#royal court dynamics

[joncronshawauthor]

Secrets and Schemes: Why Royal Courts Captivate Fantasy Readers

In fantasy literature, few settings captivate readers quite like the royal court. These hubs of power, intrigue, and danger serve as perfect crucibles for character development and plot twists. But what makes royal courts so appealing in fantasy storytelling? Let’s explore this fascinating aspect of worldbuilding, with a particular focus on the courts depicted in my novel, “The Fall of…

[luckyricochet]

"Gloire au grand défenseur de la liberté." "Charles. De quelle taverne avez-vous été jeté aujourd'hui?" "Aucune. Mais il est encore tôt. Quand partez-vous sauver l'Amerique?" "D'un jour à l'autre, le cour m'honore d'une commission."

THÉODORE PELLERIN as GILBERT DU MOTIER, THE MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE

EVERY LAFAYETTE SCENE, 7/? ✧ 1x02, FRANKLIN (2024)

[markiafc]

re: why historical intrigue featuring the imperial family, the court, and the bureaucratic spheres is, to me, perfectly primed for confucianist exploration. the public/private is relational and overlapping, family is synecdoche for the state. narratives about the ruling family gathers it all in one place.

[bumblingbabooshka]

St Voyager Memes: Command Trio Edition [Voted 'Most Toxic VOY Polycule' by the people]

[raayllum]

don't get me wrong callum is undeniably a prince and it plays into his family dynamics and his initial sense of unworthiness when the story starts a lot, but i'll never fully understand the hang up that it's a Big part of his ongoing story when his own brother, the king, says "remember who you are" and just refers and reiterates his mage identity (4x06), and that's the only one that callum seems to significantly care about either (5x07)

[mongo-the-liensis]

The party (on the fourth floor). Tell me I'm wrong!

[possamble]

realizing im kind of a weirdo about laios and marcille

[chaotic-orphan]

A Benignant Mischief (5)

Part one here

Continued from here

Back to my favourite Kingdom~

*~*~*~*~*

Cosimo managed to walk at a respectable pace with Henrik’s arm around him, supporting him as they followed the King’s trail through the palace. It felt nice to have freedom of movement in his arms, the iron cuffs were a welcome weight off his wrists.

This part of the palace looked less… formal. Less imposingly grand as the trial court had been. There were also less people, less humans, so maybe that had something to do with Cosimo’s sudden easement.

They turned a corner which opened up into a large room. Not as tall or grand as the court, but clean. Clinical. The walls were the same bone white, but three beds made up the back wall with cabinets full of bottles scattered around everywhere else, filling the space.

Nikolas was there, smiling and charming off the other grumpy human that could only be Artzet. He was taller than Nikolas, and where Nikolas was fair Artzet was dark. He had long dark, raven hair pushed back off his face, that stopped just above his shoulders. He had a wide face and a strong jaw, lined with dark stubble. His eyes were blue, when he turned his head to Cosimo and Henrik, like ice.

“Ah, there he is now,” said Nikolas with a smile, walking over to Cosimo and Henrik to stand beside them. “The man of the hour. He had a rather unfortunate arrival and I was hoping you could bandage his wrists from the cuffs.”

Artzet cocked an eyebrow at Cosimo, silent as the grave. He had a strange aura about him, unapproachable and stormy. His eyes flicked to Cosimo’s ears and Cosimo felt the shame rise in his face as he looked down.

“The boy’s an elf,” Artzet said, his voice like gravel, with a strange accent. Not unlike Henrik and Nikolas but certainly different. Foreign, like Cosimo.

“Yes,” said Nikolas brightly. “He’s a boy. His name is Cosimo, and he was mistreated in my name, Artzet.”

Artzet’s eyes were hard when they cut to Nikolas. “Don’t you usually execute elves?”

There wasn’t a malice in his words, nor anything else really. It was more… matter of fact, as if trying to glean understanding. Cosimo was dizzy with the range that humans came in. Evil, kind, happy, grumpy— and then Artzet who just… confused Cosimo.

Maybe he was going mad.

“Yes,” Nikolas replied in the same matter-of-fact tone. “Adult elves with intentions to kill me first. This boy is a child, Artzet. He doesn’t even know of our tumultuous history with elves.”

Artzet looked at Cosimo again with those icy eyes, calculating, searching Cosimo’s face for what Cosimo didn’t know. Then his face broke into a smile and it made him look a couple years younger.

“An innocent elf,” Artzet said with a bark of laughter and a shrug. “Well. It’s not everyday I get to treat an elf, please put him on the bed.”

Nikolas grinned in return, flashing his smile down at Cosimo and then patting Henrik on the back. “Marvellous!”

Henrik helped Cosimo over to the bed while Artzet milled around the room, humming a tune to himself. “You okay, kid?” Henrik whispered as he lifted Cosimo onto the bed.

