightly, tilting your head up to watch the sun melt into orange and rose. the clouds turned soft with it, like bruises healing. you let the quiet stay. let it breathe.

and somewhere, beside you, hanni was thinking.

why does she stay? why doesn’t she give up—leave, like anyone else would? what does she want from me?

but she didn’t say any of that. not yet.

you picked at a fray on your sleeve, your other hand resting gently in your lap. the world felt slower here. gentler. less sharp.

after a long moment, hanni spoke.

“why do you keep showing up?”

you blinked. turned your head. she was looking at you now, profile lit by the last of the sun. not accusing, not angry. just… curious. tired.

you thought for a moment, chewing the inside of your cheek.

then you said, “because you never asked me to.”

she frowned faintly. “that doesn’t make sense.”

you gave a quiet smile. “most things don’t.”

her eyes searched yours. she didn’t speak again, just studied the curve of your face, the ease in your voice, the way you didn’t demand anything of her.

you looked away first. “i guess i stay because… i want to. and because you never told me to leave.”

hanni stared a moment longer. then turned back toward the trees.

“it’s not easy,” she murmured. “being around me.”

you laughed under your breath. “sometimes. you do have a lot of walls.”

hanni scoffed—barely a sound, but not cold. almost amused. she shook her head a little. her braid shifted with the movement, catching light at the tips.

“they were built for me,” she said. “before i even knew what they were.”

you didn’t interrupt. just let her speak.

“when i was younger,” she went on, voice low, like she didn’t entirely mean to say it aloud, “everyone treated me like something delicate. not someone. just… something to be protected. watched. instructed.”

her jaw tensed. “and now they talk about marrying me off. tie me to some noble who’ll do the same. all under the name of unity and duty.”

you stayed still, careful not to move too quickly. the air between you felt fragile, like spun glass.

“i don’t want to belong to anyone,” she whispered. “not if it means disappearing.”

your chest ached. you didn’t say anything, not yet.

“love…” she started, then paused. “love always looked like a trap to me. a way to be owned. controlled. softened into silence.”

you swallowed. she wasn’t looking at you, but you felt the weight of her words settle in your bones.

“i never thought you were fragile,” you said quietly.

hanni’s breath hitched, almost imperceptible.

you offered her a small, crooked smile. “just hard to read. a little terrifying, maybe.”

she turned to you again. this time slower.

“terrifying?”

you nodded. “but only because you’re so good at pretending nothing touches you.”

something shifted in her eyes. not quite a smile—but something close.

and in the quiet that followed, she didn’t pull away.

you sat together like that, side by side, the last light slipping past the horizon. the stars began to stir above you, soft and distant. and though neither of you reached for the other, something passed between you anyway—unspoken but real. a small beginning. a breath of trust.

hanni said nothing more. but she didn’t leave.

and neither did you.

the change wasn’t sudden.

it didn’t come loudly, nor did it come all at once. it was like spring slipping into the seams of winter—tender, patient, sure.

it showed in the mornings, when hanni joined you at council and sat a little closer than before. when her hand would brush the edge of yours as she reached for a document, and neither of you pulled away.

minji noticed first. of course she did.

“you’re smiling like someone told you a secret,” she said one afternoon as you wandered the eastern corridor together.

you shrugged, barely hiding the grin pulling at your mouth. “maybe someone did.”

minji raised a brow, but didn’t press.

you laughed, soft and light, and the sound felt unfamiliar in your own throat—like it belonged to someone a little lighter. someone maybe becoming herself again.

hanni had started showing up more. not just in meetings or events, but in the quiet spaces in between. she’d drift into the library with an excuse on her tongue—a book she forgot, a document she needed—and end up staying long after the candle burned low. sometimes she’d sit across from you, sometimes beside you. sometimes so close you could feel the heat of her shoulder, steady and solid beside yours.

once, when the high lord of the southern provinces made a particularly pompous speech about trade routes, hanni leaned toward you and whispered, “i’ve seen frogs with more eloquence.”

you bit back a laugh. she caught it anyway, and for a breathless second, you both smiled. truly smiled.

it was the kind of closeness that didn’t demand anything. it just was. a glance across the training yard. the way her voice softened when she asked if you’d eaten. the way she stood slightly in front of you when strangers approached.

she didn’t say she cared. but you felt it.

and you cherished it like something sacred.

once, in the garden, you reached up to pluck a small blossom from a low branch. pale pink, trembling with the weight of morning dew. you turned to offer it to her, not expecting much—just a quiet gesture.

she took it from your hand, delicate between her fingers, and then tucked it behind your ear.

“doesn’t suit you,” she said with a crooked smile. “but you’ll make it work.”

you flushed, startled by the softness of it. “rude.”

