chihiro

king edmund - rufus sewell

this is almost exactly how i picture him. regal, commanding, intimidating when he wants to be, but still carrying warmth beneath the surface.

queen helena - tabu

queen helena comes from a completely different kingdom (which we’ll learn more about later 👀), and i’ve always imagined her looking something like tabu. elegant, striking, incredibly intelligent, and the sort of beauty that feels so timeless

prince alaric - fai khadra

alaric takes heavily after his mother’s side. he’s tall, broad-shouldered, and has a deep olive complexion with a very powerful presence. he gives me arab shawn mendes vibes

prince cassian - fernando líndez

cassian definitely inherited more of his father’s features. fairer skin, sharp features, and unfortunately for everyone around him, he’s ridiculously handsome. in my head, he’s the brother who has absolutely no idea how much chaos he causes simply by existing and being handsome ;))

prince elias - this random gorgeous pinterest faceclaim that i cannot identify

i genuinely don’t have a celebrity fancast for elias except this dude 😭 i’ve always pictured him to have long dark curls, softer features than his brothers, and an extremely beautiful smile :)

princess y/n — deva cassel

y/n resembles her father the most, which is why she and cassian look so alike. she has that same fairer complexion and refined features, but inherited her mother’s dark eyes and dark hair. if she wasn’t a reader insert, i’ve always secretly thought the name solène would suit her <3

james potter — marlon teixeira

and finally, james. i have never been able to picture him as anyone else while writing this story (plus the glasses). messy dark hair, a warm sun-kissed complexion, and of course a subtle flynn rider inspired beard!!compared to all the polished palace royalty, he stands out immediately

-

You stand at the top of the palace steps beside the royal carriage, sunlight flashing against the jewels at your throat while horns echo across the capital below. 

Even with the gates still closed, you can hear the kingdom chanting your name beyond them, thousands of voices rising together until the sound rolls through the palace grounds.

Your mother smooths a crease from the sleeve of your gown before stepping back to inspect you one final time. “Stand straighter,” she says. “You look nervous.”

You let out a small laugh. “Well, that’s because I am nervous. There are thousands of people waiting beyond those gates, Mother. I feel like that’s a fairly reasonable reaction.”

Helena’s gaze remains fixed on you. “You have attended this parade every year of your life.”

“Yes,” you reply sarcastically, “and every year there are still thousands of people, Mother.”

Before she can answer, your father clears his throat. “Helena,” he says, a touch more gently. “Be easy on her.”

She glances toward him. “I’m simply reminding her of her responsibilities.”

“And she’s aware of them,” The King says. “I don’t believe our daughter has forgotten she’s a princess in the last five minutes.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth before he turns to you. “Nervous is normal,” he says. “Anyone would be, sweetheart.”

The tension in your shoulders eases slightly at that. “Thank you.”

“Though,” he adds, looking pointedly toward the crowd beyond the gates, “I imagine half the kingdom is more nervous about meeting you than you are about meeting them.”

“That seems unlikely.” you mumble out.

“Trust me,” your father replies. “You’ve become rather popular.”

You groan. “See? That’s exactly the sort of thing that makes me nervous.”

Alaric’s mouth twitches with poorly concealed amusement. “At least someone in this family is honest about it,” he mutters.

You shoot him a look. “Thank you for your support.”

The captain of the guard steps forward before any banters can continue on. “Your Majesties,” he says with a bow. “The kingdom is ready.”

The entire kingdom has spent weeks preparing for this parade. For your birthday, and for the celebration that will end, by tomorrow morning, with the formal announcement of your engagement.

Your last parade as only a princess of Valenora.

A movement further back along the palace steps catches your attention and, before you can stop yourself, your gaze finds James standing among the royal guards.

His uniform is immaculate, dark fabric edged with gold catching beneath the morning sun. To anyone else he looks exactly as he should: composed, attentive, every inch the professional guard assigned to protect the royal family. Only you know he’s counting down the minutes just as much as you are.

Your eyes meet across the distance. For a moment neither of you looks away.

There can’t be more than thirty seconds left now.

Thirty seconds until your carefully constructed plan either succeeds brilliantly or collapses into the worst decision you’ve ever made.

The thought should make you nervous. Instead, James gives the slightest tilt of his head toward the gates below, a gesture so small nobody else would notice it. It isn’t much, barely even a movement at all, but somehow you understand exactly what he’s trying to say; breathe.

Before you can dwell on it any longer, the horns sound again, louder this time, their notes carrying across the courtyard and over the city beyond.

A ripple moves through the gathered crowd.

Then the palace gates begin to open, as the crowd erupts into cheers.

The sound crashes through the courtyard with enough force that you feel it beneath your ribs, thousands upon thousands of voices joining together until individual words become impossible to distinguish.

All that remains is noise, affection, excitement, expectation. An entire kingdom waiting for a glimpse of the people who rule it.

Above the gates, stretched across the great balcony overlooking the palace grounds, your family already stands waiting.

Your father looks every bit the king the crowd expects him to be, commanding without appearing severe, dressed in black and gold embroidered with the crest of Valenora.

Beside him, your mother stands with the same effortless perfection she carries everywhere, one gloved hand resting lightly against the stone railing as though she hadn’t spent the morning reminding you exactly what was expected of you.

Alaric is the only one who changes when he sees you. His expression softens almost immediately, concern flickering across his face.

Across the courtyard, his gaze briefly finds yours. You alright?

The question is written so clearly across his face that you almost laugh. You offer the smallest nod.

A second later your father steps forward and the crowd begins to quiet. The transformation is remarkable every time you witness it. Thousands of people fall silent not because they’re ordered to, but because they want to hear him speak. Your father has always possessed that rare quality some rulers spend their entire lives chasing and never find: people trust him.

When he finally speaks, his voice carries easily across the courtyard. “Today we celebrate many things. We celebrate another year of peace within our borders, another year of prosperity for our people, and another year of strength for the kingdom we have built together.”

Cheers rise from the crowd before settling again. “But above all else,” he continues, and you feel an uncomfortable suspicion begin forming immediately, “today we celebrate my daughter.”

The cheering grows even louder. Your father smiles. “Many of you have watched her grow from a child into the young woman she is today. You know her as your princess, but I have had the privilege of knowing her as something else first.”

“Since the day she was born, she has possessed a kindness that cannot be taught, a generosity that asks for nothing in return, and a stubbornness,” he adds, glancing briefly in your direction, “that has tested the patience of nearly everyone who has ever met her.”

Laughter rolls through the crowd. “But it is that same stubbornness that has taught her to stand firm in what she believes, to care deeply for those around her, and to serve this kingdom with a compassion that makes me proud every day to call her my daughter.”

You lower your gaze, pretending to focus on smoothing your skirts rather than acknowledging the sudden warmth creeping into your face. King Edmund continues speaking after that, shifting naturally into discussions of tradition, unity, the future of Valenora, and the responsibilities shared between crown and kingdom. The words become familiar territory again, practiced enough that you can almost predict each sentence before he says it.

He finally finishes to roaring applause, and almost immediately the palace gates begin to open. The noise waiting beyond them swells at once, louder and brighter than before.

An attendant steps forward to open the carriage door and you climb inside, smoothing your hands over your skirts as the procession begins to move.

The moment the wheels start turning, the capital seems to come alive around you. Flower petals scatter across the stone streets beneath the horses’ hooves, children push eagerly through the crowds to wave as you pass, and merchants emerge from their shops to cheer alongside everyone else.

Above it all, banners in royal colours hang between the buildings, snapping and fluttering in the warm afternoon breeze.

And for the first time all day, your chest loosens. because you’re finally outside. Outside the suffocating walls of the palace.

James walks alongside the carriage with the other guards, close enough that you can spot him easily whenever you glance toward the streets below. Every so often his gaze flicks upward toward you briefly before returning to the crowd again, still alert even now.

By the time the procession reaches the lower half of the capital, the crowds have only grown thicker.

The main carriage continues forward at an easy pace, guards riding alongside it while people spill into the streets in waves of colour and noise. Somewhere behind you, musicians are still playing loud enough for the sound to echo between the buildings, though it’s half drowned out now by cheering and conversation and children trying to push closer for a better look.

Your brothers, thankfully, are nowhere near any of it.

Cassian and Elias had remained behind at the palace under strict orders to help receive the noble families arriving throughout the afternoon, which, knowing both of them, probably meant Elias was making the servants miserable while Cassian charmed his way out of doing any actual work.

Inside the carriage now, it’s mostly quiet except for the occasional exchange between guards outside and the constant sound of the city moving around you. James stays close to the carriage even while walking beside it, never far enough that you lose sight of him whenever you glance out.

And then, finally, the procession comes to a stop. The moment the carriage stills, several guards immediately move into position around it.

James is already there before the carriage door is fully opened. He offers you his hand without hesitation, and the moment your feet touch the ground, the reality of it hits you all at once.

For the first time in years, there are no carriage walls between you and the city.

You turn slowly, taking in the crowded streets, the rows of shopfronts draped in royal colours, the people packed shoulder to shoulder along the route, and something bright and giddy rushes through you so quickly that you can barely contain it.

A laugh escapes before you can stop it.

For years you’ve watched the parade from behind carriage windows and palace balconies. You’ve watched people laughing in the streets below, watched children weaving through crowds, watched musicians and merchants and performers move through the city as though it belonged to them.

Now you’re standing in the middle of it. “Oh my God,” you whisper, turning slowly as your gaze jumps from one thing to the next. “James, look at this.”

Everywhere you turn there is something new to see. Flower petals cover the stones beneath your feet, music drifts through the air from somewhere further down the route, and people are packed shoulder-to-shoulder along the streets, cheering and waving banners in the royal colours.

You take a step forward instinctively, already starting toward the nearest stall. Immediately, James catches your wrist. “Not yet,” he murmurs, leaning slightly closer so only you can hear. “If you disappear before we’ve even left the carriage, I’m never hearing the end of it from the guards.”

You open your mouth to argue. Unfortunately, that’s the exact moment one of the accompanying guards notices what’s happening. 

The guard is already hurrying toward you, looking seconds away from a complete breakdown. “Sir Potter, the princess is meant to remain with the procession!”

James doesn’t even glance at him at first. His attention stays on adjusting the cuff around his wrist before he answers casually, “And she will.”

The guard hesitates. “That is not within the established parade route.”

“I’m aware of the route,” he says evenly. “I helped secure it.”

The guard shifts slightly beneath the stare. “Then with respect, sir, I do not understand why Her Highness is leaving the carriage.”

James steps a little closer before answering, lowering his voice just enough that it forces the others to lean in and listen. “Because His Majesty trusts me with her safety,” he says simply. “And because we’re walking fifty feet down a road that was searched twice this morning, secured since sunrise, and currently contains more royal guards than civilians. I promise you she’ll be okay.”

Another guard speaks before the first can stop him. “But that was never approved—”

James cuts him off cleanly. “Fortunately, that’s my problem not yours. If something goes wrong, you can put it in your report, hand it directly to the king, and tell him I ignored your excellent advice.”

The man opens his mouth again, clearly debating whether or not to push further. James tilts his head slightly. “Would you like to explain to the king later that you created a public scene in the middle of his daughter’s birthday parade?”

That shuts him up immediately. James smiles pleasantly, “Thank you.”

He nods once the matter is settled, then turns back toward you. “Try not to run away,” he mutters.

You’re barely listening. “This is the best day of my life,” you say again, almost laughing as you turn toward James. “I’m actually outside.”

James laughs, shaking his head as he starts leading you away from the carriage before the guards can recover enough courage to protest again. “Careful,” he says dryly. “What happened to all that terrifying royal etiquette training Lady McGonagall spent years drilling into your head?”

You grin so brightly it almost hurts your face. “Dead. Completely dead.”

“I can tell.”

“No, James, you don’t understand,” you say, already walking backwards for a second because you physically cannot stop looking around. “This is going to be the best three hours of my life.”

“Hour,” he immediately corrects from behind you.

You ignore him entirely. “Three.”

James groans softly. “Princess—”

“Three.”

You laugh and continue forward into the center square beside him while people along the streets begin noticing your presence properly now that you’re no longer elevated behind carriage walls.

The further the two of you move from the main square, the easier it becomes to breathe. Not because the city grows quieter — if anything, it becomes louder the deeper into it you go — but because of all the new things you’re seeing.

The streets narrow slightly away from the parade route, crowded with little shops pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath hanging flower baskets and faded painted signs. 

The air smells like warm bread, spices, smoke from nearby chimneys, and something sweet you can’t quite place. People still recognise you, of course. That part is unavoidable.

You’re in the middle of turning your head to look at a musician playing outside one of the taverns when something across the street catches your eye.

You stop so suddenly James almost walks into you. “James, look!”

James glances at you immediately. “What?”

You point across the street. “That’s your father’s restaurant, isn’t it?”

James follows your gaze and visibly freezes. Nestled between a tailor’s shop and a florist sits a warm little restaurant with wide windows glowing gold against the afternoon light. The painted sign above the entrance is slightly crooked, ivy curling around one side of it, and even from across the street you can see people moving around inside.

The moment you look back at James, he already knows exactly where this is going. “No.”

You tilt your head, completely unbothered by the warning in his tone. “Oh, please, can we go in?” you say, stepping a little closer as if that might help your case, “the guards surely won’t mind, they look like they’re mostly trying to pretend I don’t exist anyway, and besides, I really want to see Lady Euphemia.”