“Yeah,” Cosimo replied, the room swirling slightly. “Yeah I’m fine.” Henrik smiled and grabbed Cosimo’s legs, helping him to stretch out on the comfortable bed and it felt so good. So nice and soft and warm. So unlike the cell’s cot.

Nikolas smiled at Cosimo from the entrance of the room. “I have to go and see to some arrangements about fixing you a room, Cosimo.”

Cosimo frowned. “A room?”

“Yes,” Nikolas said, smiling kindly.

“You’re not letting me go?”

The humans stilled in the room. Cosimo looked between Nikolas and Henrik, Artzet’s humming stopped. His heart was beating hard in his chest.

They weren’t going to let him go? What about? He had to save the boy and the fox he had to return to them, he had to—

Darkness encroached on the edges of his vision, Cosimo’s breath getting away from him and thrumming his chest in a staccato rhythm.

“I have to— I have to— my brother, I have to—” Cosimo wheezed, clutching his chest but it was no use. His thoughts were against him, his mind turning in on him and shattering. He couldn’t breathe. He had to—

Henrik was beside him, hand on his and squeezing. “Hey. Cosimo! Hey! Look at me, it’s okay! We’re not keeping you here. Cosimo!”

Cosimo’s eyes darted around the room searching for escape, everyone, everything was too close to him, the mattress too soft so he would struggle to run and could he even run?! In his state?

Icy eyes appeared in front of him and then smaller golden eyes. Cosimo stared, stunned at the furry creature that Artzet held in front of his face. Tears flowed in steady streams down his face but even then he couldn’t understand what was happening.

A cat?

It was a cat… Artzet… was holding a cat up to Cosimo? To take it?

“There we go. See? Everyone loves Myshka. Eh? Pet her if you like,” said Artzet with an encouraging nod. Cosimo lifted his hand and stroked the cat’s head. The cat purred under him, grey fur so soft and fluffy. “She is my nurse, helps me with all my patients. Isn’t that right Myshka?”

Myshka purred in reply. Cosimo let out a small happy laugh at her, as the grey cat curled up on his lap, content. Cosimo raised his head to see Henrik and Nikolas sharing a look of bewilderment. Cosimo swallowed, embarrassed at all the fuss he had caused.

“Mmm,” Artzet hummed in response to Myshka. “I agree. He is a lovely boy. Too tall for his age, but that means he will grow strong.”

“Cosimo.”

Cosimo looked up to Nikolas, who was frowning his brows forming a furrow at the top of his nose. His green eyes met Cosimo’s, with something heavy in them.

“You said…” Nikolas began then stopped, worrying his lip between his teeth. “You said you had a brother?”

Cosimo’s chest swelled again. He looked to Henrik who stared at him with the same tentative look that was on Nikolas’s face. So he must have said it. Cosimo didn’t remember saying it…

“You didn’t run away on your own,” said Henrik softly. Cosimo glanced down at the cat, fearing if he looked at anyone else he would start crying again. “Did you?”

Cosimo swallowed the lump in his throat.

Artzet spoke first. “Cosimo, if you wouldn’t mind stretching your arm here so I can clean it.”

Cosimo was happy for the distraction. His tongue had turned to sand in his mouth, too dry and thick and much. What would they do to the boy? To the fox? Would they kill them? Sure, Henrik liked Cosimo but that didn’t mean they liked elves. Would they put him in irons too? Force him to be in a cell? To stand trial, and then bandage him up again with an apology and an offer to stay and live with them.

“Cosimo,” it was Henrik this time. His eyes soft and trusting. “You can tell us, okay? We just want what’s best for you. And for your brother.”

Cosimo felt tears building behind his eyes. He couldn’t tell them, could he? He remembered during the trial, how Henrik had just stood back as he was tied down to an iron pole and it flared something angry in his chest. He couldn’t just tell them.

“If I tell you,” Cosimo said, tone guarded, shielding himself from the answer. He raised his head and stared straight at Nikolas. He had to hear it from the King. “Will you subject him to the same thing you did to me?”

The question seemed to suck all air out of the room. Henrik straightened, turning his body a little away from Cosimo, to look at Nikolas. Nikolas’s green eyes didn’t leave Cosimo’s. He walked closer to Cosimo’s bed and stopped at the end of it. Nikolas lifted his right hand, tucking his left behind his back and formed a fist over his chest.

His eyes solemn as he stared at Cosimo.

“I promise you, Cosimo. That your brother will not come to any harm in my care. I will treat you both as if you were my subjects. If you wish you can pass through my territory if you would prefer to keep running from where you’re from. I will provide the King’s escort so you can pass safely through.” Nikolas’s gaze softened then. A small flush fell over his cheeks, and Cosimo realised with a start that the King was… embarrassed.

“Or, if you prefer, you can have a room here in the palace. In my court. You would be treated with the utmost respect and kindness, as well as I would treat any other human. More so, because I know what pain you have been caused under my care. This, I give you, my vow as King. No harm will come to you.”

