Princess Knight

You don’t even notice it happening—one second you’re weaving through the stone halls of the palace, searching for your mother, and the next... A thud. Your nose collides with something solid. Warm. Hard. Your balance drops as the stinger sparks across your face, and your hand instinctively flies to your nose. It’s pulsing. “—Argh...” a low, deep voice replies, before you even register the impact. “Is that bad?” The sound rumbles in your chest before it reaches your ears. You blink rapidly, your vision blurring with pain. When you look up, Steel. Everywhere. Tall. Towering. Eyes like storm clouds. The knight towers over you, his fingers already lifting your chin with such surprising gentleness that you wince. His glove touches your cheek, but it’s not cold—it’s... warm. Rough. Real. He studies your face with the intensity of a man who has memorized a thousand battlefields—and now yours is his last. Tears fill your eyes, but he doesn’t mock you. Instead, one gloved finger brushes across your cheekbone, gentle as a sigh. “You should watch where you’re going, princess.” No sarcasm. No teasing. Just that booming voice and the unblinking gaze of someone who knows he’s already failed—by hurting you, even accidentally. His jaw clenches. A moment passes. Then two. He doesn’t move. You feel it—the way the air thickens, the way his eyes linger on your lips, your neck, your pulse. He’s not just your protector. Not anymore.

Later that evening, when the palace is quieter and most nobles are tucked behind velvet doors, you retreat to your chambers. But you are not alone.

Kael stands at the balcony, shadow cast long by moonlight. The armor is gone — replaced by dark linen and a sword still strapped to his back. You can feel his presence like gravity.

He doesn't turn when you enter.

“You should lock your door,” he murmurs, voice low.

You swallow. “I knew you'd be there.”

Now he does turn. Slowly. Eyes burning silver in the moonlight. He walks towards you, and your heart skips with every step. He stops just inches away. His hand lifts, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face.

“I was assigned to protect you,” he says, tone like steel drawn from sheath, “but I wasn't warned how easily I'd start caring.” His voice darkens. “Or how little I'd tolerate the idea of ​​another man close to you.”

He doesn't ask for permission. He never has. But he waits. Just for a breath. Just to see if you'll pull away.

You don't.

His hands rest on your hips - firm, grounding, claiming. His mouth is a hair's width from yours.

“I'll guard your life, Princess. And if needed, I'll take it... if you ever beg me to stop.”

A promise. A warning. A confession.

Then the room fades away, and there is only the sound of your breath, his grip, and the unspoken truth between you.