“Fine,” he says at last.

The second the word leaves his mouth, you’re already moving.

You cross the street with far too much purpose, James following close behind. The restaurant looks even warmer up close, the glow from inside spilling onto the pavement, voices and laughter faintly audible through the glass, and you don’t even hesitate before stepping up to the door and knocking twice

Behind you, there is a pause. “Did you just knock?”

You turn slightly, hand still hovering near the door handle. “Yes?”

“You don’t need to knock on public places, you know.” James says, like he’s genuinely trying to process the logic out loud. “It’s a restaurant. People just walk in.”

You blink at him, then glance back at the door as if reassessing reality itself. “So I can just… barge in?”

 “Well…yes,” he says simply, stepping closer without thinking about it. “You can. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. The place is all yours.”

You stare at him for a second before crossing your arms. “So I can just go in and your mother won’t think I’m rude?”

At that, his expression softens as he holds the door open a little wider. “If anything,” he says, quieter now, “she’s been waiting years to meet you again properly, so I think the only person overthinking this is you.”

Shaking his head, James gestures for you to enter first.

The restaurant itself is smaller than you expected, though somehow it feels fuller for it. A couple sits near the windows sharing a meal while arguing over something that neither of them seems genuinely upset about, and a woman at another table is attempting to convince her young son to finish his vegetables while he negotiates with her.

For several wonderful seconds nobody notices you. That until the old man looks up.

His eyes widen so dramatically that even before he says anything, his wife follows his gaze, and the moment recognition dawns across her face she jerks upright. “Oh my god, Your Highness.”

Within moments half the room is trying to stand.

“No, no, please stay seated,” you say quickly, horrified by the effect you’re apparently having. “Really. You don’t need to get up. Please, continue enjoying your meals.”

Unfortunately that seems to make everyone even more nervous. James closes the door behind him and barely glances at the commotion.

“Relax everybody,” he says, sounding entirely unsurprised. “She’s here for a warm meal away from the palace, not to inspect the building.”

You smile at him before taking your seat near the corner table James pulls out for you.

The room is only beginning to settle again when the kitchen door swings open.

“James, if you’re here to cause trouble with Sirius, I swear to—”

The man emerging from the kitchen stops mid-sentence.

He’s still wearing an apron dusted lightly with flour, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark hair streaked slightly with grey near the temples. For one brief second his expression brightens automatically at the sight of his son.

“Oh, James, you’re here without Siri—”

Then his eyes land on you.

Everything after that happens very quickly. Fleamont Potter nearly drops the towel in his hands.

“Your Highness—”

Before you can even react, he’s already trying to bow. You stand immediately so fast your chair almost tips backward. “No, no, please don’t Sir—”

“I had no idea you’d be here,” he says quickly, visibly scrambling to recover while wiping his hands nervously against his apron. “Had I known, I would’ve prepared something proper, the front should’ve been cleaned again, James why didn’t you warn me—”

“I tried,” James says unhelpfully.

You can’t help laughing a little at the panic unfolding in real time. “I’m sorry for arriving unexpectedly,” you say quickly, still smiling. “I just saw the restaurant and wanted to come inside properly. James talks about it all the time.”

"Of course you're welcome here. Euphemia is going to be devastated she missed your arrival."

Your entire face brightens. "Lady Euphemia is here?" The question leaves your mouth so quickly that Fleamont looks momentarily caught off guard.

"Upstairs."

"Can I see her?" For a moment, both Potters simply stare at you. Then Fleamont lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head.

"Oh, she's going to adore you."

Despite your repeated attempts to convince him otherwise, Fleamont insists on treating your visit like an occasion. By the time you and James finally manage to sit down, menus have already appeared on the table, someone has been sent upstairs to fetch Euphemia, and Fleamont is still hovering nearby as though personally responsible for ensuring you have the perfect dining experience.

"You can have anything you'd like, Your Highness," he says, setting the menus down in front of you. "Absolutely anything."

"Please. There’s no need for the formalities and titles while I'm here," you reply immediately. 

A laugh escapes him. "All right then. Anything you'd like."

You open the menu while James settles into the seat across from you with an ease. The difference is subtle, but impossible to miss once you see it. The constant vigilance remains, woven too deeply into him to disappear entirely, yet something about being here has softened the sharp edges of it. His shoulders are less tense, his expression less guarded. For the first time since leaving the palace, he looks entirely at home.

“What’s good?” you ask, glancing up from the menu.

James lets out a quiet laugh, leaning back in his chair as he glances at the page without much real effort, as if he already knows exactly what he’s going to say before you even asked. “Everything, honestly,” he replies, like that should somehow narrow your options instead of making them worse.

You narrow your eyes at him immediately. “That was completely unhelpful, James.”

His mouth twitches, finding that more amusing than insulting. “Alright, fine. If you actually want something good, get the caldo de pollo. That’s my personal favourite.”

You glance back down at the menu, then back at him. “What’s actually in it?”

“It's chicken soup, but not the boring kind. There’s chicken, rice, garlic, lime, vegetables, and a mix of herbs that my father gets exported.”

You hum softly at that, still studying the menu. “So it’s the signature dish?”

“Yeah,” he says without hesitation. “It’s the signature in the restaurant.”

That pulls your attention up again. “Did he always want to open a restaurant?”

James shifts slightly in his seat, expression changing. “Not really. At least not at first. In my family, the expectation was always the Valenoran army. It runs through generations on both sides, so that’s what he joined when he was younger. Same thing my grandfather did, and his father before that.”

You tilt your head slightly. “So how did he end up here instead?”

There’s a small pause before James answers, a faint smile appearing like he’s heard this story before and still finds it strange in the best way. “He got older, I guess. He said he spent most of his life talking about food whenever he was on leave, more than anything else. My mum says the restaurant was the first time he ever chose something just because he wanted it, not because he was supposed to do it.”

You glance briefly toward the kitchen, where Fleamont is moving between counters with easy confidence, clearly in his element. “He seems happy,” you say quietly.

“He is,” James replies immediately, like there’s no room for doubt in it at all.

You close the menu after a moment, making your decision. “Alright. I’ll have what you’re having.”

James looks at you for a second, mildly incredulous. “That’s not really a reason to order food, you know.”

“It’s the reason I’m using,” you say simply.

That earns the faintest laugh from him as he leans back again. “Yeah. I’m starting to notice a pattern with you.”

A beat passes before Fleamont claps his hands together from across the room. "Right. I'm going to get Euphemia before she finds out later that you're here and murders me for not telling her immediately."

The threat seems entirely genuine. A moment later, footsteps echo overhead, followed by the sound of a door opening upstairs.

The reaction is instantaneous. The second Euphemia Potter spots you from the landing, she gasps and presses a hand to her chest. "Oh, sweetheart—"

You're already on your feet before she reaches the bottom of the stairs.

The moment she's close enough, you throw your arms around her. Surprise stiffens her shoulders for the briefest second before she wraps her arms around you just as tightly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as though she still can't quite believe you're standing in front of her.

She had probably expected something more appropriate, like a greeting or a curtsy.

Instead, you’re clutching her like you’ve finally reached home, because that’s what Euphemia feels like; home.

She had never felt like part of the palace to you. While everyone else seemed to belong to that world of endless rules, she’d always existed just outside of it. 

When you were younger and your powers first began manifesting in ways nobody could predict, there were weeks when you barely left your rooms. The palace physicians came and went. Tutors were dismissed. Servants watched you with nervous eyes.

Euphemia never did.

She would appear in the evenings carrying contraband from the kitchens and settle beside your bed as though nothing had changed, talking about whatever happened to cross her mind that day until you stopped feeling like someone dangerous that people needed to keep contained.

When Alaric and Cassian decided you were too young to follow them around the training grounds, it had been Euphemia who sat beside you while you cried dramatically into her lap about the cruelty of your older brothers.

When Elias seemed effortlessly good at everything while you struggled through endless lessons and restrictions, it had been Euphemia wiping your tears and telling you that being gentle was not the same thing as being weak.

She had never spoken to you like a princess, only like someone worth loving. Even now, with her arms around you, some part of that feeling returns.

“Oh, look at you,” Euphemia murmurs the second she pulls back enough to properly see your face. Both her hands come up immediately, cupping your cheeks as her eyes soften with something dangerously close to tears. “The last time I saw you, you barely came up to my shoulder.”

You laugh, though your throat feels suspiciously tight. “I wasn’t that small.”

“You were.” Her thumb brushes across your cheek. “And now you’ve gone and become an entire young woman while I wasn’t looking.”

“It’s only been a few years.”

“Exactly,” Euphemia says, as though that proves her point. “A few years too long.”

She takes you in fully then, gaze moving over your gown, your crown, the soft curls pinned back from your face. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says again, sounding genuinely overwhelmed now. “You’re beautiful.”

Heat rises immediately into your cheeks. “Don’t start or I’ll cry again.”

“Again?” James repeats from the table.

You point at him accusingly. “Don’t.”

Euphemia immediately turns toward her son. “James Potter, what did you do?”

“Nothing,” he says, offended. 

The answer rises to your tongue automatically, but before you can give it, your gaze drifts toward James out of pure instinct.

The mistake becomes apparent almost immediately.

He's already looking at you from across the room, one arm draped over the back of his chair, his attention fixed entirely on you with ease that catches you off guard. There isn't a trace of the usual sarcasm lurking at the corners of his mouth, nor the dry amusement he wears like armor whenever anyone gets too close to him. For once, he's not trying to hide behind anything at all, and the simple warmth in his expression hits with enough force that you find yourself glancing see away before you've fully processed it.

You suddenly become very interested in Euphemia. “He’s been…” You clear your throat slightly. “He’s been doing an adequate job.”

James scoffs from behind you. “That’s devastating considering I’ve prevented at least four disasters this week alone.”

“Only four?”

“See?” he says to his mother. “Completely unappreciated.”

Euphemia laughs before swatting his shoulder as she passes him. “Go help your father before he starts pretending he can manage everything alone again.”

James groans under his breath but still gets up, and you watch him move behind the counter toward the kitchens while Fleamont immediately starts talking at him like he isn’t already fully aware of where everything is, rolling his sleeves back in that familiar way that suggests this is something he’s done a hundred times before.

Something about the scene settles oddly in your chest.

Nothing about it feels staged or considered. There’s no awareness of being watched, no shift in behavior to match expectation, it’s just a family moving around each other with the kind of ease that comes from repetition and belonging, from knowing exactly where you fit without needing to be told. 

You sink back into your chair slowly, letting yourself take the restaurant in properly while their voices blend together somewhere behind the kitchen doors.

The interior is beautiful.

Everything is wood and warmth and life. Paintings cover the walls in mismatched frames, some landscapes, some old portraits, some clearly done by friends rather than professionals. Dried herbs hang near the windows beside climbing ivy, and the late afternoon sunlight spilling through the glass turns the entire room gold.

Your attention drifts back toward the little boy from earlier, who is sitting alone at the table near the window while his mother stands outside speaking with an elderly woman. 

His feet swing idly beneath the chair as he traces absent patterns across the wooden tabletop with his fingertips, seemingly content to entertain himself while he waits.

You watch him for a moment before realizing that he isn’t actually alone at all. Every few seconds his head turns slightly toward a nearby conversation, then toward the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, then toward the front door as somebody enters laughing. He seems to be mapping the entire room through sound alone.

The realization washes over you. 

You had noticed his eyes earlier, of course, but only in passing. Now, from across the room, the clouded whiteness of his pupils becomes impossible to miss, and suddenly a dozen small things click into place all at once.

Without thinking too much about it, you push back your chair and make your way toward his table.

The moment you’re close enough, the boy’s head lifts. “Hello?” he says politely.

His voice is cautious but not frightened, carrying the practiced confidence of somebody accustomed to identifying strangers without ever seeing them.

You stop beside the table and offer him a small smile before remembering he cannot see it.

“Hi,” you say instead. “Would you mind if I sat with you for a minute?”

Surprise flashes briefly across his face, followed quickly by uncertainty, as if he’s deciding whether there’s a correct answer to give. “Oh. Um, no, that’s okay.”

You pull out the chair across from him and settle into it, noticing the way his fingers stay lightly curled around the edge of the table, not quite tense but constantly aware, like touch is how he keeps track of the world when sight won’t cooperate.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, the sounds of the restaurant filling the space between you in a way that feels oddly easy, unforced.

“What’s your name?” he asks after a while.

The question is simple, but it catches you slightly off guard anyway. Most people already know who you are before you ever say a word, which has made introductions feel like something that doesn’t really belong to you anymore.

“My name is Y/N.”

There’s a short pause before his expression shifts with recognition.

“Oh,” he says, a little brighter now. “You’re the princess.”

You almost smile at that.

“And you are?” you ask gently.

He straightens a little in his chair, like the question matters more than it should, and answers with quiet certainty, “Rowan.”

A small laugh escapes him before he shifts in his chair and adds, “My mum talks about you sometimes.”

That surprises you. “Hopefully nice things.”

“They are nice things.”

The answer comes so quickly and sincerely that your chest tightens.

Rowan reaches for the glass in front of him, finding it effortlessly without looking. “She says you helped pay for the new school roof after the storm.”

You blink in surprise since the project had happened years ago. You had barely thought about it since. “Oh.”

Rowan shrugs as though he doesn’t understand why you seem surprised. “People talk about that sort of thing.”

