Kingdom of Gaelica (closed for QuirkyQuill)

[QuirkyQuill]

Gaelica seemed to stretch infinitely beyond their slow moving caravan, but any forward progress was better than stagnation. When Aidan took up his post, leading his people forward, Meya placed herself at the back, trying to convince herself it was to ensure that nobody fell behind and not because she was placing as much distance between her and the prince as she could manage without abandoning the group altogether.

Meya occasionally relieved exhausted parents of their children, at one point fitting three toddlers in front of her, including one who fell asleep with her face buried in her chest, little legs wrapped around her middle. The city gates were a welcome sight, and once the caravan had been seen to safety, she disappeared to the castle. It hadn't occurred to her that she and Magnus had been gone for nearly a fortnight until she got lost trying to find the new room she'd been moved to.

Hildy promptly joined her and had a bath filled quickly, the woman's nose wrinkling at the bedraggled sight of her. Though Meya was typically quiet, there was something different about her silence. She'd declined Hildy's offer to help her undress as she was fully capable of getting out of her clothes. Her eyes were drawn to the faded stain on her stomach, and for the first time since that night, she allowed herself to relive that attack. Sliding into the hot water, she sank down to her chin, her eyes closing as the scent of lavender washed over her. She'd known the man couldn't be saved. Meya was convinced he knew he couldn't be saved. With his wife and children sobbing beside him, she'd had to try. Her shirt had done very little to staunch the flow of blood, her hands taking the majority of it as she'd applied as much pressure as she could to the wound.

It was the children whose cries she couldn't rid herself of that had plagued her. Inhaling, she held her breath and dipped below the water, staying underneath the surface as long as she could manage. Meya knew she needed to move past the memory. Bathing herself, her thoughts turned to the traitorous ally nation. That felt much safer than lingering on Aidan's words. Every time his voice began to inch its way into the forefront of her mind, she intentionally shoved it away. It was dangerous to linger on what he’d said. She knew it would be too easy to fall into him, and she couldn't allow that to happen.

When Hildy returned to help her ready for bed, Meya's eyebrows seemed to have taken a permanent furrow. The older woman didn't push, but took note of the way the younger woman's jaw muscles clenched and the way her fingers dug into the fabric of her sleep chemise. Once she finished the braid, her lips pursed. Meya was so enraptured in the strategic part of her thoughts, it took her longer than it should have to realize that Hildy was no longer working, but was instead staring intently at her. Shaking her head gently, Meya forced a neutral expression on her face.

“Thank you, Hildy. I can manage on my own from here.” Her voice carried the weight she felt on her shoulders, but she stood, doing her best to look nonplussed. “Would you please ask the prince if we could schedule a time to discuss strategy at his earliest convenience? I do not need an answer tonight.”

Hildy's eyebrow rose as the formality of the request seemed to wrap Meya’s words in cold detachment. Rather than comment, Hildy merely nodded and left, tracing the familiar steps across the castle.

Meya had managed to avoid sleeping in this room by leaving with her father the day she’d been moved. Left alone, she looked around, feeling the walls move in around her without a balcony to the outside world to provide more space. There was no side doorway leading to Aidan's chambers, and she couldn't decide if she was grateful to have that temptation removed from her or if she felt her loneliness more acutely because of it. Walking to the chair by the fire, she curled into it, her legs tucked beneath, resting her head against the cushion and closing her eyes.

He proposed.

She finally allowed the thought to enter her consciousness, the ache of having to refuse him bringing the hot sting to her eyes. Inhaling deeply, she pushed it back down. It had been the right decision. Even if it had gone against everything her heart had been begging her to do. Logic has to win here.

By the time Hildy made it to the prince’s room, she looked truly displeased, a fearsome expression on the older woman. Her irritation came through in her knock on the door, and when she entered the room, her eyes narrowed in on the man she'd known since boyhood. Crossing her arms, she looked more like a mother scolding her child than a senior lady’s maid addressing the crown prince.

“What did you do to her?” Hildy's voice came out sharply as she looked Aidan up and down. “She is asking me to set up a meeting with the prince to discuss strategy. It's bad enough she thinks you're the one who moved her far enough away from your chamber she may as well be in the next kingdom over. What did you do?”