Cosimo stared without words. It felt as if his breath was taken from his chest. The only thought running through his head was that: Nikolas really did look like a King. The kind of Kings from stories Cosimo grew up with; good Kings, kind Kings, brave as knights and chosen by Gods. His golden brown hair like a crown, standing like a soldier in front of Cosimo, offering him a salute.

A King saluting Cosimo.

A human saluting an elf.

His enemy.

Maybe he was like everything Henrik had said. Maybe he was too good to be a King.

Cosimo broke down into another round of sobs. Nikolas blanked, like he had done something wrong immediately looking to Henrik who shared his look of confusion.

Artzet was bandaging Cosimo’s wrist, movement unbroken as if there was no life changing exchanges happening behind him. Myshka purred on Cosimo’s lap happily.

“Cosimo, I—” Nikolas began but Cosimo cut him off.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for causing all this trouble, I’m sorry for forcing you to be kind. I’m sorry—” Cosimo blubbered, looking up at Nikolas with watery eyes, as wide as saucers. “I’m sorry… that I’m not strong enough to say no. I— I ran with my brother, we— I didn’t have a plan, we have nowhere else to—”

Henrik engulfed Cosimo in a hug, stopping him mid sentence. He was so strong he could take the weight of them both as sobs wracked through Cosimo like a storm. Blubbering up and broiling over in waves.

“We’ll find your brother,” Nikolas said, and he was so certain. “As soon as you’re rested and—”

Cosimo’s eyes flew open, panicked. “No. Please, we have to find him now.”

Nikolas softened. “Of course. As soon as Artzet has looked you over we will set out to find him, Cosimo.”

“How wonderful,” Artzet said happily, returning Cosimo’s bandaged wrist to his lap. “I am already halfway through! Henrik, please. Let us swap sides.”

Cosimo flushed at Artzet’s manner of speaking. He spoke from the back of his throat, pausing as if for effect after every couple of words. His voice happy and upbeat, his face still the same imposing sternness that had initially scared Cosimo.

Henrik pulled back from Cosimo, and Cosimo offered him a smile. It was all he could do. Henrik returned one and walked around the bed to where Artzet was before, sitting on the edge of the blanket.

“How far away was your brother from where we were camped?” Henrik asked.

“Not too far,” Cosimo replied. “I’ll know when we get there. I left him in an elfbow. It should protect him from humans.”

“And from elves?”

Cosimo looked at Nikolas who had an unreadable expression on his face. Cosimo frowned, he didn’t even think of that.

“No,” said Cosimo softly. “No it wouldn’t.”

“No trouble,” said Artzet with a smile. “I will just work faster.”

Nikolas nodded at Artzet. “Thank you, Doctor. Henrik will stay with you Cosimo, while I send word to the stables to prepare the horses so we can leave as soon as you’re finished here.”

“Okay,” said Cosimo. “Thank you.”

Nikolas nodded and then he was gone.

“Oh no,” said Artzet not a second later. Turning Cosimo’s and Henrik’s head to him.

“What?” Henrik asked, his eyes flickering to Cosimo’s wrist.

Artzet grinned. “I think the King likes you, Cosimo.”

Henrik rolled his eyes and let out a soft laugh. Cosimo didn’t know how to react to that statement, but it did make something warm around his heart. It was good if the King liked him, that meant he would survive. The boy would survive. They would be okay, that Cosimo didn’t actually doom them. That he saved them both.

That all this had meant something.

Artzet smiled when he was finished and straightened. “Now, Cosimo. You are good as new! Well, not new, but better.”

Artzet spoke at Henrik next: “make sure he doesn’t ride his own horse in case the pulling of the reins aggravates his wrists.”

“It’s okay,” said Henrik, getting to his feet. “Cosimo will be riding with me anyway.”

“Marvellous. Now, Myshka,” said Artzet with a sigh. He leaned down and hooked his hands under the cats belly to her mewl of protest. “I know, I know. Terrible. Cosimo has a brother to rescue, Myshka, don’t be selfish.”

Cosimo got to his feet, his head only slightly dizzying now. The stress seeming to have left his body with Artzet and Myshka.

“Thank you,” Cosimo said to Artzet who was cuddling Myshka to his chest.

“Anytime, Cosimo. Now go, save your brother. I will see you again.”

Cosimo walked beside Henrik out of Artzet’s room and turned a different corner than the one that led back to the court room with the throne and the iron pole.

“Cosimo, are you sure you’re okay to ride?” Henrik asked, the skepticism evident in his voice. Cosimo for his part was doing his best to stay focused and upright.

“Yes,” said Cosimo. He did feel better, much better than before. He was a little woozy but he just attributed that to the blood loss. His hands looked a little funny with the white bandages wrapped firmly around them. Soft, yet strong. “We need to find him.”

He could feel Henrik’s eyes on him as they walked down the steps they had come up from the stables. They were so close to being safe, Cosimo could rest when he saw the boy, didn’t Henrik understand that? He could relax and let Henrik fuss over him then, but not until he saw the boy.