The conversation comes easier after that.

Children, you’ve always noticed, care very little for titles once they stop being intimidated by them. Within minutes he’s talking freely enough that you almost forget you met him less than five minutes ago.

He tells you about the stray cat that keeps sleeping outside his apartment despite technically belonging to someone else. He tells you his mother burns toast nearly every morning because she gets distracted while reading. He tells you he hates rainy weather because it makes the streets too slippery to walk confidently.

You find yourself smiling more with every sentence.

“And then Ma dropped the basket directly into the fountain,” Rowan says dramatically, hands moving as he talks. “Like fully into the water.”

You laugh. “No.”

“Yes! And then she tried to pretend she did it on purpose.”

“That sounds exactly like something my brother Cassian would do.”

“Does he also lie badly?”

“Terribly.”

Rowan beams at that. Then, after a moment, he says casually, “We might be leaving soon anyway.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Leaving?”

He nods. “To Solistia, maybe.” His fingers trace lightly against the edge of the cup in front of him while he speaks. “Ma heard there are healers there.”

Something in your expression must shift because his voice softens slightly after that.

“I’m sick,” he says with a little shrug, like it’s no big deal. “Or I was. I don’t really know anymore.”

You don’t interrupt, sensing that this is not the sort of story people often allow him to tell all the way through.

“I could see fine when I was really little,” he continues, his fingers moving in small circles on the tabletop. “Then stuff started getting blurry. Now I mostly just see light sometimes.”

The words land with a quiet heaviness that seems entirely lost on him. There is no bitterness in his voice, no self-pity, only the matter-of-fact acceptance of someone who has been carrying the same reality for so long that he no longer remembers what it felt like before.

“But there’s supposed to be a cure in Solistia,” he adds a moment later, sounding brighter. “That’s what my ma keeps saying.”

“A cure?” you ask softly.

Rowan nods immediately, hope lighting every part of his expression. “That’s what everyone says. People come from all over to see the healers there, and my ma thinks they might be able to help me too.”

For a brief moment, your gaze drops to your hands.

Healing.

The word settles somewhere deep inside your chest and refuses to leave.

Because you can heal him.

The certainty arrives instantly, as natural and undeniable as breathing. The moment you truly looked at him, you felt it; that familiar pull beneath your skin, that awareness that always appears in the presence of pain, illness, or injury. It is already reaching toward him before you consciously stop it, drawn to the damage in the same instinctive way water seeks a crack in stone.

But you also know exactly what would happen if you tried.

Your mother’s voice still echoes clearly enough in your head after all these years.

Your abilities are not for strangers.

You swallow hard before Rowan notices the shift in your expression. “That sounds hopeful,” you say gently instead.

He smiles. “I think so too.”

Before either of you can say anything else, the kitchen door swings open again.

Euphemia walks back into the dining room balancing several plates effortlessly across her arms while Fleamont follows behind her carrying another tray, the smell of fresh bread and herbs filling the room almost instantly.

“There we are,” she says brightly. “Absolutely no one is starving under my roof, especially not guests.”

You stand immediately to help her despite the way she already starts shaking her head in protest. “Careful, sweetheart,” she laughs as you take one of the plates from her hands. “You’re dressed far too nicely to be trusted around hot soup.”

“I survived years of palace etiquette lessons,” you reply, carefully setting the plate down. “I think I can manage soup without causing an incident.”

Fleamont snorts as he places the tray onto the table. “Confident words from someone who’s never witnessed Euphemia spill an entire pot of stew on a duke.”

“That happened once,” Euphemia says defensively.

You laugh despite yourself, the sound slipping out more easily than anything has all evening, while Rowan’s mother hurries back into the room apologising profusely for leaving him alone for so long. The table quickly fills with dishes, and the smell alone is enough to make your stomach tighten painfully with sudden hunger.

James drops back into his chair across from you just as Euphemia finishes setting down the final plate. “Told you it’d be good,” he says with unmistakable satisfaction.

“You haven’t even let me taste it yet.”

“I know my father’s cooking,” he replies easily. “I don’t need confirmation to know I’m right.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself as you finally sit back down, but your attention drifts again toward the walls surrounding the dining room now that you have a moment to properly look at them.

There are paintings everywhere.

Some are small enough to fit between shelves while others stretch across entire sections of wooden paneling, filling the room with colour and warmth. Landscapes mostly. The capital painted in soft evening light. Forests heavy with mist and gold. Oceans caught somewhere between stormy and calm, the blues so vivid they almost seem alive beneath the candlelight.

“They’re beautiful,” you say honestly, your gaze lingering on one of the larger paintings near the fireplace.

Euphemia visibly brightens at the compliment. “Aren’t they just?”

You glance toward her. “Who painted them?”

“Oh,” she says immediately, clearly pleased by the question. “Most of those were painted by James.”

For a moment, you just look at her in genuine surprise, the answer not quite settling at first, before your attention slowly shifts back to him.

James is suddenly very invested in his piece of bread, tearing it apart with an intensity that suggests it has become the most important object in the room.

“You paint?” you ask.

He gives a small, almost absent shrug without looking up. “Sometimes.”

That earns him a longer stare from you as you glance back at the walls again, now seeing them differently. “Sometimes?” you repeat, more incredulous now. “James, these are incredible!”

Only then does he look up, and when he does, there’s a faint blush on his cheeks. “My mother exaggerates.”

“I absolutely do not,” Euphemia cuts in at once, without missing a beat. “That boy has been painting since he was old enough to get charcoal all over my curtains.”

You glance back at the paintings again, something shifting in your expression as you take them in properly now that you know they’re his. They don’t feel different exactly, but they feel clearer, as if you can suddenly see the same person reflected in all of them.

And then Euphemia adds, almost casually, “He started painting you constantly after he began training at the palace.”

James nearly chokes on his drink. “Mother!”

You turn toward him so quickly your chair scrapes sharply against the floor. “What?”

Euphemia looks completely unbothered by his horror. “Oh, sweetheart, you should see them properly someday. Half the upstairs hallway looks like a royal portrait gallery at this point.”

“Ma, please stop.” James repeats flatly, the colour already climbing high across his cheeks.

“What?” she asks innocently. “It’s true. There are sketches and paintings. Honestly, I think I’ve watched this boy spend more hours staring at you than his own military reports—”

You stare at him in genuine disbelief as you interrupt Euphemia in shock. “You painted me multiple times?”

James leans back in his chair like he is reconsidering every decision that led him to this exact moment. “You’re making me sound like a creep.”

Euphemia laughs warmly at his misery while you continue staring at him, unable to stop smiling now despite his obvious embarrassment.

“You never told me this,” you say.

“Because unlike my mother, I possess privacy.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Euphemia says. “They’re lovely paintings.”

James drops his head briefly into one hand. “I cannot believe this family betrays me so casually.”

James closes his eyes for a long second before finally looking back at you with the exhausted expression of a man accepting defeat.

“You are all profoundly irritating people.”

But when your laughter dies down and the teasing fades slightly, the embarrassment on his face shifts into silence.

“You really painted me?” you ask again, softer this time once his parents are out of sight.

For the first time since the conversation started, James holds your gaze without looking away. The amusement fades from his expression little by little until only honesty remains beneath it, warm and unguarded enough to make your chest tighten unexpectedly.

Then he leans back slightly in his chair and says, almost casually, “You’re very difficult not to paint.”

And somehow that feels infinitely worse than if he had simply admitted it outright.

“I’d love to see those paintings one day, James’’ you whisper warmly as you start stirring your soup.

James smiles in embarrassment. “Don’t let it get to your head, I painted them when I was fifteen. Now eat your soup, princess.”

“Whatever you say, Picasso.’’ you snicker, which has him laughing loudly as he tries eating his dish.

The tension dissolves little by little after that, settling into something easier as everyone finally begins eating properly.

And the food is good.

Alarmingly good, actually.

You had expected something warm and comforting, but Fleamont’s cooking somehow tastes both effortless and impossibly practiced, the kind of meal made by people who feed others out of instinct rather than obligation. 

Between Euphemia’s constant commentary, Rowan interrupting every conversation he can reach, and James arguing with his father over whether too much garlic makes the dish better, the entire room feels painfully alive in a way palace dinners almost never do.

Nobody here waits for permission to speak. They interrupt each other. Laugh over one another. Complain loudly. Tease freely. It is messy and warm and entirely unfamiliar.

At some point, you realise you have stopped sitting with your shoulders tense.

You catch James watching you from across the table for half a second before he leans back slightly in his chair, one corner of his mouth lifting faintly. “You’re smiling,” he says, sounding almost suspicious about it.

You glance up from your plate. “Am I not allowed to?”

“I didn’t say that.” He tears another piece of bread apart casually. “It’s just rare. Usually you look like you’re enduring social interaction rather than participating in it.”

“That’s because most social interaction is something to endure.”

James laughs under his breath, and for a moment the conversation around you fades into the background beneath the softer rhythm settling between the two of you. Then, almost too casually, he asks, “So tonight’s your birthday ball, right?”

You nod once. “Unfortunately.”

“Which means,” he continues carefully, “it’s also apparently the beginning of several kingdoms trying to marry you off to their sons.”

You let out a long sigh through your nose. “Ah. So we’ve reached that topic now.”

“I’m curious,” he says easily, though there is something sharper beneath the amusement in his voice now. “Are you actually expected to choose one of them?”

You lift your spoon thoughtfully like you are considering it very seriously. “Oh, absolutely.”

James narrows his eyes slightly, already sensing trouble. “You sound quite enthusiastic about getting married.”

You smile sweetly. “Because I’ve decided I’m going to pick the worst possible prince available.”

James stares at you for exactly one second before laughing outright. “I’m sorry?”

“I mean it,” you continue, leaning back in your chair with complete confidence now. “I’m going to find the single most disastrous option imaginable and devote my entire evening to encouraging him.”

Across the table, James looks immediately intrigued. “Continue.”

“Oh, I have a strategy already.” You wave your spoon vaguely. “There’s always at least one terrible prince at these things. Usually several. The arrogant ones are easiest to identify. So, really, it won’t be that hard to find a horrible prince and pick him as my option.”

“And your plan is what exactly? Publicly humiliate that poor prince?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of deeply encouraging his worst qualities until my mother bans him from the kingdom herself and cancels the idea of a marriage.”

James laughs again, quieter this time, genuinely entertained now. “That is an awful idea.”

“It’s an excellent idea if you truly think about it.”

He shakes his head, still smiling into his drink. “You seem disturbingly excited about this.”

“I am excited,” you say immediately. “You underestimate how good I am at making first impressions and figuring people out quickly.”

James leans back slightly, resting one arm against the table as he studies you with open curiosity now. “Oh really?” he asks. “And what exactly was your first impression of me, Your Highness?” the sarcasm in the title makes your eyes narrow automatically.

“You truly want the honest answer?”

“Always.”

You look at him for a moment over the rim of your glass, and suddenly the question feels less playful than it did a second ago. “At first,” you admit slowly, “I thought you were unbelievably irritating.”

James places a hand dramatically against his chest. “I’m offended.”

“No, genuinely,” you continue, already laughing slightly. “You talked too much. You were constantly everywhere. You kept banning me from climbing things. I distinctly remember thinking you were the most annoying person I had ever met.”

“Especially since…” Your voice softens slightly. “after the healing incident when we were kids, I hated you for a while.”

The amusement fades from his expression immediately. Around you, the rest of the table continues talking loudly amongst themselves, unaware of the quieter conversation unfolding at your end of it.

James looks down briefly at the table before speaking again. “...do you still?”

You exhale slowly, turning your spoon absentmindedly through the soup before answering. “No,” you say honestly. “Not anymore.”

He doesn’t interrupt, so you continue. “I think at the time I just needed someone to blame,” you admit. “Everything happened so quickly after that. My brothers told on me anyway, and honestly they probably would have eventually even if you’d never said anything to your mother about me healing Maximus.”

You glance down for a second before looking back at him again. “I was angry about being locked up. Angry that everyone suddenly looked at me differently afterward. Angry that I couldn’t heal properly anymore without my family panicking.”

A small shrug lifts your shoulders. “You just happened to be the easiest target.”

James stays quiet for a moment after that, his expression unreadable in the warm candlelight. “I did tell my mother,” he says eventually.

“I know.”

“And it did make things worse.”

“No,” you correct gently. “What made things worse was the palace deciding I needed to be hidden away afterward like I was dangerous.” Your mouth twists slightly. “You were a child, James. You saw a horse bleeding and tried to help. I don’t exactly think that makes you the villain in the story.”

Something in his face changes at that. Small enough most people would miss it entirely, but you see the way the tension eases from his shoulders little by little, like he has been carrying guilt about it for far longer than you realised.

Then, because the conversation has suddenly become too serious for your liking, you point your spoon toward him. “Besides,” you add lightly, “I don’t hate you anymore. You’re mostly tolerable now.”

“Mostly?”

“Mhm.” You nod solemnly. “Still deeply annoying though. I think it’s because you’re an only child,” you continue thoughtfully. “Only children tend to be unbelievably irritating.”

James looks offended immediately.

“I’m just saying. No siblings means nobody spent enough time humbling you during development.”

“I was humbled constantly.”

“Clearly not enough.”

He laughs despite himself, shaking his head as he points toward you accusingly. “You know, you’re significantly meaner than people at court think you are.”

“And you’re significantly more annoying than your reputation suggests,” you shoot back immediately.