“honest,” she replied, but her smile lingered.

that night, you found the same flower pressed between the pages of a book left at your door.

its petals were drying at the edges, but it still smelled like spring.

the rain returned a few days later, warm and silver in the early evening light. you found yourself at the stables without quite meaning to. hanni was already there, running a hand down the neck of her horse, her sleeves rolled up, damp hair pulled back. she looked peaceful. real.

you meant to leave. you really did. but when she looked up and saw you, something in her expression softened. so you stayed.

you leaned against the opposite beam, watching the storm pull shadows across the stable walls. rain tapped at the roof like fingertips. silence bloomed between you, gentle and full.

after a while, she glanced your way. “you always find me when it rains.”

“or maybe,” you said, voice low, “you’re just always where i want to be.”

her gaze lingered. unreadable. and then she laughed. soft. surprised.

“you’re ridiculous,” she said.

“and yet, you’re still here.”

“for now.”

you turned your head, met her eyes just long enough to hold the moment steady. “then i’ll take now.”

she didn’t answer, not with words. just looked away and smiled like it hurt a little to do so.

at dinner that night, she passed you the bread without being asked. when you thanked her, her fingers brushed yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary. and later, when a dull conversation about naval treaties dragged on, she leaned over to whisper something in your ear—something dry and cutting and perfectly timed. you nearly choked on your drink from laughter.

when you looked over, her face was impassive as ever. but her eyes—her eyes were bright. and when she looked at you, it felt like a secret passed beneath a table, folded into warmth.

the servants began to whisper. the nobles watched you across banquet halls with barely veiled interest. but you didn’t care. not when hanni’s gaze found yours in a crowd like a tether. not when she stood beside you in quiet places, close enough to breathe.

the truth, the duty, the reason you were even sent here—it all faded into something quieter. something softer.

you forgot the mission, the pressure, the weight of what your parents had asked of you. because none of it mattered as much as this—

as the shape of her laugh in the rain, as the brush of her hand beside yours, as the way she let you in without ever saying it aloud. you didn’t want to win her over anymore.

you just wanted to stay close. close enough to hear her silences. close enough to be the one she looked for. close enough to know her like no one else could.

and maybe—just maybe—she was beginning to want the same.

the ball glittered, as always—too many chandeliers, too much gold, music spun fine as silk in the air. the hall bloomed with laughter and velvet and lies dressed in perfume.

but this time, you didn’t dread it.

this time, you weren’t looking for her because you already knew.

she arrived just as the second song began. not late. not early. just perfectly timed.

heads turned, of course. they always did. hanni could’ve worn sackcloth and still made every noble in the room stumble over their own breath. but tonight, she wore deep forest green, dark as pine needles, soft as moss. her sleeves sheer, her neckline sharp, her crown a simple band of gold nestled in her loose hair.

she looked like something from the stories—wild and beautiful and entirely herself.

and this time, she was smiling.

not big, not showy. but enough. enough for you to feel it like a spark down your spine.

you stood near the edge of the ballroom, half-listening to minji grumble about the appetisers, when you saw her weaving through the crowd—not aloof, not hiding, but walking straight toward you.

your breath caught.

“you’re late,” you said when she reached you.

she raised an eyebrow. “fashionably.”

you tried not to smile. failed miserably. “convenient excuse.”

“a truthful one,” she murmured. then, without asking, she held out her hand. “dance with me.”

you blinked. “now?”

“take the offer before i change my mind.”

you didn’t hesitate. you took her hand—warm, steady, familiar—and let her pull you into the center of the room.

eyes followed you. whispers stirred like wind behind curtains. but none of it touched you. not when hanni turned to face you, her fingers curling around yours with surprising ease. not when the music shifted and she stepped into the rhythm like she was born for it.

this wasn’t the same girl who had once stood stone-faced in shadows, wine untouched, heart guarded.

this was someone freer. lighter.

she laughed when you twirled her too fast.

you stumbled once and she caught you with a hand at your waist, steadying you like it was nothing.

you leaned in, whispered something about the duke’s wig looking like a dead bird, and she nearly doubled over.

people stared. they always would. but hanni didn’t care.

not tonight.

tonight, she danced like she wanted to. like she was allowed. like she had someone worth sharing the moment with.

your steps synced, effortless. her eyes found yours with every turn. and when the music swelled and you spun beneath the chandeliers, it felt like flying.

she wasn’t holding back.

not her laughter. not her joy. not the way she kept looking at you like you were something rare.

the song shifted—something slower, softer—and she didn’t let go. didn’t ask if you wanted to keep going. just pulled you close enough that you could feel her breath against your cheek.

“you’re good at this,” you said quietly.

“don’t sound so surprised.”

you laughed. “i’m not. just… glad.”

she tilted her head. “glad?”