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan barely had time to brace himself before Hildy stormed into his chambers, her sharp knock preceding her by only a second. She was a woman who had spent nearly his entire life managing him in one way or another, from scolding him as a toddler to ensuring his chambers were always in order even after she’d risen to head of the household. He knew that look in her eye well. It meant she was furious, but more than that—it meant she was disappointed.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair before turning to face her fully. “I told her the truth,” he said, his voice steady.

Hildy’s glare didn’t soften. If anything, it deepened, her arms crossing tighter over her chest. “And what, precisely, does that mean?”

Aidan exhaled, bracing his hands on the back of a chair. “I told her I wanted to marry her.”

That made Hildy pause. The fierce lines of her face flickered with something unreadable before she schooled them into neutrality. “You proposed?”

Aidan nodded once.

She let out a breath, shaking her head. “Well, I suppose that explains why she looks like someone carved out her heart with a dull blade.”

His jaw clenched. He had expected Meya to struggle with it—had known, before the words even left his mouth, that she would resist. But hearing it put so plainly made his chest tighten.

“I didn't intend to hurt her,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I meant every word.”

Hildy let out a long-suffering sigh and moved toward the hearth, inspecting him with a critical eye. “Aidan, you may be the future king, but when it comes to that girl, you have all the subtlety of an avalanche. She’s been through hell. And now she thinks you’re throwing her in the middle of a storm she’s not ready to weather.”

Aidan pushed off the chair, pacing a few steps before turning back. “She is already in the storm, Hildy. We both are. The only difference is that I don’t intend to let her face it alone.”

Hildy studied him carefully, her gaze softer now, but no less firm. “Then you need to show her that,” she said. “Because right now, she believes she’s safer keeping her distance. And whatever you said to her out there only convinced her of it.”

Aidan closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose before meeting Hildy’s gaze again. “Did she say anything else?”

“Just that she wanted to discuss strategy. As soon as possible.” Hildy tilted her head. “And she looked like she’d rather swallow glass than say it.”

Aidan huffed a quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it. “That sounds about right.”

Hildy stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on his arm, the same way she had when he was a boy who needed guidance. “You don’t get to win this fight with declarations, Aidan. You have to give her reasons. Not just words.”

He nodded slowly, understanding the weight of what she was saying. He had spent his whole life leading men into battle, making bold decisions with the confidence of a prince raised to rule. But this was not a war he could win by force of will alone. It was a war of patience. And he would not lose.

“Set the meeting,” he said at last. “I’ll speak with her tomorrow.”

Hildy gave a satisfied nod, though she still eyed him with a touch of skepticism. “Don’t be an idiot about it, Aidan.”

He huffed another quiet breath, watching as she turned on her heel and left the room. Alone again, he moved toward the window, staring out at the city below. Somewhere in the castle, Meya was likely doing the same—gathering her thoughts, trying to steady herself. He had given her truth. Now he had to give her time.
​

Years Ago—Aidan, Age 12​

A storm battered the castle, rain lashing against the windows in relentless sheets, the wind howling through the stone corridors. The torches in the halls flickered as drafts seeped through every crack, but the royal household carried on as if the castle itself wasn’t groaning under the weight of the tempest.

Aidan, however, was not carrying on. He was fuming. Slumped on the bench by the fireplace in his chambers, he glared at the flames, his arms crossed so tightly over his chest that his knuckles turned white. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth, and his tunic was still rumpled from where he had yanked off his formal coat and thrown it across the room in frustration. Hildy, of course, retrieved it and folded it neatly on the table without a word. She had been his first nanny, then his chamber assistant, and now, at the head of the household, she had more duties than just keeping an eye on him—but that didn’t mean she stopped. She always knew when something was wrong. And right now, something was very, very wrong.

"You plan on sulking all night, or will you tell me what’s got your breeches in a twist?" Hildy finally asked, smoothing out the coat’s sleeves before turning to face him with a raised brow.

Aidan scowled deeper. "It isn’t sulking if I have a reason."

Hildy gave him a flat look. "I suppose you'll be the judge of that, then. What happened?"

He hesitated, but Hildy simply waited, patient as ever. She had always known when to let him sit with his emotions and when to pull them out of him like a splinter.