James smiles slowly, resting back in his chair again as the candlelight catches the faint warmth still lingering across his face. “Careful,” he says lightly. “You’re getting dangerously close to sounding like you actually like me.”

You take another sip of your drink before answering with deliberate calm. “Don’t flatter yourself. I already said you’re tolerable. Let’s not get ambitious.”

By the time the meal finally begins winding down, the table has dissolved completely into overlapping conversations and lingering laughter.

For a little while, you had almost forgotten what waited outside these walls. Forgotten the palace. Forgotten the ball. Forgotten the suffocating weight of expectation waiting for you the second you returned.

James stands first once the last plates begin emptying, gathering several dishes into his hands before Fleamont can stop him. “Don’t start,” he says immediately as his father opens his mouth. “I live here too. I can carry plates.”

“A miracle,” Fleamont replies dryly. “Write that down, Euphemia. Our son has discovered responsibility.”

James rolls his eyes but takes the dishes anyway, disappearing toward the kitchen beside his father while Euphemia begins stacking the remaining bowls with practiced ease.

“You sit,” she tells you firmly the second you start reaching for one. “You’re a guest.”

You smile warmly at her and settle back into your chair instead, watching the room move around you for a moment. 

Rowan’s mother is helping him into his coat near the front of the restaurant, quietly apologizing to Euphemia for how late they stayed while Rowan insists he is awake enough to walk on his own despite very obvious evidence to the contrary.

You barely notice the small footsteps approaching until something pokes lightly against your arm. You glance down in surprise.

Rowan stands beside your chair, smiling up at you with the same bright warmth he has carried all evening.

“I wanted to say goodbye,” he says shyly. “Mama says we have to leave now because our carriage journey is long.”

“Well,” you say gently, “then I suppose I should wish you luck on your journey.”

His smile widens immediately. “Will you?”

“Of course.” You hold your arms open slightly. “Come here first.”

The grin that spreads across Rowan’s face is immediate, and before you can say anything else he throws his arms around you with wholehearted enthusiasm. You barely have time to react before you’re hugging him back, one hand settling between his shoulder blades as he squeezes you with complete trust, entirely unaware of the war unfolding inside your own head.

You know this is a terrible idea.

You know exactly why you’ve spent years learning restraint, why every lesson, every warning, every conversation behind closed doors has revolved around the dangers of using your abilities carelessly.

Magic like yours is not supposed to be given away on impulse. It is not supposed to be guided by emotion, by pity, or by the simple fact that someone deserves better than the hand they were dealt.

And yet Rowan had spent the entire afternoon navigating a world he could barely see, listening for footsteps instead of watching faces and finding his way through instinct rather than sight, and somehow he had remained brighter than almost anyone else in the room. 

There had been no resentment in him, no bitterness, no anger at the unfairness of it all. Just hope to find a cure in Solistia.

Before you can reconsider, you lift a hand and brush it gently against the side of his face. Rowan doesn’t flinch. He simply tilts instinctively into the touch, trusting you without question, and that trust alone is all that you need to feel confident in the choice you are about to make.

Your palm comes to rest lightly over his eyes.

The magic responds instantly, unfurling beneath your skin with a familiar warmth that spreads through your veins like liquid sunlight. 

You feel it gather beneath your ribs before flowing outward, answering a call that seems to exist beyond conscious thought, and the sensation is so deeply ingrained within you now that directing it requires almost no effort at all. 

Golden light slips between your fingers in delicate threads, faint enough to escape notice from anyone across the room, while the healing magic sinks quietly into him and begins searching for what is broken.

You feel it the moment it finds its target.

Not pain exactly, but damage. Years of it. Layer upon layer woven so deeply into him that it has become part of the way his body understands itself. The magic presses forward, mending what illness had taken and rebuilding what should have been there all along.

You keep your expression carefully neutral as the glow slowly fades, but your heart is pounding hard enough that you’re certain Rowan must be able to hear it.

When you finally pull your hand away, your pulse is hammering hard enough to make your fingertips tremble.

Rowan blinks against the sudden change, and for a moment you think nothing has happened at all. Then a faint crease appears between his brows as he squints slightly, his gaze moving uncertainly around the room while confusion slowly ebbs away. 

The clouded white veiling his eyes fades so gradually that it almost looks like a trick of the light, until hints of green begin emerging beneath it, growing clearer with every passing second.

His attention drifts toward the window first, drawn to the late afternoon sunlight pouring through the glass and painting the floor in bands of gold. 

Beyond it, people move along the street in a blur of color and motion, and Rowan stares as though he cannot quite believe any of it is real. 

His eyes track every detail greedily, lingering on things most people would never think twice about, while his breathing catches somewhere in the middle of it all.

When he looks back at the table between you, his eyes remain fixed there for several long seconds, tracing the carved grain of the wood as though he is seeing it for the very first time. 

Then his gaze drops to his own hands, turning them over carefully in his lap before he stares at the faint scar crossing one knuckle.

When his gaze finally settles back on you, it does so with sudden clarity, understanding arriving all at once across his expression. “You did this.”

You glance briefly around the restaurant before leaning in slightly, lowering your voice. “Keep your voice down.”

Rowan nods quickly, obeying at once, though the excitement in his face makes it clear how hard he is trying not to let it spill over into something louder. “How?” he asks, almost breathless now.

You hesitate, searching for words that won’t unravel what you just did. “I can’t really explain it.”

There is a short pause where he simply stares at you, before his expression shifts again, lighting up with sudden, unrestrained astonishment. “You’re a witch!” he whispers, as if it is the only explanation that could possibly fit what he has just experienced.

You immediately press a finger to your lips. “Shhh.”

His eyes widen even further now that he can actually see you doing it.

You laugh despite yourself. “No, I’m not,” you whisper back quickly. “I just… have strange powers. And you absolutely cannot tell anyone about this, alright?”

Rowan nods so fast it almost looks painful. “I promise,” he whispers immediately. “I swear. I won’t tell anyone.”

The excitement in his voice is so genuine it nearly makes you laugh again.

Before anyone can notice something is wrong, you straighten and take a small step back, forcing yourself to ignore the frantic pounding of your heart. “Good,” you murmur. “Now go before your mother starts worrying.”

Rowan nods immediately and turns toward the door, taking only three steps before abruptly stopping. For a second you think he’s remembered something, but then he spins around and launches himself back across the space between you.

The impact nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

His arms wrap tightly around your waist, holding on with a strength that seems impossible for someone his size. “Thank you,” he says, the words muffled against your shoulder. “Thank you so much.”

The sheer sincerity in his voice makes your throat tighten. Slowly, you wrap your arms around him and squeeze back. “You’re welcome.”

Rowan pulls away a moment later, though the excitement still seems to be radiating from every part of him, and you quickly crouch down before he can say anything else loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear.

“Before you go,” you say quietly, holding out your hand, “I need you to promise me something.”

His eyes immediately drop to your extended pinky. “A pinky promise?”

“A very serious pinky promise.”

Rowan hooks his finger around yours without hesitation.

“You cannot tell anyone what happened here. Not your mama, not your friends, not the people at school, and definitely not anyone you meet.”

A grin threatens to break across his face. “I can do that.”

You narrow your eyes. “If you tell anyone, your pinky breaks, Rowan.”

His expression becomes instantly solemn. “Oh.”

“Completely snaps off.”

Rowan gasps. “That’s horrible.”

“Terrible consequences for breaking a promise.”

For a moment he studies your face as though trying to determine whether you’re joking. Whatever conclusion he reaches seems satisfactory because he tightens his pinky around yours and nods firmly. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Satisfied, you release him.

The grin returns immediately. Then he’s gone.

He tears across the restaurant toward the front door with all the restraint of a runaway horse, already calling for his mother before he’s even reached her. Panic shoots through you so fast it nearly makes you dizzy.

The moment Rowan reaches the doorway, you turn sharply toward the opposite side of the restaurant and begin moving. Every instinct is screaming that you need to leave before anyone starts asking questions, before somebody notices Rowan staring at things he should not be able to see, and before his mother realizes what has happened and traces it back to the princess who had been sitting alone with him moments earlier.

Across the room, James is saying something to his father, neither of them paying attention to you yet.

You grab your cloak, offer the quickest excuse you can think of to the nearest person unfortunate enough to make eye contact with you, and head for the door with urgency, praying that by the time anyone starts putting the pieces together, you’ll already be halfway across the city.

“Fleamont,” you call lightly, already reaching for your coat. “Thank you for dinner. It was wonderful.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re leaving already?” Euphemia asks, looking genuinely disappointed as you cross the room toward her.

“I should get back before the palace sends out a search party.”

“That does sound terribly accurate for His Majesty, Edmund,” Fleamont mutters.

You laugh before leaning down to hug Euphemia tightly. She squeezes you immediately, warm and familiar. “You come back whenever you like,” she says firmly as she pulls away. “And preferably next time without armed guards waiting outside.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

James finally reappears from the kitchen just in time to watch you grab his sleeve. “We should go,” you say quickly.

He blinks. “What?”

“The guards are probably already preparing reports about me disappearing from the parade.”

“Right. Leaving. Understood.”

He barely has time to say goodbye before you are already dragging him toward the front entrance, ignoring his increasingly suspicious expression as the cold air rushes around you both outside the restaurant doors.

Behind you, inside the warmth of the restaurant, Rowan reaches his mother and comes to such an abrupt stop that she immediately drops to her knees in concern.

You don't hear what he says, but you see the exact moment her expression changes. 

Her hands fly to his cheeks, her expression crumpling as Rowan begins speaking so quickly he can barely get the words out, pointing excitedly around the room while tears gather in her eyes. 

A moment later she's pulling him into a fierce embrace, openly crying now as he laughs and talks over himself, overwhelmed by the simple miracle of being able to see her again.

And through it all, James remains completely none the wiser beside you. Euphemia and Fleamont, who have known Rowan since the day he was born, don't look surprised in the slightest when his mother tearfully announces that somehow, miraculously, her son's sight has returned.

a/n: now time for the long rant!!

this chapter was honestly so much fun to write, although it was also one of the most tedious. i ended up writing most of it while sitting in the hospital, so if the flow feels a little rougher than previous chapters, i sincerely apologize :( i promise the chapters coming up are much stronger and i'm really excited for you all to read them!!

reader finally reunited with euphemia yayyyy :3 i absolutely adore james' parents and i've been waiting forever to write them properly. they're such an important part of this story to me.

also, the parade isn't actually over yet! timeline-wise, reader and james spent around two and a half hours at the restaurant, so there's still less than an hour left of the procession. we'll be covering the rest of that in the next chapter along with the long-awaited ball where reader gets engaged (so sad)

now let's talk about rowan. my BABY. my sweet little child. i love him SO much.

for the first time in years, we finally see reader use her healing abilities on someone. her magic isn't particularly flashy or dramatic, which is why nobody immediately noticed what happened. whenever she heals someone, there's only a soft golden glow that comes from her hands, very similar to rapunzel's healing magic. so yes... she absolutely can heal blindness, and rowan has officially gotten his sight back ;)))

which means no trip to solistia after all HAHAHA

and euphemia and fleamont knowing exactly what happened at the end means so much to me. they've known reader since she was little. they've watched her grow up, watched her struggle, watched her become who she is, and they know better than almost anyone else what a miracle she truly is. i think there was something very special about them taking one look at rowan and immediately understanding that it was her kindness that gave this child his sight back.

anyways, this chapter is so cute but for some reason i kept reading it back and thinking i could've written parts of it better, so apologies if some sections feel weaker than i wanted them to. i think i've just stared at it for so long that i've lost all sense of perspective at this point 😭

as always, let me know your thoughts, theories, favorite moments, and predictions because reading your comments genuinely motivates me more than you know.

and as always, that's all from me for now. i really hope you enjoyed reading this chapter, and i hope you're all doing well, staying happy, healthy, and hydrated (the triple h's!)

every comment, theory, scream, keyboard smash, and reaction genuinely makes my day and helps keep me motivated, so please tell me your thoughts!!

see you in the next chapter loves <3 <3 <3

She smells like rose oil and fresh bread, which means she’s been sneaking around the kitchens again instead of attending to whatever duties she was actually meant to be doing.

You laugh despite yourself, hugging her just as fiercely. “Lily, you’ve already done more than enough.”

“I absolutely have not.” She pulls back just enough to look at you properly, hands still fixed around your arms. “It’s your birthday. I’m allowed to be unbearable today.”

“You’re usually unbearable every day.” you smile teasingly.

Lily gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest before turning on her heel and hurrying across the room. She returns almost immediately with a large box balanced carefully in her arms, a ribbon tied around it so neatly.

“There,” she says, setting it down in front of you with unmistakable satisfaction. “Open it before we run out of time.”

You lift the lid, peeling back the layers of tissue paper carefully, and the breath leaves you before you can stop it.

A gorgeous gown beneath catches the pale morning light pouring through the windows, lilac silk glowing soft as dusk beneath threads of gold woven through the corseted bodice and trailing down the skirt in delicate patterns that curl like climbing ivy.

“It’s finished…” you murmur, fingertips brushing lightly across the embroidery. The stitching is impossibly intricate up close. “Mary actually trusted you enough to help?”

Lily scoffs instantly, though the sudden colour rising to her cheeks betrays her almost at once. “Trusted is a very generous word. I simply refused to leave.”