If the elves had got to him…

No, Cosimo couldn’t think like that. He wouldn’t. They would find the boy and everything would be fine.

They emerged from the side door of the palace to find Nikolas and some soldiers preparing horses outside the stables. Ebony was already geared up, tied off beside a white horse that Cosimo could only presume belonged to Nikolas.

He seemed like the type of man to have a white horse. It made him look more like a Hero. Henrik walked them around to where the gathering of the soldiers were to see Nikolas in the middle, sitting on a bale of hay and laughing at something with the stable boys.

He perked up when he saw Cosimo and Henrik, smiling and standing. He clapped one of the stable boys on the shoulder and then he was in front of Cosimo and Henrik.

“You’re all patched up,” said Nikolas.

“Yes, Artzet worked quickly.”

“Good. Then let’s not waste anymore time, hmm?”

They didn’t. Henrik helped Cosimo onto Ebony again and then climbed up behind him, while Nikolas mounted the white horse beside them. Henrik offered something to Cosimo and he took it, realising it was the hood and cloak Henrik had given him before to hide his ears from the other humans.

Cosimo frowned at the green material. Did he still have to hide? Was he not free by the king’s decree?

“People won’t know that you’re pardoned yet, Cosimo,” said Henrik behind him as he walked Ebony towards the palace gates. “They will still have reason to fear you if they see your ears. People have the tendency to think the worst. It will just cause panic.”

Cosimo swallowed his pride. He didn’t really have any grounds to fight Henrik who had only been kind with him. Henrik was doing this for Cosimo too, so he wouldn’t have to see the fear and hatred in the people’s eyes.

With a few orders from Nikolas they were out the palace gates and walking through the city to the border. Cosimo was awed with the reception Nikolas got from his people.

“Your majesty!”

“Your highness!”

“Three cheers for King Nikolas!”

A street band from the upper city followed the precession with lively music as they walked through the streets. Nikolas, Cosimo observed, smiled and waved and nodded when he needed to. He had no crown and yet everyone knew he was the King. He was adored by his city.

When they got into the outer parts, the poorer parts Cosimo expected some of the love to dwindle but if anything it just got louder.

“Nikolas!”

“King Niko! Where’re’ya off ta?”

“Your highness! We named our son after you,” a woman cried, holding a baby up to him. Nikolas laughed and stopped his horse beside the woman to gaze down at the sleeping child in her arms.

“Mmm, he’s going to be a handsome one, Sierra. Look at that, he’s got his father’s strong nose.” Nikolas looked up at her and smiled, what Cosimo could only assume was his charming kingly smile. “I wish you three all the happiness in the world.”

Then they continued on.

More music.

Flowers thrown at his horses feet. It’s like a festival.

Cosimo can’t help but feel a stab on envy. He can only watch as the humans fawn and fuss over their King, and with good reason, because he’s wearing a cloak right now to cover his features. His ears, his skin, his eyes. All too strange to humans, all hateful. That’s why they were greeted with flowers instead of curses and words of praise rather than hatred.

He shrunk a little into himself, pulling the cloak tighter around himself. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Not until they rescued the boy, that’s why they were leaving Oskana at all. If the humans knew why… well, they wouldn’t be cheering as much.

Or maybe, some tiny voice said at the back of Cosimo’s mind, maybe they would cheer even louder.

It was just a thought, fleeting, and yet somehow heavier than anything Cosimo had thought in the past day. He ignored it. The voice could be right, but Cosimo couldn’t be sure until he saw the boy again.

Until he saved him.

Cosimo raised his head as they reached the city gates, staring out into the Kingswood, as one of the soldiers in his trial had called it.

I’m coming back with help, Cosimo promised. Please, be safe.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

Orphanage roll-call (lmk if you wanna be tagged or removed): @annablogsposts

[fideidefenswhore]

Had circumstances been just a little different, Anne Boleyn might still have lived. Had she produced a son, Jane would have been a passing distraction, Anne's enemies would have been silenced, and her fiery character might again have seemed, at least at times, beguiling to Henry. During the course of their brief marriage, which lasted just over three years, there had been many fluctuations. After the final miscarriage, Anne fought back, saying she had been frightened by Henry's accident, but also broken-hearted at his paying attention to another woman. This kind of criticism was not something Henry was prepared to tolerate in a wife; one of Katherine's strengths, as she herself acknowledged, was that she had never shown any sign of animosity or distress in response to the king's infidelities. Henry and Anne's relationship had been a genuine love-match, however, and the volatility which helped bring about the extraordinary events of the break with Rome remained a part of their relationship ever after.

Henry VIII, Lucy Wooding

[beeapocalypse]

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

The Mini Guide to Crafting Compelling Royal Characters for Fiction Writers

Creating royal characters can be both exciting and challenging. These regal figures often play pivotal roles in stories, capturing readers' imaginations with their power, privilege, and the weight of responsibility they carry. Whether you're writing historical fiction, fantasy, or contemporary novels featuring monarchs, this comprehensive (mini) guide will help you develop authentic, multi-dimensional royal characters that will resonate with your readers.