Aidan huffed a breath. "Father pulled me from the training yard today. Said I had more important things to do than spend all afternoon with a sword in my hand."

Hildy didn’t look surprised. "And what exactly did he make you do instead?"

"Sit in meetings. Listen to him talk about treaties, trade agreements, the harvest." Aidan nearly spat the last word. "How does the future king have time to care about grain?"

Hildy blinked once. Then, to Aidan’s absolute horror, she laughed.

He shot up from his seat. "It isn’t funny!"

"Oh, it is," she said, still chuckling as she took a seat across from him. "Because one day, when you’re older, you’ll realize that knowing how to lead a battle means nothing if your soldiers go hungry before they even reach the field."

Aidan clenched his fists, but the fire in his chest cooled slightly. "But I want to be a warrior," he muttered. "A great one. Not just some—some ruler who sits and talks all day."

Hildy hummed, tilting her head as she studied him. "And what good is a warrior with no one left to fight for?"

That struck him silent.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Aidan, you’re your father’s son through and through. Stubborn as an ox, determined to lead from the front. But there will be times in your life when swinging a sword won’t be the answer. When words, patience, and understanding will be what wins the battle."

Aidan stared at the fire, his fingers twitching. "I hate waiting."

"I know," Hildy said, smiling faintly. "But waiting, my boy, is sometimes the only way to win."

He didn't fully understand then—not really. At twelve, he thought victory was won by action alone. By charging ahead, by striking first. But as the storm raged on outside, Aidan thought about what she said. And, years later, as he stood by his window, staring out into the night, knowing Meya was somewhere in the castle trying to put distance between them, Hildy’s words echoed back through time.

Waiting, my boy, is sometimes the only way to win.​

 

[QuirkyQuill]

“M’lady, do you perhaps have an aversion to sleeping in a bed?”

Hildy's voice cut through the nightmare that had pierced Meya’s sleep throughout the night. Jerking awake, she looked around, confused for a moment as to her whereabouts before the memory of settling into the chair by the fire came streaming back. Reaching up, she rubbed her eyes, feeling the stiffness from sleeping in a chair in the tightness of her neck muscles. It took a moment for the lingering screams from the memory that continued to resurface to fade from her consciousness.

“I think I have an aversion to sleeping in general, Hildy.” Untucking her legs from beneath her, she winced as she stretched, feeling her joints cramping at once.

“Perhaps attempting to sleep in an actual bed might help solve the problem.” Lifting an eyebrow in Meya’s direction, she watched the young woman stand up slowly. “That being said, you are by far the easiest guest I have ever had to clean up after.”

“Hildy, did you just jest on purpose?” A twitch that almost resembled a smile crossed Meya's face as she reached up and dug her fingers into a particularly cantankerous muscle in the back of her neck. She could feel the knot beneath her skin.

“I do not know the meaning of the word.” Pulling a light blue dress from the bureau, she motioned for Meya to step behind the privacy screen. A sigh escaped her at the sight of the dress. Her time for breeches was clearly at an end for now, and she looked begrudgingly at the blue fabric.

“Fix your face, m’lady.” Hildy's words came out briskly, though she barely spared Meya a glance as she hung the item up. Despite herself, Meya laughed, her tired features lighting up for a brief moment and catching Hildy by surprise. The older woman gave her a questioning look before removing the sleeping gown over Meya’s head.

“I heard that phrase more than any other from my nanny when I was a child.” An affectionate smile settled on her face as she reached up and pushed an errant tendril behind her ear.

“I imagine she had her hands full with you.” Pulling no punches, Hildy loosened the ribbon on the dress before lifting it from where it hung. “Were you just as resistant to proper attire for a lady then as you are now?”

“Even more so.”

“Well, the blue will bring out your eyes. I have arranged for you to meet with the prince over breakfast in his chambers, so the sooner you accept your wardrobe fate, the sooner I can deliver you to him.” She pulled the dress down over Meya's head, ignoring the scowl on the young woman's face.

“Hildy, I wanted a meeting with him. Not… breakfast in his private room.”