You glance up slowly, already smiling. “Ahhh. So this had nothing to do with wanting an excuse to spend hours alone with the royal seamstress.”

Lily freezes for half a second before flushing outright. “Oh, for—will you just put the dress on?”

“So it did.” you smile mischievously.

“It did not,” she snaps, already pushing you gently toward the screen. “Change now before I regret making you anything at all.”

You grin as she begins pushing you toward the folding screen anyway, muttering complaints the entire time. There’s no point arguing once Lily decides something. The kingdom itself would sooner move its borders.

She follows you behind the screen without hesitation, lifting the gown from the box with surprising gentleness. The teasing fades from her expression almost instantly as she helps you into it, careful with every layer of fabric.

“Careful,” she murmurs quietly, mostly to herself now. “Wait, no, hold still for a second.”

You obey automatically, lifting your arms when she nudges at your elbow. The two of you fall into an easy rhythm you’ve known for years.

“You know,” Lily says after a moment as she tightens the laces at your back, fingers moving with confidence that comes from having dressed you a hundred times before, “you are alarmingly calm for someone who’s about to spend the evening trapped in a ballroom full of nobles asking when you intend to marry.”

You let out a long sigh, tipping your head back slightly. “Please don’t ruin my birthday before it’s even started.”

“I’m serious. Lady Ashbourne apparently arrived two days early just so she could parade her son around court.”

You glance at her through the mirror. “The terrifying blond one?”

“The very one.”

You stare ahead for a moment before saying flatly, “You know, he once told me my eyes looked like wet moss.”

Lily stops for half a second, then makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. “I’m sorry, he said what?”

“With full confidence,” you add. “Like he thought he’d said something meaningful.”

“That’s actually worse,” she says, still laughing under her breath as she goes back to tightening the corset. Lily shakes her head, pulling the laces a little more carefully now, her movements slowing as the dress starts to sit properly. “People are strange.”

“You’re just noticing this now?”

“I’m reminded of it every time I dress you for an event like this,” she says, softer, adjusting the final section so it sits snug but comfortable. “There. Don’t move too suddenly or you’ll regret it.”

You test your breath, then mutter, “I always regret something at these things anyway.”

“That’s the spirit,” she says, stepping back to look at the whole thing properly.

Lily threads the final lace through the corset. When she reaches the end, her movements slow slightly, careful as she pulls it snug against your waist. “There,” she says quietly once she ties it off.

Her hands linger for a brief second at your waist, smoothing the fabric almost absentmindedly before she steps back to look properly at her work.

The difference is astonishing.

The dress had looked beautiful folded inside the box, but wearing it is something else entirely. The lilac silk catches the morning light with every small movement, shifting between soft violet and muted silver where the sun reaches it.

Gold thread winds through the bodice in delicate patterns subtle enough not to overpower it, only glinting now and then when you turn. Around the waist, tiny embroidered flowers climb across the fabric in pale shades of blue and blush pink, so finely stitched they almost look painted on.

You run your hands lightly over the skirt, feeling the fabric around you.

“Wait,” Lily murmurs suddenly, already stepping closer again.

She adjusts the off-shoulder layer carefully where it’s slipped too low against your arm, fingertips feather-light as she smooths the sheer fabric into place. Then she reaches up to straighten your crown where it sits slightly crooked atop your head.

“Oh, Y/N…” Lily says your name so quietly it almost sounds like she forgot you could hear her.

You glance up at the mirror. “What?”

She’s just standing there staring at you with both hands still resting lightly near the ribbons at your back, like she’d been in the middle of fixing something and completely lost her train of thought halfway through it.

“What?” you repeat, laughing a little at the way Lily’s still staring at you.

Lily blinks once like she’s only just remembered she’s supposed to speak. “Sorry, I just—” She presses a hand briefly to her chest. “God, Y/N.”

You turn slightly toward her, smiling despite yourself. “That bad?”

“Mary did amazing,” Lily says immediately, stepping closer again to fix a piece of fabric near your sleeve even though it’s already perfect. “The dress is gorgeous, obviously, but it’s not even just the dress.”

Her eyes lift to yours through the mirror. “It’s you.”

The teasing fades out of her voice completely then, replaced by adoration and pride.“You look more like yourself than I think I’ve seen in a long time.”

You glance back toward the mirror automatically, fingertips smoothing over the fabric at your waist. The deep colour catches the candlelight every time you move, rich enough to look almost molten in places.

“It might be a little much,” you admit, though there’s barely any conviction behind it now.

Lily lets out a soft scoff. “It’s your birthday. You’re allowed to be a little much.”

You laugh under your breath, and before you can answer, Lily suddenly steps forward and wraps her arms around you. The hug catches you off guard enough that you freeze for half a second before hugging her back.

“I know your parents are probably going to find some way to make today difficult,” she says softly near your ear, her voice losing all its usual sharpness for once. “But I’m really proud of you, Y/N.”

Lily pulls back just enough to look at you properly. “And I need you to be selfish for once. Just once.” She gives you a small look. “You are genuinely one of the most selfless people I know, and it’s okay to think about yourself sometimes when everyone else around you spends all their time thinking about themselves.”

You stare at her for a second before a smile slowly pulls at your mouth. “Is this your way of approving whatever rebellious thing I end up doing today?”

Lily laughs immediately. “I don’t know what you’re planning,” she says, which already sounds unconvincing. “But I do know you’re absolutely planning something.”

“And?”

“And it probably involves James somehow.”

You fail completely at hiding your expression. Lily points at you at once. “See? That face alone just confirmed everything.”

You laugh, shaking your head as she grins at you triumphantly.

“I’m not encouraging it,” Lily says, still smiling as she reaches up to straighten one last piece of your hair. “I’m just saying that if, hypothetically, you decided to do something slightly reckless for your own happiness today…” She shrugs lightly. “I might understand it.”

“Now, come on,” she says eventually, pushing herself upright again. “Everyone’s waiting for you downstairs.”

You nod, reaching for the door handle and pulling it open—

only to jump violently as two figures practically throw themselves forward from the other side.

“Happy birthday!”

Cassian’s voice rings through the corridor loud enough to make you flinch before Elias can even finish laughing beside him, both of them lunging forward at once and nearly knocking you off balance with the force of the hug they pull you into.

You barely manage to brace yourself against Cassian’s shoulder as they crush you between them. “God, are you trying to kill me?” you laugh, shoving uselessly at both of them. “Get off.”

“No,” Elias says immediately into your hair.

“You’re our beloved sister,” Cassian adds solemnly. “This affection is mandatory.”

“You’re both horrible—” You open your mouth to answer before properly looking at them for the first time. “Oh my god.”

Cassian grins instantly. “What?”

Both of them are wearing crooked grey wigs that sit unevenly on their heads, paired with ridiculous curled mustaches that look seconds away from peeling off their faces entirely. Elias’s is hanging halfway loose already.

You stare at them in disbelief. “What exactly am I looking at?”

Cassian spreads his arms proudly. “Age representation.”

“You’re turning old,” Elias says with a deeply serious nod. “We thought we should honour that.”

Cassian hums in agreement. “Three more birthdays and they’ll start introducing suitors with bad knees.” Then his gaze drifts properly over you for the first time, the joke softening slightly at the edges. “Oh.”

You raise a brow. “Oh?”

“You actually don’t look half bad.”

Elias nods immediately beside him. “Like properly royal terrifying. I feel like I should bow or apologise for something.”

“That might be the nicest thing either of you have ever said to me.”

“You look beautiful,” Elias says more honestly this time, the teasing fading just enough for you to hear it properly beneath the grin. “Seriously.”

Something in your chest warms a little at that before Cassian ruins the moment entirely by squinting at you. “You definitely look expensive enough to scare men.”

“There it is,” you sigh.

“Had to balance the sincerity somehow.”

Before you can answer, movement further down the corridor catches your attention.

James.

He’s already halfway toward you, calm and composed. Even from a distance, he looks perfectly put together, dark formal clothes immaculate, posture straight, expression unreadable except for the faintest hint of amusement lingering in his eyes as he takes in the scene before him.

More specifically, your brothers, and their wigs.

Cassian, somehow, still has the confidence to stand there proudly.

James stops in front of the four of you and bows neatly, precise enough to satisfy court etiquette. “Your Highnesses.”

Elias doesn’t even let him straighten fully before grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him into a quick embrace. “Potter,” he says, “where the hell have you been?”

James lets out a quiet laugh, clearly caught off guard for only a moment before returning it easily. “Prince Elias—”

“I have told you repeatedly not to call me that.”

James pulls back slightly, expression smooth as ever. “Elias, then. I’ve been exactly where I was assigned to be.”

Elias pulls back from James with a scoff, though the grin never fully leaves his face. “Honestly, Sirius has spent more time with me than with you lately. It’s starting to get concerning.”

“That,” James replies smoothly, “would be because Sirius is still stationed with the outer guard. I’m not.”

Cassian folds his arms. “And you actually prefer this assignment?”

James barely pauses before answering. “It’s my duty.”

Elias groans immediately. “There he goes again.”

“What?”

“You always say things like that,” Elias says, waving a hand vaguely. “‘It’s my duty.’ ‘It’s my responsibility.’ One day you’re going to wake up and realise you sound exactly like someone’s exhausted father.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. James looks entirely unimpressed. “Somebody in this palace has to behave like an adult.”

Elias studies him for a second before grinning again, entirely unconvinced. “You know, when we were younger, I genuinely thought you’d grow out of the whole honourable knight routine.”

James exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head slightly, though his eyes drift toward you again for half a second longer than necessary before Cassian suddenly straightens.

“Oh, wait.”

Elias blinks. “What?”

“The presents.” Cassian mutters to his brother.

Elias’s eyes widen dramatically. “Oh, shit. Right.”

You laugh immediately as both of your brothers turn around at the exact same time and disappear back down the corridor in a rush of overlapping voices.

(“How did we forget the entire reason we came here?” “Because you were busy harassing Potter.” “You were also harassing Potter.” “Yes, but I’m not the one responsible for remembering things.”)

A few moments later, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes back down the corridor before Elias and Cassian reappear carrying several boxes between them, both looking far too pleased with themselves.

“There we are,” Elias says brightly, already pushing one of the boxes into your hands before you can properly react. “Now it’s a birthday.”

Cassian points at the larger one immediately. “Open mine first.”

Elias is practically vibrating beside him. “Just open it.”

You laugh under your breath before setting the boxes carefully atop the nearby table. James steps aside to give you room while Lily lingers near the doorway, already smiling like she knows exactly what’s coming.

The first box is heavier than expected. Your brows pull together slightly as you undo the clasps and lift the lid.

“Oh my god.”

Cassian immediately looks smug. “Yeah, alright, I know.”

Nestled inside the velvet lining sits a crossbow so beautiful it barely looks real.

The polished wood gleams dark beneath the corridor light, carved with intricate silver detailing curling along the limbs in elegant patterns you recognise instantly as royal craftsmanship. The bolts resting beside it are sharper than anything you’ve ever owned, their metal tips glinting dangerously even untouched.

But it’s the engraving near the handle that makes your breath catch.

Your initials.

Carefully etched into the wood and painted in deep royal purple.

For a second, you can only stare at it. Then a squeal escapes you before you can stop yourself. “Cassian!”

You practically throw yourself at him, nearly crushing him in another hug as he laughs loudly, stumbling backward from the force of it. “Oh my god, thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, grinning despite himself as he pats your back awkwardly. “Just don’t let Mother find out I bought you a weapon or she’ll have me executed by sunrise.”

Elias cuts in. “‘Crossbows are for soldiers, Cassian. Your sister is a lady, Cassian.’” He pitches his voice higher in a terrible imitation that makes James choke on a laugh.

Cassian points at him. “Exactly that.”

You pull back just enough to look at the crossbow again, still slightly stunned. “This must have cost a fortune.”

Cassian shrugs with exaggerated casualness. “Worth it.”

You run your fingers carefully along the engraved detailing again, almost afraid to touch it too roughly. “It’s beautiful.”

His expression softens at that, just briefly. “I knew you’d like it.”

“I love it.” You laugh again, warmth blooming painfully in your chest before Elias suddenly nudges the second box toward you. “Alright,” he says impatiently. “Mine now.”

You glance at him with a smile before carefully lifting the second lid.

Unlike Cassian’s gift, this one isn’t a single item. Inside rests a beautifully crafted wooden paint case lined with rows of rich oil paints in colours so vibrant they almost glow beneath the light. Beside them sit delicate brushes with polished handles and fine sable bristles, far finer than any you’ve ever been allowed to own before.

Your face immediately lights up. “Eli…”

“I remembered you staring at that set in the artisan district last year,” he says quickly, suddenly looking weirdly nervous about it. “You wouldn’t stop talking about the pigments.”

You reach down carefully, fingertips brushing over the paints in disbelief. “These are imported.”

“Yup,” Elias says, leaning one shoulder against the wall as though he hadn’t spent the last month secretly tracking the set down across half the city. “The shopkeeper kept trying to explain why the paints were worth an absurd amount of money. Something about imported pigments and handcrafted brushes and techniques passed down through generations. I nodded at the appropriate moments and stopped listening after the word rare.”

You can’t help laughing as you lift one of the brushes carefully from the case, turning it gently between your fingers. Even the handle is beautifully made, polished dark wood carved with delicate silver detailing near the base, the bristles impossibly soft compared to the stiff palace brushes usually handed to noble children and promptly forgotten abou

“You actually remembered,” you say, looking back at Elias in disbelief.

