In which a princess born of a hidden kingdom and inherited magic,is forced to flee after a dark sorcerer massacres her family in pursuit of her bloodline, her crown and a binding contract that would make her his. Believed dead by the world and unrecognisable to those who hunt her, she disguises herself as a servant and takes refuge beneath the roof of Uther Pendragon, guarded by secrets, protected by Merlin, and surviving in silence. In Camelot, she hides her name, her grief, and her power, while Arthur Pendragon comes to know her as a nobody. Not realising he is falling in love with a princess who was never meant to be found.
Morning in Camelot has a particular kind of brightness. It is honest and unforgiving. It leaves very little room for shadows to hide in.
Arthur had not slept. He told himself it was discipline. Princes rise early. Princes train early. Princes do not lie awake replaying the image of moonlight on a girl’s hair and another man’s hands on her body.
He walked the corridors with purpose he did not feel.
Voices drifted from one of the smaller sitting rooms near the east tower. Laughter, low and unguarded.
Her laugh was lighter in the mornings. Less careful.
Arthur slowed despite himself.
Another laugh joined it, Merlin’s unmistakable and unrefined cackle.
Warm. Open and unrestrained.
He had not expected to see Lior there.
The three of them sat around the small wooden table as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Merlin leaning back in his chair, animated. She seated opposite him, eyes bright. Lior relaxed between them, sleeves rolled slightly, posture loose not princely, not as guest, just there.
They were mid laughter when Arthur entered.
Silence fell like a dropped blade.
Merlin straightened. She looked at Arthur but did not smile. Lior’s expression shifted from easy amusement to polite attentiveness.
Arthur felt the change like a physical shove.
He had walked in on something.
Something that did not include him.
“Well,” Arthur said lightly, though the word felt stiff in his mouth, “this looks… lively.”
Merlin cleared his throat. “We were just talking about-”
“About Lunaria’s winter festivals,” Lior supplied smoothly. “Merlin has never seen snow deep enough to swallow a horse.”
Merlin nodded too quickly. “Terrifying stuff, snow.”
Arthur’s gaze moved between them.
Why was he sitting with servants, laughing as though they were equals? Princes did not seek out servants for morning entertainment. Princes did not linger in tower rooms with maids.
“I need to speak with you,” Arthur said, looking directly at her. “It’s about your duties.”
She held his gaze evenly. “Of course, sire.”
The word sharpened the air.
For the briefest second, her eyes flicked to Lior.
Lior looked back at her. Not possessive, not commanding. Checking. Silent communication passed between them.
And something hot and certain unfurled in his chest.
There it is. This confirmed what he saw last night.
“Alright,” she said, rising. “I’m coming.”
As she stepped toward the door, Lior stood as well.
“Is everything alright?” he asked Arthur, tone calm but attentive.
“Perfect,” he said. “Everything will fall into place.”
The end of the sentence more silent than the first. It was a strange answer.
Lior’s brow shifted faintly, but he did not press. “Good.”
Arthur turned before he could read anything more into that look.
They walked in silence down the corridor.
She did not rush to fill it.
The last time they had spoken alone, he had accused her of things no decent man should accuse without proof. Questioned her honour. Her loyalty. Her character.
She had not forgiven him for it.
After several steps, she said quietly, “Have I done something wrong, sire? I completed your tasks this morning. Your armour was polished. The accounts were delivered.”
He did not answer immediately.
They reached a quieter alcove near the western balcony, where the torches had long since burned out and the castle hum felt far away.
Arthur turned to face her.
“I know you’re seeing him.”
Her brows drew together for a fraction of a second, confusion and then something clicked behind her eyes.
“You think I’m…” She pressed her lips together, smoothing her expression into something polite. Almost pleasant. “Sire, I’m not sure what you believe you’ve seen.”
“I saw enough,” he snapped. “Do not insult me by pretending otherwise.”
She inclined her head slightly. “If you mean the courtyard-”
A beat of silence stretched between them.
She nodded once, slow. “And?”
The word was mild. Harmless. It landed like a slap.
“And,” Arthur repeated, stepping closer, “a prince does not embrace a maid in the middle of the night beneath my father’s towers.”
“You see,” he echoed, voice tightening. “He is not some stable boy. He is a king in all but name. There are expectations. Appearances. Alliances at stake. You cannot simply-” He broke off, jaw clenching. “-insert yourself where you do not belong.”
She absorbed the words without flinching. That calm again. That measured quiet.