Understanding the Basics of Royalty

Before diving into character creation, it's essential to have a solid grasp of what royalty entails. Royalty typically refers to members of a ruling family, including kings, queens, princes, princesses, and other nobles within a monarchical system. These individuals are often born into their roles, though some may ascend to power through marriage or other means.

Key aspects to consider:

Hierarchy and succession

Royal duties and responsibilities

Protocol and etiquette

The concept of divine right (in some cultures)

The relationship between royalty and their subjects

Remember, while these elements are common in many royal systems, you have the creative freedom to adapt or reimagine them for your fictional world.

Developing Your Royal Character's Background

Every character, royal or not, needs a rich backstory. For royal characters, this background is particularly crucial as it shapes their worldview, values, and decision-making processes.

Consider the following:

a) Lineage: What is your character's family history? Are they from a long-standing dynasty or a newly established royal house?

b) Upbringing: How were they raised? Were they groomed for leadership from birth, or did they have a more sheltered upbringing?

c) Education: What kind of education did they receive? Was it formal, focusing on statecraft and diplomacy, or more well-rounded?

d) Relationships: How do they relate to their family members, courtiers, and subjects?

e) Personal experiences: What significant events have shaped their character and outlook on life?

Crafting a Unique Personality

Avoid the trap of creating one-dimensional royal stereotypes. Your character should be as complex and nuanced as any other well-developed protagonist or antagonist.

Consider these aspects:

a) Strengths and weaknesses: What are your character's admirable qualities? What flaws do they struggle with?

b) Motivations: What drives them? Is it a sense of duty, personal ambition, or something else entirely?

c) Internal conflicts: What personal struggles do they face? How do these conflicts affect their rule and relationships?

d) Hobbies and interests: What passions do they pursue outside of their royal duties?

e) Sense of humor: How do they express humor, if at all? Is it dry wit, sarcasm, or something else?

Balancing Power and Vulnerability

One of the most intriguing aspects of royal characters is the juxtaposition between their immense power and their human vulnerabilities. This balance can create compelling internal and external conflicts for your character.

Consider:

The weight of responsibility and its impact on their personal life

The isolation that often comes with a royal position

The constant scrutiny they face from the public and court

The struggle between personal desires and duty to the crown

Creating a Believable Royal World

Your royal character doesn't exist in a vacuum (I hope not). They're part of a larger royal ecosystem that includes family members, advisors, courtiers, and subjects. Developing this world adds depth and authenticity to your story.

Key elements to consider:

Court dynamics and politics

Relationships with other noble houses or kingdoms

The role of advisors and how they influence decisions

Traditions and customs specific to your royal setting

The economic and social structure of the kingdom

Addressing the Challenges of Royal Life

Royal characters face unique challenges that can drive your plot and character development. Some common themes include:

a) Succession disputes b) Balancing personal happiness with duty c) Navigating political alliances and conflicts d) Managing public opinion and maintaining legitimacy e) Dealing with threats to their rule or life

Use these challenges to create tension and drive your story forward while revealing more about your character's personality and values.

The Impact of Historical Context

If you're writing historical fiction or a fantasy inspired by real-world monarchies, it's crucial to consider the historical context. Research the time period and culture you're drawing from to ensure authenticity in your character's behavior, beliefs, and challenges.

Key areas to research:

Social norms and expectations of the time

Political systems and power structures

Technology and its impact on governance

Religious beliefs and their influence on royalty

Gender roles and how they affect royal duties and succession

Avoiding Common Pitfalls

When creating royal characters, be mindful of these common mistakes:

a) Making them too perfect or too villainous b) Ignoring the realities of royal life (e.g., lack of privacy, constant duties) c) Overlooking the impact of their decisions on their subjects d) Failing to show growth or change over the course of the story e) Relying too heavily on stereotypes or clichés

Incorporating Royal Etiquette and Protocol

Royal characters often adhere to strict codes of conduct and protocol. While you don't need to become an expert in royal etiquette, incorporating some of these elements can add authenticity to your story:

Forms of address (Your Majesty, Your Highness, etc.)

Court ceremonies and rituals

Dress codes and regalia

Rules of precedence in social situations

Diplomatic protocols when interacting with other royals or dignitaries

Exploring Different Types of Royal Characters

Remember that not all royal characters need to be ruling monarchs. Consider exploring other royal roles, such as:

The rebel prince or princess who rejects their royal duties

The reluctant heir thrust into power unexpectedly

The exiled royal fighting to reclaim their throne

The royal spouse adapting to life in the palace

The illegitimate child discovering their royal heritage

Each of these archetypes offers unique storytelling opportunities and challenges for character development.