He immediately rolls his eyes like the sentiment embarrasses him. “Of course I remembered. You spent the entire journey home from the artisan district talking about those paints.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself as you place the brush back carefully, but when you begin settling the paint case into the box again, something beneath it catches your attention.

Your brows knit together slightly. “There’s more?”

Elias suddenly looks far too pleased with himself, which immediately tells you this was intentional. “Maybe.”

You lift the bottom layer of velvet lining and freeze when you see the thick leather-bound book hidden beneath it.

The cover is a deep forest green faded softly at the corners with age, intricate gold lettering curling elegantly across the spine. Even before opening it, you know exactly what kind of book it is.

Your fingers brush over the cover almost reverently before you flip carefully through the first few pages. Detailed botanical illustrations fill the parchment. Medicinal herbs. Wildflowers. Rare mountain plants. Notes written in faded ink line the margins beside diagrams so intricate they look almost hand-painted.

Your eyes widen immediately. “Eli.”

This time when you look up at him, he’s grinning openly now, all traces of fake nonchalance gone from his face.

“I found it in one of the old southern markets,” he says. “There was this ancient bookseller who refused to let me touch anything without gloves because apparently I looked destructive.”

“That was a fair assumption,” Cassian mutters.

Elias ignores him entirely. “Anyway, he said the book belonged to a royal physician years ago. I saw the herb sections and thought of you immediately.”

You look back down at the pages, completely absorbed already. There are detailed sketches of moonwort and wintershade, entire sections dedicated to healing plants found only in colder regions, pressed diagrams explaining the differences between herbs that look nearly identical despite one being medicinal and the other poisonous.

“It has annotations,” you murmur, almost to yourself as you notice handwritten notes squeezed carefully between paragraphs. “Whoever owned this actually used it.”

“I know,” Elias says, and for once his voice softens a little around the edges. “I thought you’d love that part.”

Love doesn’t even begin to cover it. You keep turning pages, finding more and more details tucked between them. Drying methods. Seasonal growth patterns. Entire passages dedicated to flowers you’ve only ever heard mentioned in old stories.

“This is incredible,” you say finally, looking back up at him. “Seriously, Elias, I can’t believe you found something like this.”

He shrugs, but there’s obvious satisfaction in the way he’s watching your reaction now. “I figured if anyone would appreciate a seven-hundred-page book about dangerous plants, it’d probably be you.”

Another laugh slips out of you, softer now, but this time it catches strangely in your chest because suddenly the full weight of everything they’ve done settles over you all at once.

None of the gifts were random. Not a single one.

The crossbow Cassian knew you’d never be allowed to ask for openly. The paints you’d spent months admiring without ever expecting to own. The herb book filled with subjects you’d rambled about for years while everyone else politely lost interest halfway through.

They’d noticed all of it.

You look between both of your brothers and feel something warm and painfully fond tighten beneath your ribs.

“You two are amazing,” you say quietly, though there’s no real criticism left in the words anymore.

Cassian grins immediately. “That’s not new information.”

“No, I mean it.” You close the herb book carefully against your chest before looking at them properly again. “This is genuinely one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

Elias’s expression softens first, something quieter slipping through the usual teasing. “You deserve nice things.”

“And honestly,” Cassian adds, “you’re terrifyingly easy to shop for. You either want weapons, art supplies, or books about poisonous plants.”

You shake your head, laughing a little under your breath before stepping forward and wrapping your arms around Elias hard enough to make him stumble back a step.

He hugs you immediately, nearly crushing you against his chest just to be annoying. “So,” he says after a second, voice muffled against your shoulder, “safe to assume I’ve moved up the rankings?”

“Temporary promotion,” you mumble.

Cassian lets out a deeply offended noise from across the room. “Are you serious? I get you a handcrafted crossbow with your initials engraved into it and he’s winning because of a plant book?”

“It’s a very good plant book,” Elias says.

“It’s still a book.”

“And your gift was still a weapon.”

“A beautiful weapon.”

Elias finally pulls away, reaching up to fix the fake moustache peeling off one side of his face as he starts toward the corridor again. “Besides, who said I’m her favourite?”

“If anything,” he adds, glancing back at you, “it’s probably Alaric.”

Cassian looks personally betrayed by that suggestion too. “Oh, that’s worse somehow.”

You lean against the doorway, still laughing quietly as the two of them keep arguing their way down the hall. Then the mention of Alaric catches up with you. “Actually,” you call after them, “where is Alaric?”

Both of them slow immediately. Elias sighs before turning back around. “Still with Father.”

“At this hour?” you ask.

“There’s apparently some issue with tonight’s seating arrangements,” he says, sounding exhausted on Alaric’s behalf already. “And after that there was a council meeting, then something involving trade routes, and now Mother’s apparently redesigning half the ballroom because she decided the flowers looked depressing.”

Cassian winces. “Poor guy.”

Your smile fades slightly. “I feel like we barely see him anymore.”

The words come out quieter than you intended. It’s true, though. Alaric used to spend evenings with the rest of you whenever he could, usually sitting through dinner looking exhausted while Cassian irritated him for entertainment. Lately, he’s either in meetings or locked away with tutors and advisors or trailing after your parents through endless royal obligations that never seem to end.

Elias leans against the banister with a small shrug. “Father’s preparing him for the throne. That’s basically his entire life now.”

Cassian, meanwhile, looks completely unbothered by the idea. “It doesn’t seem all that bad, at least he’s gonna be a king,” he says. “I wish I could be in his place.”

“That would be a disaster” Elias says, “ because you’d be a terrible king.”

“I’d be a fun king.”

“You’d bankrupt the kingdom within a month.”

You shake your head, smiling faintly despite yourself. “I still think it sounds miserable.”

“Exactly,” Elias says immediately. “Imagine spending every day in meetings while Mother screams instructions at you for six straight hours.”

Cassian snorts. “Alright, fair point. I forgot about that part.”

Elias straightens after a moment, glancing toward the staircase. “We should go before Mother notices we disappeared.” Cassian adjusts his crooked wig again with absolutely no dignity left in it. “If she sees this moustache, I’m finished.”

You shake your head, still smiling as they start to move off again. Elias pauses mid-step like he’s just remembered something. “Right. And you should get ready for your parade. It’s in an hour.”

Cassian points at you. “Yeah. Try not to look like you’re about to bite someone’s head off during it.”

“Can’t promise anything,” you say.

“Happy birthday,” Elias adds, a little quieter now.

“Yeah,” Cassian follows, lifting a hand in a loose wave. “Happy birthday. Try not to embarrass the family name too badly.”

They start toward the stairs again, Cassian muttering about wigs. Elias slows just before he reaches the end of the hallway.

He turns back, steps in, and pulls you into a tight hug. “Enjoy it, yeah?” he whispers.

You hold onto him a second longer than necessary. “Thank you, Eli.”

He gives your shoulder a small squeeze before letting go. “Go on then.”

Their laughter fades as they disappear down the stairs, still arguing with each other the entire way until eventually the corridor falls quiet again.

You’re still holding the herb book against your chest when James appears in your path, like he’s been waiting just long enough to make it seem accidental.

“Happy birthday, Princess,” he says, easy and warm. He gives you a quick once-over, head tilting slightly as he studies your dress. “You look especially lovely today, purple really suits you, it brings out your eyes.”

You blink at him, a little caught off guard. “Thank you, James.”

His attention shifts, then, to the crossbow still resting against your arm, and his expression breaks into immediate amusement. “And I see you’ve collected some… interesting birthday gifts this year.”

You lift it slightly in response, as if presenting evidence. James laughs at that, head tipping back a little. “No, I knew it, I knew Cassian would do something like that.”

“Though, I do believe it’s technically my responsibility to make sure you stay alive, so on that note—”

“Come with me.” you say, already starting to move.

James lets himself be pulled without much resistance, stumbling half a step before he’s laughing again, breathy and entertained more than anything else.

You finally stop near the alcove between two tall windows, letting go of him at last. Light spills in from outside, pale and gold, catching the edges of his uniform and the slight disarray you’ve caused without meaning to—his sleeve creased where you held on, his posture still half-adjusted to being moved without warning.

James glances once down the empty corridor, then back at you. “You realise,” he says calmly, “someone could have seen that.”

You brush past that entirely, like it’s not worth entertaining. “What happened to the plan?”

That gets his attention properly. He looks at you for a second too long, searching your face for context he’s missing. “The plan,” he repeats.

“Yes, James. The plan.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, princess. I have several plans,” he says slowly with a wicked smile. “Most of them involve preventing you from doing things you think are reasonable.”

“James, I’m talking about our plan.”

He exhales, rubbing briefly at the bridge of his nose. “Right. Narrow it down for me.”

“The parade,” you say, voice tightening with patience you are rapidly running out of. “The arrangement where I leave the procession for a few hours and go into the city.”

“Ohh,” James says.

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Oh?”

“Now I remember the plan,” James shifts back against the wall beside the window alcove, one shoulder resting against the stone as he folds his arms loosely across his chest

“Yes. That plan.”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he says carefully.

Your entire face brightens. “Great, that’s perfect!”

“I thought about it extensively,” he continues, ignoring you completely now. “I considered every possible outcome, weighed the risks, reflected deeply on the consequences—”

“Oh my God, just say it.”

“And,” he says, finally looking at you properly, “I’m not doing it.”

“What?! What do you mean you’re not doing it? I thought you figured something out—”

“I did figure something out,” he says carefully, “which is that helping you disappear during a royal parade is an excellent way to ruin my life. And then I remembered I enjoy having a stable income and a head attached to my body.”

You make a frustrated sound under your breath and start pacing the small stretch of corridor between the windows. “Oh my God, you are unbelievable actually. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this parade? This was our entire plan.”

“No,” he says, far too calmly, “you announced a plan at me. There is a difference.”

You step closer without thinking about it, frustration sharpening your voice. “James, this is not complicated. I want a few hours during the parade where I am not surrounded by ten people who panic if I take one step too quickly.”

“And I want to keep my job,” he replies immediately.

You lift your chin. “You won’t lose your job.”

James lets out a short, humourless laugh. “Your optimism is inspiring.”

“I don’t get why you’re so set on disappearing during the parade,” he says. “You’re still going to see the kingdom. You’ll just be in a carriage where nobody is shouting your name from three feet away. It’s not like the view changes because your feet are on the ground.”

“That’s not the point,” you say quickly.

“Then what is the point?”

You throw your hands up, exasperation breaking clean through your restraint. “Because nobody ever lets me do anything properly! I am always surrounded by people deciding what I can and cannot handle before I’ve even tried.”

“That,” James says, quieter now, “is a separate issue.”

“It is not a separate issue, James, it is exactly the issue.” You stop pacing long enough to glare at him properly. “You cannot spend every hour following me around and climbing trees with me and talking to me without a royal court rules and then suddenly decide you care about rules now.”

James rubs a hand briefly over his face, like he’s choosing patience on principle. “Princess,” he says, voice gentler now, “listen to me properly. You are asking me to help the only daughter of the royal family vanish in the middle of a public celebration that half the kingdom is attending. That is not a small request I can just nod at and pretend I didn’t hear.”

You fold your arms. “So that’s it. You’re just going to say no.”

“I’m saying,” he continues, ignoring that, “that if I were to even consider something like that, it would involve planning, timing, and at least a basic understanding of how many guards are going to be stationed along every possible exit route. None of which you have thought about yet.”

“…So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

James exhales through his nose, giving you a long look that lands somewhere between exhausted and mildly impressed that you’re still pushing this. “What I’m saying is that we should probably go and see what your parents want first, because they asked for a word before your parade, and then I’ll consider, very carefully, whether I’m willing to participate in whatever this is turning into.”

“Right,” you say. “That part.”

“Mm,” he hums, like he doesn’t entirely believe you forgot.

James falls into step just behind you as you walk, close enough that it’s clearly deliberate but not close enough to look like he’s hovering. His hand stays near his sword out of habit rather than threat, and his attention keeps shifting ahead down the corridor in quiet, practiced checks as you pass under carved arches and past tall windows spilling pale light across the stone floor.

You can feel him still thinking about your “plan” even when he’s not speaking.

By the time you reach the grand doors, the guards straighten immediately at the sight of you. They bow low, and the doors swing inward without hesitation.

Inside, the throne room is brighter than the halls outside, sunlight spilling through the high windows and catching on gold detail along the walls.

Your mother turns first, your father only a moment after her, and across the room Alaric rises from his seat the instant he catches sight of you.

“Ah,” your father says at once, his expression breaking into something warm and unmistakably fond. “There she is. My little girl.”

Your mother is already moving before he finishes, crossing the room with purpose and pulling you into an immediate embrace, firm and familiar, her hands briefly smoothing over your shoulders.

“Happy birthday,” she says into you, and for a moment her voice is softer than it usually is in court.

When she finally pulls away, her hands remain lightly around your arms as she looks you over properly, her gaze lingering on the gown with quiet inspection before something softer settles across her face. “Lady Lily and Lady Mary did well,” she says, smoothing an invisible crease near your sleeve. “You look beautiful, darling.”

Warmth almost reaches you then, brief enough to feel dangerous, but before you can answer, she adds in the same calm, conversational tone, “I’m sure the Delmars will be very pleased.”

The room changes instantly; Alaric’s smile disappears first, the easy expression fading from his face so quickly. Your father straightens almost imperceptibly beside the window. Near the doors, James goes still.