“And if it were none of your concern?” she asked.
There was no challenge in her tone. No heat.
“It becomes my concern,” Arthur said, each word clipped, “when it threatens the dignity of this court.”
Her lips curved slightly.
“You’re not worried about my dignity,” she said softly. “You’re worried about yours.”
The truth slid between them like a blade.
“My dignity?” he repeated, incredulous. “You presume far too much.”
“Do I?” she asked, still maddeningly composed. “You watched from the shadows, didn’t you?”
His silence answered for him.
“And now you come to me speaking of order and propriety,” she continued gently, “as though this is about politics.”
“It is about politics,” he bit out. “It is about structure. It is about knowing where lines are drawn and not stepping across them simply because it suits you.”
“And which line have I crossed?” she asked.
All of them, he wanted to say.
You stood too close to him.
“You forget what you are,” Arthur said instead, voice low and vibrating with restraint. “You wear my house’s colours. You serve at my father’s table. That means something.”
Her eyes flashed but not with hurt.
“I know exactly what I wear,” she replied. “And I know exactly who I serve.”
The words came out harsher than he intended.
She held his gaze steadily. “You are not my keeper.”
“And that gives you authority over my tasks,” she said. “Not my thoughts.”
His hands curled at his sides.
“You think this is amusing,” he said. “You think you can stand there and smile as though this is some childish misunderstanding.”
“You are the one who has misunderstood.”
“Then enlighten me,” he demanded.
She could end it. He saw that now. There was something she was not saying. Something she held just behind her teeth.
Instead, she simply said, “You assume betrayal where there is none.”
“I assume impropriety where I see it,” he shot back.
“You saw a moment,” she said evenly. “You built a scandal.”
“I built nothing!” Arthur’s voice rang sharper in the stone alcove than he intended. “You were in his arms.”
He stepped closer, closing the distance until only a breath separated them. “And you think that means nothing?”
“I think,” she said carefully, “that you are looking for something to be wrong.”
That struck deeper than anything else.
He wanted something to be wrong.
He wanted Lior to crumble, for his reputation to falter.
If not in battle, then here. In judgment. In restraint and in honour.
“You would do well,” Arthur said, voice dropping to a dangerous quiet, “to remember that this castle is not a playground. You may choose to treat princes as companions, but the world does not. If rumours begin-”
“Rumours begin when men feel threatened,” she cut in smoothly.
He let out a sharp, humourless breath. “By you?”
“No,” she said, holding his stare. “By him.”
The name went unspoken, but it filled the space anyway.
Arthur felt something ugly and undeniable twist in his chest.
“You give yourself far too much importance,” he said.
“And you give him too much,” she replied.
“This ends,” Arthur said, every inch of him rigid with authority. “Whatever… familiarity you have formed with Prince Lior, you will conduct yourself with discretion. You will not be seen wandering courtyards at night. You will not invite speculation. Not under my roof.”
“And if I refuse?” she asked quietly.
There was steel in his tone now. Not wounded pride. Not jealousy.
She studied him for a long moment.
Then she dipped into a shallow curtsy, precise as if almost mocking in its perfection.
“As you wish, my prince.”
The title sounded different on her tongue now.
She moved past him without waiting for dismissal.
Arthur remained where he stood, breathing hard, staring at the empty corridor.
He told himself he had restored order.
Protected the dignity of Camelot.
But beneath all of that, beneath the layers of command and crown and expectation, there was a simpler, uglier truth:
He had not liked seeing her in another man’s arms.
And he had liked even less that the other man was Lior.
The envy had shifted shape.
It was no longer just about strength.
By midday the great hall had swelled with noise. Nobles lingering longer than necessary, knights recounting exaggerated victories, servants weaving in and out with trays of wine and fruit. It was one of those restless court days where nothing of consequence occurred and yet everyone insisted on being seen.
Arthur stood near the dais, half listening to a baron drone on about border taxes.
Lior at the centre, of course.
Merlin at his elbow, animated as ever. Gwen beside him, smiling. Morgana leaning lazily against a pillar, amused by something Lior had just said.
Close enough that their sleeves brushed when they turned.
It should have been harmless. A prince making himself agreeable. A guest winning favour. A servant doing her duties.
But Arthur watched the way the circle tilted toward Lior. How laughter came easily. How even Morgana, who trusted few and tolerated fewer, looked entertained.
It was becoming a court within a court.
And Arthur was not part of it.
He told himself that was beneath him.