“Oh?” Feigning innocence, she shrugged nonchalantly. “My mistake. No time to fix it, either.” Moving behind Meya, she made quick work of tying her into the dress, pulling a little harder on the ribbon than Meya thought wholly necessary.

Not long after, Meya followed Hildy through the castle, trying to memorize the path to the new room. Hildy had pulled the top of Meya’s hair into a single braid, allowing the rest of her blonde waves to fall down her back, the contrast between the dress and her hair resembling a blue sky on a day full of sunshine. Meya felt ill-prepared to discuss political strategy looking the way she did, but when Hildy knocked on Aidan's door, she clung to her resolve to act as the dutiful spy and soldier she’d trained to be.

Hildy led her in, looking rather pleased with herself, and offered Aidan a quick curtsy before practically slamming the door behind Meya. Wincing at the loud sound, she turned her head and stared at the closed door, halfway expecting the woman to lock them in together.

Subtle.

Shaking her head, she turned back to the man before her, her stomach knotting at the sight of him. Dipping her head in a small bow, she clasped her hands in front of her as she schooled her features.

“Your Highness,” she greeted him softly, reverting to his title in an attempt to maintain the wall she was desperate to cling to.

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan gave her a look at that—one that carried too much weight, too much history for mere formalities to stand between them. His eyes locked onto hers, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a quiet exhale, he shook his head.

"We’re far beyond that, Meya." His voice was steady, lacking harshness, but there was an undeniable firmness beneath the words. It wasn’t a reprimand, just a reminder. A truth neither of them could ignore.

With an almost imperceptible nod toward the table, he gestured for her to sit. When she hesitated, just for a breath, he pulled out a chair for her, waiting. It wasn’t a command, nor was it a request. Just another quiet expectation, another unspoken understanding between them. After a brief hesitation, Meya sat, her movements careful, measured, like she was bracing herself for something. He took his own seat across from her, leaning back slightly, but his attention never wavered.

The breakfast before them was a lavish spread—freshly baked bread, golden and steaming; an assortment of fruits, glistening with dew; roasted meats seasoned to perfection. It was the kind of meal fit for a prince, and yet, Aidan barely tasted a bite of it. He ate out of habit more than hunger, more for the sake of appearances than any real need. His focus remained elsewhere.

Meya, for her part, hardly touched her plate at all. She picked at the bread absently, breaking it into small, untouched pieces. The movements were subtle, but Aidan noticed. He always noticed. The way her shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the way her gaze stayed carefully lowered, as if she was choosing each moment to look anywhere but at him.

She was avoiding something.

No. She was avoiding him.

And he knew why.

For a while, he let the silence stretch between them. Let it settle, heavy but unspoken. Aidan had never been the kind of man to dance around the truth, to let things fester in the dark corners of his mind, especially not with her. Not with this.

So, when he finally broke the silence, his voice was quiet but unyielding.

"Tell me, Meya," he said, setting down his fork and leaning back in his chair, arms crossing lightly over his chest. "Are we going to keep circling around it, or will you finally tell me why you refused me?"

The question lingered in the air between them, heavy with expectation.

His tone lacked anger, lacked resentment. But there was something else in it—something deeper, something quieter.

He needed to understand.

Her rejection had not been expected. He had known there would be hesitation, knew there were obstacles to overcome, but outright refusal? No. That had caught him off guard.

And Aidan was not a man who took rejection lightly—not because of pride, but because he did not ask for things without certainty. When he made a move, when he made a choice, it was because he had weighed every possibility, every risk.

And he had chosen her.

She had said no.

Now, he needed to know why.

He watched her carefully, searching for any sign of what lay beneath her carefully controlled mask. She was good at keeping her expression neutral, at guarding herself. But Aidan had known her for too long. He could see the tension in the way she held herself, in the way her fingers curled slightly in her lap, as if bracing for impact.

"If you mean to spare my feelings, don’t," he continued, his voice calm but insistent. "I am not a man who needs soft words, Meya. Nor do I need to be protected from the truth."

His fingers drummed lightly against the wooden surface of the table.

"If it was politics, if it was duty, if it was something beyond your control, then say so. If it was something I did—" He stopped himself for a brief moment, then pressed forward. "I need to know. I will not sit here and pretend this does not matter."