You glance between them, confusion slowly twisting into unease. “The Delmars?”

Your mother turns toward you fully then. “Yes,” she replies carefully. “They arrived earlier than expected for the parade. They’ll be attending the celebrations tonight, along with the court reception afterward.”

Your father exhales through his nose. “Helena,” he warns. “I told you not to mention it yet. We agreed we would handle this conversation after tonight was over.”

“And continue letting her walk blindly into it?” your mother replies, finally looking at him. “She was going to find out eventually regardless, there’s no use delaying the truth, Edmund.”

Delaying.

The word settles heavily in your chest, and suddenly every strange look, every carefully avoided conversation over the past few weeks rearranges itself into a clear image, an awful one. You stare at them both for a moment before asking, more slowly this time, “Delaying what?”

Alaric steps in before either of your parents can answer. His voice is gentler than theirs, like he is trying to soften the blow before it lands. “It’s a proposal meeting,” he says quietly. “After the parade, the Delmars requested a formal audience with the family while they’re here.”

The silence that follows is unbearable, thick with the feeling that everyone else in the room already knew this conversation would happen eventually except you. You look at Alaric first because he is the easiest to look at, because if you look at your parents too long you think you might already understand the answer written across their faces.

“A proposal meeting?” you repeat, and even to your own ears your voice sounds distant, like you are hearing it from somewhere outside yourself. “You mean an actual marriage proposal?”

Your father finally speaks. “Several kingdoms have expressed formal interest in alliances over the past few years,” he explains carefully. “The Delmars are simply the first to move the discussions into something more official. Nothing has been decided, and nobody is forcing you into an agreement tonight, but conversations regarding your future have existed for some time now because whether we like it or not, your position has political weight attached to it.”

You stare at him, stunned by how calmly he says it, as though he is discussing trade routes instead of your life.

“I thought tonight was just a celebration,” you say slowly. “I didn’t realise the entire point of it was to prepare me to be handed off to another kingdom.”

“That is not what this is,” your father says immediately.

“Then what is it?” you ask, the hurt finally breaking through the disbelief. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like everyone in this room has spent months discussing who I might marry while conveniently forgetting to mention it to the person actually expected to live through it.”

“You are not a child anymore,” your mother says, her composure sharpening. “You were born into a position that comes with responsibility, and pretending otherwise will not change reality. Every royal family in existence survives because of alliances like these. This is not unusual, and it is certainly not cruel.”

A sharp laugh escapes you before you can stop it, disbelieving more than amused. “No, of course not,” you say. “There’s nothing cruel about turning your daughter into a political arrangement so long as everyone calls it duty instead.”

Your mother’s expression hardens. “Do not twist my words into something theatrical simply because you are upset.”

“Theatrical?” you repeat incredulously. “You just informed me, minutes before I’m expected to stand in front of an entire kingdom, that foreign royals are attending my birthday celebration to evaluate whether I would make an acceptable wife. How exactly would you like me to react to that?”

“Enough!” your father shouts, though the command lacks its usual force because even he knows there is truth in what you are saying.

Alaric moves closer, his expression careful, almost pained. “It isn’t supposed to feel like this,” he says quietly. “The discussions were meant to be gradual. Father wanted time before anything official happened because he knew how overwhelming it would sound all at once.”

You turn toward him so quickly the fabric of your gown twists sharply around your legs. Frustration finally breaks through the shock, hot and sudden after being forced down for too long. “Then what exactly was the plan, Alaric?” you ask. “Was everyone just going to smile through dinner while I sat there completely unaware that every conversation around me was secretly about where I’d end up living and which prince might decide I’m useful enough to marry?”

“No one is forcing anything immediately,” he says. “You will meet them. Speak with them. Consider your options properly.”

“My options,” you repeat.

“Yes,” he continues. “Prince Caelum of Thalassia has formally requested first audience. It is a strong match. Their kingdom is stable, their alliances align with ours, and it would secure long-term peace across the southern trade routes.”

You shake your head once, almost disbelieving. “So it’s already decided.”

“It is not decided,” your mother corrects sharply. “It is being arranged.”

“That’s the same thing,” you say.

“It is not,” she insists. “You will still have a choice.”

You let out a short laugh that holds no humour in it. “A choice between what? Three princes you’ve already vetted for politics instead of people?”

“Do not reduce this into something childish simply because it is upsetting,” she says carefully. “You are speaking as though this is some cruel betrayal when in reality it is a responsibility that has existed since the day you were born.”

“I’m not being childish,” you reply immediately, your voice rising despite your efforts to keep it steady. “I’m asking why nobody thought I deserved to know. I’m asking why I had to find out like this, standing here in the middle of my birthday while everyone else in the room apparently already understood what tonight was actually for.”

Alaric steps forward again, cautious in the way someone approaches a wound they know they cannot fix. “You would have been told after the parade,” he says quietly. “Father wanted the evening to pass first before any formal discussions happened. Nothing had been finalised yet.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “After I’d already spent hours being paraded through the capital in front of every visiting royal family?”

“That is not what the parade is for,” your father says firmly.

“It may not be what you call it, but it is certainly what it feels like.”

Silence follows immediately, heavy enough to pull the air taut between all of you. Even James, still standing near the doors, remains motionless now, his attention fixed entirely on the room in a way that makes it painfully obvious he no longer feels like a guard witnessing a conversation but a man trapped inside one.

Your mother’s expression softens slightly, though not enough to undo the damage already done. “You are letting emotion cloud your understanding of this situation,” she says, her tone gentler now, almost coaxing. “No one is trying to hurt you.”

Your jaw tightens so quickly it aches. “I’m being told that my future is currently being negotiated between kingdoms for political convenience,” you reply. “Forgive me if I’m not reacting with perfect composure.”

“It is not a stranger,” your mother continues, pressing forward as though she can still reason you into calmness. “You would have time to know him properly before anything official occurred. That is the purpose of courtship.”

“And if I don’t want to?” you ask.

The question changes everything. It is small, quieter than the rest of the argument, but it cuts through the room with terrifying clarity because for the first time it is no longer about politics or alliances or duty. It is about refusal.

Your father straightens slowly near the window, his expression shifting into something far more careful now. “That is not a decision you are expected to make impulsively,” he says. “Marriage at this level affects more than personal preference.”

“I didn’t ask whether it was impulsive,” you reply. “I asked whether it was mine.”

“It is your decision,” she says carefully. “But it is also your responsibility to think beyond yourself when you make it.”

You take a step back without meaning to, the movement instinctive, as though the room itself has become too small to breathe in. Your chest feels tight, every word they’ve spoken pressing heavier against your ribs until it no longer feels like a conversation at all.

Your mother’s voice sharpens. “Enough. You are not listening.”

“I am listening,” you fire back. “I am listening very clearly. I am listening to you tell me that I don’t get to decide my own life because it would be inconvenient for the kingdom.”

“That is not what this is,” she says, but there’s steel in it now. “This is protection.”

“Protection?” you repeat, louder this time, stepping forward before you even realise you’re moving. “You want to talk to me about protection? Do you actually hear yourselves right now?”

Your father’s expression tightens. “Watch your tone.”

“No,” you say, and now it’s no longer careful, no longer contained. “No, I won’t watch my tone, because I am so tired of all of you standing there pretending this is for my benefit.”

Your voice rises further, filling the room now, bouncing off stone and gold and silence that no longer exists. “You all talk about me like I’m something fragile you need to manage. Like I’m some kind of risk you need to control. ‘Oh, she’s special, oh, she’s important, oh, she has to be protected.’ Protected by what exactly? By handing me over to someone I’ve never met and calling it safety?”

Your mother steps forward slightly. “You are being emotional. This is not—”

“No.” you interrupt sharply.

The words come faster now, sharper, building on each other until there’s no space left between them. “You want to talk about protection?” you continue, voice shaking now not from fear but anger. “Then explain to me why I spent years locked in this place. Explain to me why I wasn’t allowed to leave, why I wasn’t allowed to have friends, why I couldn’t even step outside without someone standing over me like I was going to shatter if I breathed wrong.”

“You say it’s because I’m ‘special’,” you continue, voice rising again. “Because of my powers. Because I might be dangerous. But the only time I’ve ever actually been allowed to use them was when it benefited you, or when it was controlled, supervised, limited to whatever you deemed acceptable.”

Your hands tighten at your sides. “So tell me,” you say, voice low now but shaking with everything behind it, “is that what you call protection? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like control, Mother.”

Your mother’s face has gone pale with anger now, but her voice when she answers is still controlled. “You do not understand what those powers mean for this kingdom. If they are not safeguarded properly, they will be used against you. Against us. Against everything we have built!”

You laugh again, but there’s nothing in it anymore. “So this is what it is,” you say. “It’s not about me at all. It never has been. It’s about making sure I end up somewhere useful. Somewhere safe for you.”

You don’t wait for permission. You don’t wait for response. You turn sharply, the sound of your dress brushing against stone too loud in the silence you leave behind, and for the first time there is no careful exit, no composed restraint.

Behind you, your mother’s voice rises. “Do not walk away from this conversation.”

Alaric moves immediately, stepping forward. “I’ll go after her.”

Your father exhales, tired now more than anything else. “Let her go.”

Your mother doesn’t agree.

“Helena—”

But you’re already gone before the rest of it becomes words again. James catches up to you before you make it halfway down the corridor. Your hands are tight at your sides, your breathing uneven in a way you are clearly trying to control, and your gaze stays fixed ahead like if you look at anything else you might stop entirely.

“Princess,” James says eventually, quieter than before.

You don’t answer.

He exhales once, low and controlled. “Okay.”

And then he simply walks with you. The corridor opens into a quieter section of the palace, one of the older wings where the light is softer and the walls feel less watched. Only when you reach a small recessed alcove between two stone pillars does he finally step slightly in front of you, not blocking your path, just gently interrupting it.

“Hey,” he says.

That’s all it takes.

Your expression crumbles completely. You try to speak, but it doesn’t come out right. It catches halfway, turns uneven, and before you can stop it you’re shaking your head like you can physically push it back down.

James steps forward and pulls you into his arms. His arms come around you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, one hand at the back of your shoulder, the other firm enough at your upper back to keep you anchored when your breath starts to falter.

You don’t even realise you’re shaking until you’re already there.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly, not like a promise he’s making for the future, but like something happening right now. “You’re alright.”

You press your face into his shoulder, trying to swallow it down, trying to stop it from spilling over in a place where it absolutely cannot happen, but your breath stutters anyway.

“It’s fine,” you manage, though it comes out uneven. “It’s fine, I just—”

James tightens his hold slightly, not in response to panic, just in response to you. “You don’t have to be fine right now,” he says simply.

You let go properly then, the sound caught somewhere between frustration and hurt, and for a moment there is no composure left at all, only the kind of collapse that doesn’t look like anything from the outside but feels like everything inside shifting at once.

When your breathing finally steadies again, it’s not because anything is solved. It’s just because you’ve run out of energy to keep it all moving.

You pull back slightly, but he doesn’t let go completely until you do first.

For a moment neither of you speaks. Then, quietly, you say, “It’s not your fault.”

James lets out a slow breath, like he’s been holding it since the moment he found you. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, his hand still resting lightly against your back. “I know.”

The words settle between you for a second. Somewhere below the balcony, music drifts faintly through the palace halls, softened by distance until it barely sounds real at all.

James glances away briefly, jaw tightening like he’s thinking through something carefully before he speaks again.

“But I’m still sorry.”

You look up at him properly then.

The usual sarcasm is gone from his face for once. No dry remark waiting to pull the moment apart before it becomes too honest. He just looks tired on your behalf.

“I didn’t realise how much the parade actually meant to you,” he admits after a moment, his voice lower now, less teasing than before. “I thought it was just another excuse for you to cause problems in public.”

Despite everything, a small laugh slips out of you. “It is an excuse to cause problems in public.”

“Right,” he says, but there’s no argument in it anymore, only a faint, thoughtful acceptance. “But not only that.”

You lean back against the stone railing, letting your gaze drift past him instead of meeting it, toward the distant sprawl of Valenora below the cliffs, where the city lights blur into one another like scattered embers held too close to water.

“It’s supposed to be my birthday,” you say after a while, quieter now. “Or at least that’s what everyone keeps telling me it is.”

James shifts slightly beside you. “I’m sorry your day has been crap.”

You don’t answer that directly. “It never really feels like my birthday during the parade,” you continue instead, choosing the words carefully as they come, like you’re testing how much of them you can actually say out loud. “It feels like… something I’m placed inside of, rather than something I’m actually part of.”

James doesn’t interrupt. He just watches you the way he always does when the teasing fades, like he’s listening properly rather than waiting for his turn to speak. “And what would it feel like,” he asks after a pause, quieter now, “if it was yours? If you could have it however you wanted?”

A small smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it. “That’s a secret.”

You finally look at him properly at that, and the expression on his face is so openly mock-offended it almost breaks the seriousness entirely.

He studies you for a moment, still smiling, then sighs like he’s accepting defeat on principle. “Fine. Keep your mysterious celestial secrets.”

You hum softly, still watching him. “You can have it if you tell me one of yours.”

That makes his expression shift just slightly, curiosity slipping in under the amusement. “One of my secrets?”

“Yes,” you say simply. “Fair trade.”