Then he saw Y/N lean in to say something to Lior. Saw him bend slightly to hear her. Saw the corner of his mouth lift in that infuriatingly gentle smile.
The morning’s confrontation had done nothing.
If anything, she seemed more at ease.
Arthur excused himself from the baron mid sentence and crossed the hall.
As he approached, the circle shifted.
First Y/N left, disappearing into the nearby gathering.
Gwen noticed him walking and straightened. Merlin followed, then Morgana. Conversation faltered.
One by one, they peeled away under the weight of his presence.
Until only Lior remained.
“Arthur,” Lior greeted warmly, as though nothing in the world were amiss. “We were just discussing whether Merlin could survive a Lunarian winter.”
“I would not,” Merlin muttered, retreating.
Within seconds the little gathering had dissolved entirely.
Arthur felt the slight with uncomfortable clarity.
Lior did not seem to notice the tension. Or perhaps he did and chose grace over friction.
“Your court is lively,” Lior said lightly. “You keep interesting company.”
“They are mine to keep,” Arthur replied.
A shadow flickered across Lior’s expression, too quick to name.
Before either could say more, Y/N returned, a silver goblet in hand.
“For you,” she said to Lior, offering it with practiced ease.
Lior accepted it with a quiet thanks.
Arthur’s eyes dropped to the cup.
“You serve him before your prince?” The words left his mouth colder than intended.
Silence snapped tight around them.
Lior’s brow furrowed. “Arthur-”
“She knows her duties,” Arthur continued, voice carrying just enough that a few nearby nobles glanced over. “Or perhaps they’ve grown… flexible.”
Color rose faintly in her cheeks, but she did not lower her gaze.
“I was asked for wine,” she said evenly.
“And you forgot who you answer to?” Arthur shot back.
Lior stepped forward without aggression, but unmistakably placing himself between them.
“Here,” he said, holding the goblet out toward Arthur. “Take mine. She did not know.”
Arthur stared at the offered cup as though it were an insult.
“Then what is?” Lior asked quietly.
The question was not challenging.
That sincerity scraped against Arthur’s nerves.
“She serves this castle,” Arthur said. “She serves my father. She serves me. There is an order here.”
Lior’s gaze sharpened slightly. “And she was serving.”
A few nobles had stopped pretending not to watch.
Lior’s jaw tightened…barely.
“You speak as though she slighted you,” he said.
“She brought wine to a guest,” Lior replied, measured. “That is hardly treason.”
Arthur felt heat climb his spine.
“You should not be defending a maid,” he said, unable to keep the edge from his voice.
Something in Lior’s expression changed then. Not anger…not fully. Just something slightly less than anger.
Small, restrained but there.
“You should treat your women with kindness,” Lior said quietly.
The hall seemed to hush around them.
Arthur’s laugh was short and sharp. “Do not lecture me on how to run my court.”
“I am not lecturing,” Lior answered. “I am observing.”
“And what exactly do you observe?”
“That she did nothing to deserve being spoken to like that.”
The simplicity of it made Arthur’s temper flare hotter.
The words fell heavier than he intended.
For a fraction of a second, something fierce flashed behind his eyes. It was protective and instinctive. The kind that does not belong to a prince defending a servant.
It belonged to a brother.
“She knows far more than you think,” Lior said instead.
Arthur bristled. “You presume familiarity.”
Lior turned slightly toward her. “Come,” he said gently. “Let us not crowd our prince.”
There was no mockery in the words.
She hesitated half a breath and then stepped beside him.
But close enough that their shoulders brushed as they moved away.
Arthur watched them cross the hall together, their heads inclined toward one another in quiet conversation.
It burned that Lior had not risen to anger.
It burned that he had defended her without hesitation.
It burned that she had not looked shaken only steady.
The nobles resumed their chatter slowly, though glances still flickered in Arthur’s direction.
He stood alone near the table, goblet untouched on beside him.
He had asserted authority.
He had reminded them of order.
So why did it feel as though he had lost ground?
Across the hall, Lior laughed softly at something she said. Merlin rejoined them. Gwen too. Morgana drifted back in, curiosity never far from her.
Arthur felt the envy coil tighter in his chest, no longer subtle, no longer patient.
He had wanted Lior to falter.
Instead, the man stood taller with every quiet act of grace.
And Arthur, heir to Camelot, found himself watching from the shadows of his own hall, burning at the sight of a prince who seemed to belong everywhere.
@carolineesnell @kuebandungs