His jaw tightened, though his expression remained measured.

"Because it does. More than you may want it to. More than you may be willing to admit."

He let the words settle, let them weigh on her as much as they weighed on him.

Aidan had fought battles before. He had led men into war, had faced enemies with blades drawn and fire at his back. But this—this—was something different entirely.

This was personal.

He had laid himself bare before her. He had given her the choice, given her him. And she had turned away.

But Aidan was not the kind of man who let things go unanswered.

Not when it came to her.

His gaze never wavered, never relented.

"So tell me, Meya." His voice was softer now, but no less resolute. "Tell me the truth."​

 

[QuirkyQuill]

Aidan's voice made her chest tighten, his tone twisting its way around her heart. Meya should have expected that he wouldn't just let her sink back into old habits. She remained silent, her eyes meeting his, but she was determined to keep formality between them. It was the only defense she could muster against him, and right now, she needed to remain detached from him. Swallowing thickly as he nodded to the seat at the table, her jaw clenched slightly. When she moved to sit down, her movements were stiff, her posture impeccably straight.

Between fits of sleep, Meya had been trying to think of logical ways to change Aidan's mind about trying to dethrone her uncle. The fact that her father was a proponent of this plan was still impossible to reconcile. He had always pressed upon her that family loyalty was unquestionable. To hear him advocate for anything different left her reeling and feeling unsteady. Even if she agreed with the sentiment.

Eating almost absentmindedly, Meya failed to notice Aidan observing her throughout their silence. She knew she needed sustenance. Her body was beginning to punish her with exhaustion and lethargy. While she had managed to keep herself alive when she'd disappeared on her own, those fights hadn't come as easily to her as they should have. She was so used to rigorous training day in and day out, and her body was uncertain how to respond to the lack of exercise. She ate slowly, forcing each bite past the knot in her stomach, her gaze taking in every insignificant detail of her food because it kept her stubbornly focused on anything but Aidan.

"Tell me, Meya.”

Her blue eyes closed at his gentle command, her head still lowered. This was why she’d wanted a meeting, not a breakfast. If they had been in a study or a council room, it would have been easier to maintain the illusion of business. Sitting across from one another at a table made it easier to divert to more personal matters. Opening her eyes, she bit down on her lip at his question.

Yes. Meya wanted to offer up a belligerent retort, but she withheld it. Finally, she lifted her gaze to him, silently pleading with him to let it go. He wouldn't, though, and she knew it. Every word he spoke felt like a dagger inching into her chest, slow, intentional, and painful. Meya knew she'd hurt him, and that fact alone sent tension coursing through her body. Hurting him was the last thing she wanted to do, but she also knew that she had to cling tightly to her resolve. It was better for him to be hurt than to deal with the consequences of attempting to overthrow a tyrannical king.

As he spoke, her eyes pricked with tears, and she bit down on her bottom lip in an effort to push her emotions back down. Life had been so much easier before Aidan had unlocked her heart. Meya had perfected the art of repressing her emotions, and now she seemed unable to exercise control over them where Aidan was concerned.

Standing, she felt the overwhelming desire to outright flee his chambers, but Meya wasn't entirely certain he would let her, and she lacked the confidence that she could outpace him to the door. Not while maintaining any amount of dignity. Instead, she walked to the glass doors that led to the balcony, her arms wrapping around herself in a defensive action, and stopped in front of them. Forcing her lungs to inhale, she stared at her reflection in the window, the soreness from her night in the chair adding to her discomfort. She reached up with her right hand, massaging the knot that had formed on the back of her neck.

“Because,” she finally found her voice, though it came out strained, “you matter too much for me to accept. Any attempt to overthrow King Tyrell would be a death sentence. I cannot support that plan because if it fails…” Her words cut off as the knowledge of what that would mean vividly played out in her head. “Honestly, Aidan, there is a chance he would consent to a marriage. But he would want to use me against you. He would not consent in good faith, and it would be expected that I work to bring you and your father down from the inside. I can't -” Her voice hitched, and she abruptly cut herself off, closing her eyes and shaking her head.

