Illiantar

I escaped. I fled the throne room, saturated with fake smiles and the scents of expensive perfumes. My father had arranged a viewing—the daughters of dukes and marquises had flocked from across the kingdom to become my bride. But they were all just a grey blur. I looked right through them, feeling nothing but boredom.

I only need him.

I stole a sunflower from a vase—bold, vivid, absurd among the wilting roses. And I went to find him. I knew where he'd be: the east wing, a quiet corridor overlooking the garden. He was sitting on the windowsill, writing something in a book I had given him in childhood. The light tangled in his hair, sliding across his cheek.

I approached silently, pinning him against the wall. My fingers touched his chin, tilting his face up. Lips parted, eyes closed—trusting, defenseless. He was more beautiful than all the princesses in the world. I brought the sunflower from behind my back and whispered, for him alone:

"Will you be my princess?"