“that you’re here. like this.”

she didn’t answer at first. just rested her hand against your back and let the silence stretch. then—softly—

“me too.”

the music carried on. the room spun around you. but all you saw was her.

her smile, real and bright. her eyes, unguarded. her hand, not trembling, not hesitating.

just holding yours.

and later, when the song ended and applause fluttered like wings across the hall, you stayed in place for a moment too long. forehead almost against hers. breath shared.

she didn’t pull away and neither did you.

then, finally, she took your hand again and led you from the floor, her fingers still laced with yours.

as you passed minji, she made a face like she’d known this was coming all along. but you didn’t look back.

because hanni was laughing under her breath beside you. because her cheeks were a little pink. because she kept brushing her thumb over your knuckles like she didn’t even realise she was doing it.

and because the ghost of that first dance still lingered in your memory—where she’d danced with walls built around her, arms stiff, smile absent.

but now—now she was here. letting you in. letting herself out.

and for the first time, she wasn’t dancing for duty.

she was dancing for you.

the castle had a way of listening. it held whispers in its stone, tucked secrets beneath its rugs, let words slip through doorways just wide enough for them to find the wrong ears.

you were walking the long corridor that curled around the east wing—half-lost in thought, hand trailing the tapestry at your side—when you heard it.

voices. not loud, but loud enough.

“it’s strange, isn’t it?” one woman said, clipped and polished like a silver blade. “how close she’s gotten.”

another voice—deeper, amused. “princess y/n? oh, very. almost too close.”

a third, quieter, but sharp. “i wouldn’t be surprised if she was sent. the l/n family’s not exactly known for pure intentions.”

you stopped walking.

“it’s almost comical,” the first continued. “imagine if they had sent off their daughter to act all charming and win over the princess for power.”

a snort of laughter. “and she plays it so well. all wide eyes and gentle hands.”

“clever girl. i’ll give her that.”

you stood very still.

they hadn’t seen you. not yet. their words tumbled down the corridor like spilled wine, staining everything they touched.

and the worst part was—you couldn’t argue. not really. not with the truth still tucked like a knife behind your ribs.

you turned before they could notice you. walked quickly. the halls felt colder than usual. the chandeliers dimmer. every polished tile like a mirror you couldn’t look into.

you didn’t cry. but gods, your chest ached.

you told yourself you had no right to feel betrayed. they hadn’t lied. not really. they were just saying aloud the very thing you tried every day to forget.

you hadn’t meant for it to happen like this. hadn’t meant to fall into laughter and soft glances, hadn’t meant for her to matter this much. but she did. more than you could say. more than you could admit.

you found yourself outside, beneath the stone archways where ivy clung and twilight spilled gold along the garden paths. your breath came too fast. your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

then—voices again. not cruel this time. not whispering.

sharp. fierce.

hanni.

“…you speak as if kindness is a crime,” she was saying. her voice rang out like the strike of a bell. “as if closeness is unnatural. two princesses, sharing time, sharing laughter—what must it mean?”

someone stammered a response you couldn’t hear.

“you forget,” hanni said, quieter now, but no less cutting, “not everything in this world is a scheme.”

your breath caught.

you couldn’t see her, but you could picture it. the way she would’ve stood—shoulders square, chin lifted, eyes like stormlight. unwavering.

she had defended you. not with sweet words. not with blind loyalty. but with truth she believed in.

a truth you didn’t deserve.

your hands curled into fists at your sides.

she was fighting for the version of you she saw. the one who stayed without asking. the one who danced like it meant something. the one who made her laugh.

not the one who came here with orders stitched into her spine. not the one who smiled with motive pressed against her teeth.

it made your heart twist. not because she believed in you.

but because you wanted so badly to be worth believing in.

you sat alone in the library that night, the candles burning low, a book open and unread on your lap.

hanni found you eventually, slipping through the door without ceremony. her crown was gone. her shoes in hand. hair mussed like she'd been pacing.

“they’re cowards,” she muttered, dropping into the chair across from you.

you didn’t look up. “who?”

“those nobles,” she said. “always assuming. always clawing at shadows.”

you bit your lip.

“i’m used to it,” you whispered. “i’ve heard worse.”

“that doesn’t make it right.”

you looked at her then.

the girl who once danced like duty. who now danced like freedom. the girl who defended you without hesitation. who didn’t know the truth you carried. who didn’t know the storm behind your silence.

“you didn’t have to say anything,” you murmured.

she tilted her head. “of course i did.”

your throat ached with everything unsaid.

you stared down at your hands, unsure what they were meant to hold—truth or silence.

she deserved the truth. every corner of it. but the words clung to your ribs like thorns.

so instead, you just whispered, “thank you.” your voice soft, trembling.

it was the only honesty you could manage.

she nodded once. leaned back in the chair. silence stretched between you, but it didn’t feel empty. only heavy.

you sat like that for a long while—two girls caught in the threads of something bigger than either of them knew how to name.

and still, hanni stayed.

you stayed.

even as the weight of what she didn’t know pressed harder against your ribs.

because the truth hadn’t come out yet. but one day it would.

and you didn’t know if she would still look at you the same way when it did.

continue to part 2 >>

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