“I will not be used as a weapon against you. I cannot see a future in this where you don't die, and I could not live with myself if that happened. Especially if I am in any way culpable.” Her chest tightened as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her senses, and her fingers dug a little deeper into her muscles. Meya had witnessed enough torture and torment under her uncle's flag that she couldn't shake the distinct images of what they would do to Aidan if given the chance.

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan sat motionless as her words settled between them, the weight of them pressing against his chest like a heavy stone. He had known—of course he had known—that her refusal had nothing to do with indifference, nothing to do with a lack of love. But hearing it spoken aloud, raw and unguarded, cut deeper than he had expected.

She was afraid. Not for herself, but for him.

Slowly, he pushed back his chair, the legs scraping softly against the polished floor. His movements were unhurried as he rose to his feet, watching her where she stood at the balcony doors, arms wrapped around herself like a shield. She had always carried herself like a soldier, always tried to mask her heart behind iron walls. But now, in this moment, Aidan saw the fractures. He saw the battle raging within her, the silent war between love and fear, between duty and desire.

He could not leave her standing in that place alone.

Crossing the room, Aidan approached her, his steps measured, deliberate. He did not reach for her at first, merely pausing a breath away, his reflection joining hers in the glass. Even without touching her, he could feel the tension radiating from her body, could see the way her fingers dug into her own skin as though bracing against a force she could not fight.

Then, gently, he placed his hand on her shoulder. The warmth of his touch was steady, grounding, but there was no force in it. Only a silent request. A silent promise. He felt the smallest flinch beneath his fingers, not in fear, but in feeling. The same storm that raged inside of him was mirrored in her. With careful pressure, he turned her to face him. Meya did not fight him, but she did not meet his gaze at first, her chin tilting downward, the weight of emotion still pressing upon her. Aidan let the silence stretch for a moment before he spoke, his voice low but unwavering.

"You think my death is inevitable." He said it not as a question, but as a truth she had already accepted. "And yet, Meya, you must know this—I would rather meet that end fighting for something that matters, fighting for a world where you do not have to be used as a weapon, where my father does not have to bow to a tyrant."

His fingers tightened slightly on her shoulder, not in anger, but in conviction.

"You say I matter too much for you to accept me. But what is a future worth if you are not in it?" His voice was softer now, but no less insistent. "What is a crown, what is a throne, if I cannot share my life with you?"

He reached up with his free hand, brushing a stray lock of golden hair from her face, his touch lingering at the curve of her jaw. He had loved her for so long—before he even had the words to name it. And now, after everything, after all the battles fought and all the years spent apart, he would not let her slip through his fingers because of fear.

"I will not tell you that this path is safe. I will not pretend that victory is certain." His thumb traced a slow, absent pattern against her skin. "But I know this, Meya—I want you by my side, whatever comes."

His gaze burned into hers now, holding her in place. "Not as a weapon. Not as a pawn in this war. But as the woman I love. The woman I have always loved."

His heart pounded, the air between them charged, heavy with something unspoken but undeniable. Then, without hesitation, he leaned in, capturing her lips with his own. The kiss was not a question. It was not a plea. It was a reminder.

A reminder of the bond they had forged, of the stolen moments that had first sparked between them in this very room. Of the nights spent in whispered confessions, of hands reaching for each other in the dark, of a love that had never been fragile, even when the world conspired to pull them apart. He kissed her as if he could etch the truth of his heart into her very soul. That he was hers. That she was his. That no war, no crown, no enemy could sever what had always been meant to be. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against hers, their breaths mingling in the silence that followed.

"Do not ask me to walk this path without you." His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything he felt. "Because I cannot."​

 

[QuirkyQuill]

Meya tensed slightly as the sound of the chair grated against the quiet. Staring out the window, her fingers tightened against her skin as she heard him draw near. The heat emanated from him and she focused with particular intent on smoke rising from a chimney in the distance. It wouldn't take much for Aidan to bring her walls crumbling down into a heap, and she had a feeling he’d caught on to that fact. The weight of his hand settled on her shoulder, and she closed her eyes, the connection from that simple movement crashing over her. Inhaling deeply, she worked to steady herself. He left her very little time to rebuild her defenses before turning her. Meeting his gaze as he spoke, Meya's distress was visible on her face, a rare peek behind the neutral facade she frequently wore.