Balancing Historical Accuracy and Creative License

If you're writing historical fiction featuring real royalty, you'll need to strike a balance between historical accuracy and creative interpretation. While it's important to respect known facts and timelines, you also have the freedom to explore the inner lives and motivations of these historical figures.

Tips for balancing accuracy and creativity:

Thoroughly research the historical figure and their time period

Clearly differentiate between historical fact and fictional interpretation

Use author's notes to explain any significant departures from known history

Focus on filling in the gaps in the historical record rather than contradicting established facts

Developing Royal Character Arcs

Like any well-rounded character, your royal protagonist should undergo growth and change throughout your story. Consider how their experiences might challenge their beliefs, alter their perspective, or force them to confront their flaws.

Possible character arcs for royal characters:

From naive idealist to pragmatic ruler

From reluctant heir to confident leader

From isolated monarch to connected leader who understands their subjects

From power-hungry tyrant to benevolent ruler (or vice versa)

Remember, character growth doesn't always have to be positive. Sometimes, the most compelling stories involve characters who face moral decline or tragic falls from grace.

Remember, while the trappings of royalty may be grand, at their core, your royal characters are still human. They love, fear, hope, and struggle like anyone else. It's this humanity, set against the backdrop of power and responsibility, that makes royal characters so fascinating to read and write about.

Happy writing, - Rin T

Hey fellow writers! I'm super excited to share that I've just launched a Tumblr community. I'm inviting all of you to join my community. All you have to do is fill out this Google form, and I'll personally send you an invitation to join the Write Right Society on Tumblr! Can't wait to see your posts!

[raincitygirl76]

And great tags from @crownedwille including the fact that Kristina was probably rebellious once herself. She and Wilhelm seem to be very similar in their temperaments.

What we saw of Erik was that he was a “don’t rock the boat”, “let’s compromise so there’s no awkwardness” type like their dad Ludvig. Whereas Kristina and her younger son are both headstrong and determined.

I suspect the family dynamic prior to Erik’s death was Kristina and Wilhelm frequently butting heads, because they both have strong opinions, and Ludvig and Erik smoothing over their arguments. Pouring diplomatic oil on troubled waters because Erik and Ludvig are conflict-avoidant and want a quiet life.

Kristina is essentially who Wilhelm will be in thirty years or so if he lets the crushing weight of the royal court and the general public’s demands take over his life. Kristina has drunk the koolaid that preserving traditions and preserving the image of the monarchy are the sacred purpose of her entire life.

Wille hasn’t yet drunk that koolaid, although he tried hard to be the perfect Crown Prince in S1 by doing the lying media statement in 1.06, which led to him getting dumped by his boyfriend. But he had a lot of character growth in S2. After the jubilee speech in 2.06, I suspect Wille’s parents, the royal court, and the upper classes will have trouble trying to shove him back in the closet. Or drink the koolaid and truly believe, as his mom does, that tradition and secrecy are objectively good things.

YOUNG ROYALS S01E06 - “Episode 6″

[mewsthumbring]

“Paytai is in an abusive relationship” - come here, let’s chat.

I can’t remember if the show has explicitly said what Paytai’s role is but I think it’s safe to assume he’s some version of a court boy. This is probably somewhat equivalent to Chakri’s role in the court, the main difference being that Paytai has probably served Ramil his whole life.

If we look at the club scene from this perspective, Paytai was actually way out of line. He was asked to dance by Ava, who is not the royal he’s assigned to. If Ava had asked Chakri to dance with them, he would’ve most likely declined by saying it wasn’t appropriate, or he would’ve looked to Khanin for approval. Paytai gets up to dance without asking for permission, specifically because his relationship with Ramil allows him to do that. Sure, Ramil gets pissed, but he gets pissed as a jealous boyfriend, not as a royal. Paytai knows very well that Ramil isn’t going to tell his father that Paytai misbehaved as a court boy.

Now if we look at it from a dom/sub perspective: a dom is supposed to be cool and composed at all times. Their role is to create structure, order, so that the sub can freely let go. But Ramil is not composed, he’s not in control. He’s emotional, jealous, and volatile. He constantly needs reassurance that Paytai “belongs” to him (what he’s actually asking to be reassured about is that Paytai loves him). What Ramil gets out of this dom/sub dynamic is an illusion of control and power, but the one with the actual power is Paytai. He knew exactly what he was doing when he got up to dance, he knew it would piss Ramil off, and that’s what he wanted. He likes that Ramil is possessive over him, he likes that he has that effect on him. Paytai smiles at the end of the kiss scene because Ramil has just shown him that he’s so possessive of him that he’ll go as far as kissing him in public. Paytai may be a victim of the system he exists in, but he’s not a victim in his relationship.

[amethystarachnid]

Hey! I wanted to request Loki x reader fanfic. Can it be arranged marriage with slow burn au where the reader is a princess of a small kingdom who never thought she'd be marrying into a higher kingdom let alone Asgard. So is surprised when is betrothed to loki. She tried to give him benifit of doubt but we'll he acts like an ass and she decides to give it to him back equally. They both banter and throw sarcastic jibes during the courting period and after the marriage but over time they become friends and then lovers. Maybe She calls odin out on his bullshit and bias towards thor, and all the fun family dynamics with frigga and thor.

