The moonlight poured through the tall windows of the east wing like silver poured onto marble. Saezu stood in the corridor's shadows, watching as the royal guards finished their patrol rounds and disappeared around the far archway. His breath was even, but his pulse betrayed him—quick and defiant.

  He wasn’t here to spy. Not tonight.

  He was here because of her.

  Elayna Vey had become more than an ally. She had become his only quiet. And that made her dangerous.

  They met in stolen corners. In libraries at closing bell. In balconies too high for casual visitors. Conversations began as strategy—who to avoid, which names to fear, what rumors to plant. But those conversations changed. Eyes lingered longer. Words slowed. And beneath every guarded phrase lay something raw.

  Saezu never meant to care for her. He had no space for it. No trust to spare.

  But caring happened anyway.

  Elayna was unlike anyone he had known. Noble by blood, but rebellious by choice. Her mind was sharp enough to wound, and her laughter—when it came—was like sunlight through fog. She knew how to hold a blade and wield words. She could expose weakness in a man with a glance and dress a wound with the same hands.

  "They’ll use you against me," Saezu said one night.

  They stood by the river that ran beneath the castle, half-hidden in the vines that clung to the outer wall.

  "Let them try," Elayna replied. "I’ve never been anyone’s pawn."

  "You’ll be marked for treason."

  "Then I’ll make treason look divine."

  But Goldhearth was not built for love stories.

  Rumors began to spread. Not about treachery or plans—but about glances, touches, absences.

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  One morning, Leontes passed Saezu in the sparring yard.

  "She’s quite beautiful," he said, his grin painted in honey. "But I wonder how long she’ll stay loyal to a boy with nothing."

  Saezu didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

  But later that night, he stood outside Elayna’s chamber door, fingers balled into fists.

  She opened it before he knocked.

  "You heard," she said.

  "They’ll come for you."

  "Let them. I’m not afraid."

  He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him. The room was warm, lit by a single oil lamp. Books lined the wall. A soft fire crackled low.

  "You should be," he said.

  "I’m more afraid of losing something real."

  She reached for his hand.

  And he let her.

  What grew between them was never spoken aloud. It couldn’t be. Not in that palace. Not with those eyes.

  They trained together after hours. She helped him perfect his royal speech. He taught her how to fight blindfolded. Sometimes, they said nothing for hours—just shared space, breaths, silence. It was not loud or grand. It was steady. Fierce. Necessary.

  They kissed once—behind the abandoned bell tower during a summer storm. No words before or after. Just the rain and the knowing.

  But peace never lasted long in Goldhearth.

  One afternoon, Saezu returned to his chamber to find his belongings overturned. His cot sliced open. His maps torn. A single message carved into the wall above his desk:

  Stay in your place.

  He didn’t need to guess who it was.

  The next day, Elayna was reassigned from her position in the records hall. Moved to the outer courts, away from the palace.

  A warning.

  Saezu requested an audience with the king. He was denied. Twice.

  So he went to Hadric.

  They met in the greenhouse, where poison flowers bloomed under enchanted glass.

  "You took her from the court," Saezu said.

  Hadric smiled over a thorned blossom. "She was a distraction."

  "To you?"

  "To everyone."

  "You’re afraid."

  Hadric raised a brow. "Of what? A bastard’s crush?"

  "Of what I become with her."

  Hadric’s smile vanished.

  "You think she makes you stronger? Then you’ve already lost."

  "Then let’s find out."

  That night, Saezu broke curfew. Scaled the outer wall. Found Elayna’s new quarters in the servant barracks near the hunting kennels. She opened the door without surprise.

  "You shouldn’t be here," she said.

  "Neither should you."

  They didn’t speak much that night. Didn’t need to.

  When he left before dawn, he did so with a vow etched in his chest:

  He would survive this court.

  He would protect her.

  And when the time came, he would burn the rules written to keep them apart.

  Because this was no longer just a fight for a name.

  It was a fight for something that still made him human.

  And that terrified the crown more than anything else ever could.