"What is a crown, what is a throne, if I cannot share my life with you?”

His words were the unyielding chisel against the stone she’d haphazardly stacked around her heart. The closeness between them and the sincerity of his conviction planted little seeds of doubt into her fears, but she tried to cling to the reality of their situation desperately. It would never work. It would never be permitted. His people would feel betrayed more than they already did by her presence.

Then his fingers skimmed her face as he brushed her hair behind her ear, and her eyes closed as she leaned into his hand. Despite the alarm cries raging through her mind, her body loosened under his gentle touch, the magnetism between them making it impossible for her to remain rigid.

"But I know this, Meya—I want you by my side, whatever comes.”

She heard him, her mind desperate to object, but the allure of safety and contentment trailing down her jaw in a gentle, calloused promise caused the fight inside her to whither. When her eyes opened to look at him, tears pooled, threatening to fall. Meya couldn't deny him. It would be easier to fall upon her own sword than to walk away from him when he was asking her to stay.

A small sound escaped her when his lips claimed hers, and Meya leaned against him, her body seeking his without hesitation. The world outside his protective shield ceased to exist, the feeling of his warmth against her stilling her very breath. Her hands reached up as he pulled back, fingers resting against his cheeks as her breathing synced with his. Eyes remaining closed, she held him close, the gravel of his voice pushing away what little resistance she might have still had.

Nodding slowly, two small tears slid down her cheeks.

“I'm here.” Meya’s voice came out quietly, a concession, despite all the details they still needed to discuss. For the moment, though, she would let the challenges remain outside his chambers while she remained within.

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan studied her, the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes, the slight tremble of her breath as she spoke those two words— I’m here. A quiet admission, but one that resonated through him like the toll of a bell. He knew what it had cost her to say them, knew the battle waged within her even now. But she had not turned away.

That was enough. His fingers traced the curve of her jaw, reverent in their touch. He pressed another kiss, softer this time, to her forehead, lingering there as if committing her presence to memory. Whatever storm raged beyond these walls, whatever dangers loomed ahead, this moment was theirs.

But Aidan knew they could not stay suspended in it forever. Drawing back just slightly, his gaze remained locked on hers, his thumb brushing against the dampness left by her tears. "You belong here, Meya," he murmured, voice low but firm. "And I’ll not have you hidden away like some distant guest or—worse—an outsider."

He turned from her, moving toward the door with purpose. Throwing it open, he motioned to the steward stationed outside. The man startled slightly before bowing his head.

"Have Lady Meya’s chambers restored," Aidan ordered. "The ones beside mine—where she was before."

The steward hesitated, his gaze flickering toward Meya before returning to Aidan. "Your Highness, the arrangements were changed after—"

"I am aware," Aidan interrupted, his voice taking on a sharpness that allowed no room for discussion. "She will return to her rightful place. See to it at once."

"Yes, Your Highness." The steward bowed again before hastening away.

Aidan exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair before turning back to Meya. His tone softened as he closed the door behind him. "It may take some time before the rooms are properly prepared again. Stay here until then."

It was not a question. It was a declaration. Aidan watched her, waiting for any sign of resistance. But none came. Satisfied, he stepped closer again, his hands coming to rest on her waist. "I should be here with you," he admitted. "But I suspect my father has other plans for my morning."

As if summoned by the thought, a sharp knock sounded at the door. Aidan exhaled through his nose, already expecting the news before he even responded.

"Enter."

The door cracked open, revealing another steward—one of his father’s men. The man stepped inside, bowing slightly. "Your Highness, King Cathal requests your presence at once."

Of course he does.

Aidan nodded curtly. "Tell him I will be there shortly."

The steward did not linger, disappearing as swiftly as he had arrived. Aidan turned back to Meya, his expression unreadable for a moment. He knew his father well enough to guess what this was about—her presence here, the growing tensions in court, the battle lines being drawn.

He reached for her once more, drawing her into him. One last moment before duty pulled him away. His lips found hers again, slower this time, more deliberate. "Stay," he murmured against her mouth. "Wait for me."

Then, reluctantly, he pulled away, straightening his tunic and pushing back the weight of his emotions. He had a kingdom to face. But now, at least, he would not be facing it alone.​