Thank you! And wishing you a happy new year!✨🍀

THE ROYAL LOVERS

⤷ LOKY LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Requests status: open (only by asks)

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 11k (I dont think I can make it more slow burn than this lol)

ᯓ★ Summary: just what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think

ᯓ★ Part 2

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

You sit in the grand hall of your father’s castle, the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the cold marble floors. The room feels heavier than usual, the weight of your father’s words pressing down on your chest. Betrothed. You turn the word over in your mind, trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out how this has become your reality.

“To one of Asgard’s princes?” you repeat, unable to mask the disbelief in your tone.

Your father nods, his expression grave yet tinged with pride. “Yes, daughter. This alliance is a great honor for our kingdom. A union with Asgard strengthens our position, ensures our prosperity, and secures peace for generations to come.”

Peace. Prosperity. You’ve heard these words countless times before, always in speeches or during court gatherings when foreign diplomats visit. Now they’re being used as the justification for altering the course of your entire life.

You swallow hard. “And which prince?”

A pause stretches between you, long enough for your heart to skip several anxious beats. Your father finally answers, his voice calm, though his eyes betray some unease. “Prince Loki.”

The name settles over you like a shadow. You’ve heard stories of Asgard, of its golden spires and indomitable warriors. Tales of its princes, too—Thor, the golden-haired god of thunder, beloved by all, and Loki, the sharp-tongued trickster whose reputation is far more ambiguous.

You straighten in your chair, forcing yourself to remain composed despite the storm building inside you. “I see. And when am I to meet this... prince?”

“Soon,” your father says. “King Odin and Queen Frigga have agreed to host a meeting at their palace. You will accompany me to Asgard in three days' time.”

Three days. That’s all the time you have to prepare yourself for the encounter that will determine your future. You nod stiffly and rise from your seat, excusing yourself from the conversation.

Once you’re alone in your chambers, the weight of it all crashes down on you. You pace the room, the rich fabrics of your dress swishing around your legs, your mind racing. Betrothed to a prince of Asgard. It sounds like something out of a storybook, but you’re no naïve dreamer. You know enough to understand the realities of political alliances.

Still, you can’t help but wonder: why would Asgard—a kingdom so vast and powerful it dwarfs your own—be interested in such a union?

Three days later, you stand before the shimmering Bifrost Bridge, its prismatic light almost blinding. The sight of it steals your breath, though you quickly compose yourself as the Asgardian guards usher you and your father toward the grand palace that looms in the distance.

The palace is even more magnificent than the stories described, its golden towers piercing the sky, its halls adorned with treasures from realms beyond your imagination.

You feel small here, insignificant. But you refuse to let it show.

In the throne room, King Odin sits atop his gilded seat, his presence commanding, even intimidating. Beside him stands Queen Frigga, her beauty and poise as striking as the rumors claimed. The sight of her eases your nerves slightly; she seems kind, her gentle smile a stark contrast to the stern expressions of her husband and the guards flanking the room.

And then you see him.

Prince Loki.

He stands a step behind his parents, dressed in sleek black and green, the golden accents of his attire catching the light. His dark hair is neatly combed back, his pale features sharp and angular. There’s an air of arrogance about him, a cool detachment that only adds to his enigmatic aura.

Your father bows, and you quickly follow suit, keeping your gaze fixed on the floor.

“Your Majesties,” your father begins, his voice steady. “It is an honor to stand before you. I thank you for welcoming us into your home.”

Odin nods curtly, his single eye fixed on your father. “We are pleased to have you here. This alliance is of great importance to both our realms.”

Frigga steps forward, her smile warm. “And you must be the princess,” she says, addressing you directly.

You lift your head, meeting her gaze. “Yes, Your Majesty. It is a privilege to be here.”

Frigga’s smile widens, and for a moment, you feel at ease. But the feeling is short-lived as you catch Loki’s gaze. He’s watching you, his expression unreadable.

“Loki,” Odin says, gesturing toward you. “This is the princess, your betrothed.”

The words hang in the air like a thunderclap. Loki’s lips curl into a faint, almost dismissive smirk. He inclines his head slightly but says nothing.

You suppress the urge to bristle. Fine, you think. If he’s going to be curt, so be it.

Frigga notices the tension and steps in, her voice soothing. “Why don’t the two of you take a moment to speak privately? Get to know one another.”

Your father nods in agreement. “An excellent idea.”

Before you can protest, you’re being led to a nearby chamber, Loki following behind you at a leisurely pace. Once the door closes, you turn to face him, your hands clasped tightly in front of you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence is thick, uncomfortable.

“So,” you begin, forcing yourself to sound calm. “It seems we are to be married.”