James lets out a quiet laugh under his breath, glancing away for a moment toward the city below as though actually considering it properly. The wind catches lightly through his hair, and for once he looks strangely uncertain, caught between amusement and something quieter.

Then he exhales. “I always wanted to be in the royal guard,” he says. “Ever since I was little.” the corner of his mouth lifts briefly before he continues. “That’s part of why I became friends with your brothers in the first place.”

That catches you off guard enough that you turn toward him properly. “Seriously?”

“Well, mostly,” he admits. “I genuinely liked Alaric, Cassian, and Elias, obviously, but when amá first started bringing me to the palace…” He shrugs lightly. “I was fascinated by all of this. The guards, the training, the discipline. Mi papá used to tell me stories about serving the crown when I was younger, and I think I just decided somewhere along the way that I wanted to be like him.”

You watch him carefully. “Is that why you kept coming with Lady Euphemia whenever she visited?”

“That, and because your brothers kept challenging me to increasingly stupid competitions,” he says dryly. “But yes. Mostly because I wanted to prove I was capable enough to earn a place here one day.”

“My parents hated the idea, though.” he says sorrowfully.

You frown slightly. “Why?”

James lets out a small breath through his nose. “Because of the risks, mostly. Mi mamá especially.” He glances down briefly at his hands before looking back out toward the kingdom again. “They couldn’t really bear the thought of losing me.”

“Amá had a lot of miscarriages before me,” he says more quietly. “Enough that they’d pretty much stopped believing they were going to have children at all. Then somehow I happened, and…” He gives a small shrug, almost embarrassed by the seriousness of the conversation now. “Well. There’s me and Sirius now, obviously, but she still worries constantly. Even now she acts like being in the guard means I’m one bad day away from dying heroically somewhere.”

Understanding settles slowly through you. “Oh,” you murmur softly.

James glances sideways at you. “Yeah.”

A smile slowly pulls at your mouth then, gentler this time. “So that’s your secret, James,” you say quietly. “You’re a miracle.”

His head snaps toward you immediately. “What? No, that’s not—” He laughs under his breath, already shaking his head. “The secret was that I originally befriended your brothers because I wanted to join the royal guard.”

“No,” you insist lightly, still smiling at him. “I think the miracle part is significantly more important.”

James groans softly, dragging a hand down his face. “See, this is why I shouldn’t tell you things.”

You laugh, leaning your shoulder lightly against the railing beside him. “No, this is exactly why you should tell me things. That was adorable, you’re literally a miracle child who became a royal guard because he hero-worshipped his father.”

“I hate the way you just phrased that.” he murmurs with a grimace.

James shakes his head . “Anyway,” he says after a moment, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own, “there’s your secret.”

“Now,” he says, “you’re telling me about your secret birthday wish.”

A faint smile tugs at your mouth before you can stop it. “I wish to see the suns.”

James looks at you. “The what?”

You lift a hand slightly, pointing past the palace towers toward the northeast horizon, where the sea meets the sky in a line. “The suns,” you repeat, like it should make perfect sense. “They arrive nearly a month after my birthday every year.”

Realisation settles into him slowly. “Ohh,” he says at last, quieter. “You mean the lantern lights from Solistia.”

“I think so,” you say, tilting your head a little. “Though I’m not entirely convinced that’s actually what they’re called. I’ve asked Alaric before and he insists it’s the Suns from the City of Suns, which sounds completely made up, if I’m honest.”

“It does sound made up,” James agrees, a faint smile returning.

“Well, yeah.” You shrug lightly. “They come every year,” you say softly, looking back toward the horizon. “Ever since I was born, apparently. A few weeks after the parade, the lights start appearing over the water and everyone gathers along the cliffs to watch them drift across the sky.”

James watches you carefully now instead of the city. “And you’ve never seen them up close?”

You shake your head once. “No.” A quieter pause follows. “But I really want to.”

“Because they’re pretty?”

“That too.” You hesitate briefly before admitting, “But I also…” You exhale softly through your nose. “I have this stupid feeling sometimes that maybe there’s something connected to them. To my powers.”

“You know the stories people tell,” you continue quietly, your gaze drifting back toward the distant horizon beyond the cliffs. “About how the Suns first appeared the same year I was born, and how the light over the palace supposedly lasted for three entire days afterward. Father insists it was some divine blessing sent by the gods. Alaric thinks it sounds more like an omen, which honestly feels significantly more like something he would say.”

James huffs a laugh beside you, but he doesn’t interrupt.

You glance down at your hands instead, fingers twisting lightly together against the stone railing. “I don’t know,” you admit after a moment, softer now. “I just keep thinking… they could be connected somehow, couldn’t they?”

The words sound almost childish once they’re out loud, but James doesn’t look at you that way. He just waits.

“They only started appearing when I was born,” you continue slowly, trying to untangle thoughts you’ve never really said properly to anyone before. “And ever since I was little, every time they come back, I feel…” You hesitate briefly, frustrated by your own inability to explain it. “Drawn to them, I guess. Like there’s something there waiting for me to understand it.”

The wind shifts softly around the balcony, carrying the distant sounds of the kingdom far below.

“I’ve watched them from my bedroom window every single year,” you say quietly. “Every year since I can remember. Everyone else just stands along the cliffs for a few hours and calls them beautiful, but I always end up staying awake half the night watching the last lights disappear over the water. And all I can think about is wanting to know where they come from.”

Your fingers tighten slightly together before you let out a small breath through your nose, almost embarrassed by how much you’ve said now. “Sorry,” you murmur. “I’m rambling.”

For a moment James says nothing at all. Then, quietly, “I hope you find it.”

You look over at him confused.

“The truth, I mean,” he says. “Whatever it is you’re looking for.”

A faint smile touches your mouth despite yourself. “Even if finding it means marrying some foreign prince?”

The question is light when you ask it, almost teasing, but James stills beside you anyway. It is subtle. So subtle most people would never notice it; aslight pause before he answers, the near-imperceptible tightening in his jaw, and the way his gaze shifts briefly toward the kingdom below instead of remaining on you.

For a moment the only sound between you is the distant rush of the sea against the cliffs beneath Valenora.

Then James exhales softly through his nose. “If that’s what it takes,” he says at last.

You look back toward the horizon after that, following the dark line where the sea vanished into the day. Somewhere beyond it sat Solistia, distant enough to feel half imagined. A kingdom made of stories and maps and drifting lights no one in Valenora seemed capable of explaining properly.

“And if it isn’t?” you ask quietly.

James glances over. “If what isn’t?”

“If marrying someone.” You hesitate briefly before continuing. “If the answer isn’t waiting for me in another kingdom or another marriage.”

The words come out calmer than you feel. Over the last few years every conversation about your future had slowly become the same conversation wearing different clothes. Alliances. Suitors. Stability. Legacy. As though your life were a negotiation already halfway completed around you.

“Then,” he says slowly, “maybe it takes a leap of faith.”

You frown slightly. “What’s that?”

“It means,” he says carefully, “that sometimes there isn’t going to be a clear answer waiting beforehand. No proof that things will work out the way you want them to.” His gaze drifts toward the horizon for a moment before settling back on you again. “Sometimes all you really have is this feeling pulling you toward something, even when it scares you. And eventually you reach a point where standing still starts feeling worse than the risk of falling.”

A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth. “So you jump anyway and hope that something matters enough to risk the fall anyway.”

“And you believe that?” you ask quietly.

James’ mouth curves faintly, though there’s something sad hidden underneath it. “I think,” he says, “It might be the only thing I truly believe in.”

You look away before he can see that too clearly, focusing instead on the distant lights scattered along the lower streets of Valenora. From this height the city looked peaceful.

You draw in a slow breath, trying to steady yourself before speaking again. “James?”

“Yeah?”

“I know this is probably the worst possible moment to bring this up again,” you say slowly, fingers twisting tightly into the edge of your sleeve, “but could you at least try?”

James’ expression shifts immediately, already knowing exactly where this is going.

“Please, just listen first.” the words come out quicker than you intended, desperation slipping through before you can smooth it away.

You look down briefly, gathering your thoughts, then force yourself to continue.

“This is the last parade I’ll ever have.” Your voice softens around the admission. “By tomorrow morning I’ll be engaged, and after that everything changes. Every appearance, every decision, every part of my life will belong to someone else’s.”

James stays quiet. You let out a small breath, staring out toward the city below instead of at him.

“I know how selfish it sounds,” you murmur. “Wanting to disappear for an hour when the entire kingdom is preparing to celebrate me. But I can’t stand the thought of spending the whole day smiling at strangers while everyone decides the rest of my life around me.”

The wind shifts softly through the balcony, carrying distant music from somewhere deep in the palace below.

“My brothers love me,” you continue after a moment, quieter now. “I know they do. But not enough to go against my parents over this.” A faint, humourless smile pulls briefly at your mouth. “Alaric would give me sympathetic looks and would probably just give me a pep talk.”

“But you…” Your voice catches faintly before steadying again. “You might actually be the only person here who understands what this feels like.”

James’ brows pull together slightly.

“To have every part of your life decided for you,” you say quietly. “To belong to something bigger than yourself whether you want to or not.”

You step a little closer without meaning to, desperation slowly outweighing pride now.

“I know your position’s at stake,” you say. “I know I’m asking too much. But I just…” You stop, frustrated by how difficult it suddenly is to explain something that has lived inside you for years. “I need one day that still feels like mine before all of this becomes permanent.”

“And I don’t think there’s anyone else I could ask. So, please James?”

James doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks at you. And suddenly, with a kind of reluctant clarity, he realises he has been losing this argument from the very beginning.

The weeks of refusing, of arguing, of reminding you how catastrophically dangerous your plan was had never actually been about stopping you. If he were being honest with himself, truly honest, he would admit he started considering routes through the lower city the very first time you brought it up.

Every objection after that had been performance.

A final attempt at convincing himself he still possessed enough sense to deny you something.

Because the truth is, James has discovered over the years that there is very little he can refuse you when you ask like this; painfully, hopelessly earnest in a way that makes him feel like the worst person alive for even thinking of saying no.

And standing here now, looking at the desperation you are trying so hard to hide beneath composure, he thinks he would probably walk you straight through the palace gates himself if you asked.

Which is precisely the problem.

James glances down the corridor briefly, checking instinctively for movement even here, then looks back at you again. “I can’t promise anything,” he says carefully. “If your mother notices you missing, I’ll be lucky if I’m merely exiled instead of publicly executed.”

Despite yourself, you let out a weak laugh. “There’s the dramatics again.”

You shake your head, and he watches carefully as the last of the tension starts slipping from your shoulders, little by little, until you’re no longer holding yourself quite so tightly together.

“It’s not dramatic when your mother is terrifying,” James says, laughing under his breath as he falls into step beside you again. “No offence to Her Majesty, obviously, but I genuinely think being on her bad side is equivalent to facing the angel of death.”

“Come on, James,” you burst out laughing. “take a leap of faith.”

James’s eyebrows lift immediately, and then a grin starts pulling at his mouth, slow and knowing. “Ahh,” he says lightly, “using my words against me now, are we?”

“You just said it now!”

“Because it’s good advice.”

“You only think it’s good advice when you’re the one saying it.”

“That’s because I usually am.”

You roll your eyes, still smiling despite yourself, and start walking again before someone inevitably comes looking for you. James falls into step beside you easily, hands clasped behind his back now.

James watches you for a moment before speaking again, more casually this time. “And when exactly are you planning on taking your leap of faith?”

You look ahead instead of at him as attendants finally spot you from across the hall and immediately start ushering you toward the rooms where your final parade preparations are waiting.

“Soon, James, soon,” you say, smiling at him as bright as the sun.

At your response, James smiles back even brighter, if that’s possible, the sun meeting the sun without dimming, light recognizing itself and returning doubled:

“And it’s going to be a very big leap.”

a/n: okay time for the long rant, folks!!

this chapter was originally around 19k words, which is honestly really long, so i ended up splitting it into two chapters. apologies if this one feels a little transitional because of that. the good news is that the next chapter is already written and currently being proofread, so unless i spontaneously die, the update should be coming very soon.

now onto the actual chapter!

first of all, the gifts were some of my favourite scenes to write. they were incredibly sweet, but they also carry a lot more weight than they seem to right now. several of them will become important later on in the story, so keep an eye on them, especially that crossbow cassian gave her. absolutely no reason in particular. none whatsoever. i am being Very normal about it…😃

we also got a bit more family drama this chapter and a better look at the pressure the princess is constantly under. queen helena is… well, queen helena. however, i am once again asking everyone to be nice to alaric. my sweet boy is trying his best. he has the weight of an entire kingdom sitting on his shoulders and unfortunately being heir means he doesn’t always get the luxury of choosing what he wants. let’s cut him a little slack for not speaking up on behalf of his sister. he gets a redemption very soon guys, i promise :)

and james!!! our miracle baby!!! i loved writing that conversation so much. i think it tells us a lot about who he is and why he is the way he is. he and the princess are finally putting their plan into motion, and that leap of faith we’ve been talking about for a while now is getting closer and closer (screams and jumps in excitement)

my two miracle lovers. i adore them.

that’s all from me for now. i really hope you enjoyed reading this chapter, and i hope you’re all doing well, staying happy, healthy, and hydrated (the triple h’s)

as always, every comment, theory, scream, keyboard smash, and reaction genuinely makes my day and helps keep me motivated, so please tell me your thoughts!!

see you in the next chapter loves <3<3<3

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