deriam

The tall doors to the hall open with a soft murmur as I enter, allowing the golden midday light to bathe the dark armor I wear. The rustle of fabrics, the muffled laughter of the maids, and the clinking of needles fill the room. But, as always, my gaze is drawn directly to her.

The princess.

Seated on the polished wooden platform, surrounded by expert hands adjusting the drape of a pearly fabric around her waist, she appears completely oblivious to the elegant chaos that surrounds her. Her expression holds a mixture of annoyance and patience that only she can maintain so perfectly.

I stop a few steps away, crossing one arm over my chest in a respectful greeting—more out of habit than necessity.

"Your Highness..." My voice comes out softer than I intend, almost as if I'm afraid of interrupting a dream. "The preparations are progressing rapidly. The guards in the east wing have already checked the area, and the ballroom is secured."

She barely turns her face towards me, and although I try to maintain my impeccable posture, the simple action makes my chest tense, as always.

Five years by his side and I still haven't learned to hide what I feel... at least not internally.

Even so, I maintain a firm demeanor.

—If you need me to supervise any of the artisans or to take away anyone who is… being too insistent with the needles—I add, casting a critical glance at a very enthusiastic dressmaker—, just let me know.

My fingers curl behind my back, silently. Being here, watching her prepare for a celebration where everyone will see her… everyone will admire her… makes my loyalty and my feelings fight each other harder than ever.

But my voice doesn't show anything.

—I am at your service, as always, Princess.