Loki leans against the nearest wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “Indeed. Though I must admit, I find the arrangement rather curious.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Curious? In what way?”

He shrugs, his tone casual but laced with condescension. “Our kingdoms are not exactly equals. One might wonder what my father hopes to gain from such a union.”

The words sting, but you refuse to let him see it. Instead, you smile sweetly, matching his tone. “Perhaps he hopes I’ll teach you some manners.”

Loki’s eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he regains his composure. “Manners? How quaint. I wasn’t aware my betrothed was a tutor.”

You take a step closer, meeting his gaze head-on. “And I wasn’t aware mine was a child.”

His smirk falters, and for a moment, you think you’ve won. But then he chuckles, low and amused. “You have spirit, I’ll give you that. It’s almost endearing.”

“Almost?” you echo, tilting your head. “I’ll take that as a compliment, though I doubt you intended it as one.”

Loki studies you for a moment, his green eyes piercing. “You’re not what I expected.”

“And neither are you,” you reply, refusing to look away.

The tension in the room is palpable, an unspoken challenge hanging between you. Finally, Loki straightens, his expression unreadable once more.

“This should be interesting,” he says, his voice quiet but carrying an edge.

You don’t respond, watching as he strides toward the door and leaves without another word.

When you return to the throne room, Frigga gives you a knowing look, as if she can sense the clash of wills that just occurred.

“I trust you had a productive conversation,” she says gently.

You offer her a polite smile. “It was... enlightening.”

Loki says nothing, his expression calm but his eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place.

As the meeting concludes and you prepare to return to your chambers at Asgard for now, you can’t shake the feeling that this is only the beginning of a battle of wits and wills. And for the first time since hearing of the betrothal, you find yourself almost looking forward to the challenge.

The news spreads faster than you’d expect. Within days of the announcement, the realms are abuzz with the most unlikely engagement of the century: Loki, the so-called “trickster prince” of Asgard, and you, the princess of a modest but proud kingdom.

You learn of the reactions secondhand—your father shares reports from neighboring realms, some of which range from incredulous laughter to outright disbelief. Even within Asgard, whispers fill the air. Servants, courtiers, even the warriors of the great halls exchange furtive glances as you pass, clearly wondering how and why such a union has come to be.

You, however, have no answers for them.

Forced to stay in Asgard for the duration of your courtship, you find yourself in a whirlwind of carefully orchestrated meetings, formal dinners, and—most excruciating of all—dates.

The first one is planned with all the subtlety of a lightning bolt. Frigga herself announces it over breakfast, her tone pleasant but brooking no argument.

“The two of you will take a walk through the gardens this afternoon,” she says, her serene expression giving no indication that this is a royal decree rather than a suggestion. “It’s a lovely day, and I’m sure you’ll find the fresh air invigorating.”

Loki, seated across from you at the lavish dining table, barely looks up from his plate. “Invigorating,” he echoes dryly, his tone implying that being dragged into the sunlight is the last thing he finds appealing.

You sip your tea, determined not to let him ruin your mood. “It sounds delightful,” you say, forcing a bright smile.

When the time comes, the “walk” is as awkward as you anticipated. The gardens of Asgard are, of course, stunning, with vibrant flowers and towering trees that look as though they were sculpted by the gods themselves. But the beauty of your surroundings does little to ease the tension between you and your betrothed.

“You seem thrilled to be here,” you remark as you stroll along a cobblestone path, glancing at Loki. He walks a step ahead of you, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression neutral.

“I’m beside myself with joy,” he replies without missing a beat.

You roll your eyes. “If you hate this so much, why not just tell your parents you’re not interested? I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Loki stops, turning to face you with an arched brow. “You think I haven’t tried? My father, as you may have noticed, is not particularly accommodating when it comes to matters of ‘duty.’”

You shrug. “Neither is mine. But at least I’m trying to make the best of it.”

“Ah, yes,” Loki says, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’re positively brimming with enthusiasm. Tell me, is sarcasm a custom in your kingdom, or is it just your natural talent?”

“It’s a survival skill,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “Particularly useful when dealing with insufferable princes.”

Loki laughs—a genuine laugh, though he quickly masks it with a cough. “Touché.”

The rest of the walk is less tense, though the banter continues. By the time you return to the palace, you’re both mildly annoyed but also—if you’re honest with yourself—mildly entertained.

The dates that follow are no less eventful.

One afternoon, you’re coerced into accompanying Loki to the library, which he claims is his “sanctuary.” You quickly learn that by “sanctuary,” he means a place where he can hide from people and indulge in his penchant for mocking their intellectual inadequacies.

“You know,” you say, trailing your fingers along the spines of ancient tomes as Loki lounges in a nearby chair, “if you put half as much effort into being pleasant as you do into being smug, you might actually be tolerable.”

“Why would I aim for tolerable when I can achieve perfection?” he counters, not looking up from his book.

You grab the nearest volume and plop it unceremoniously onto the table in front of him. “Here. Enlighten me, oh wise one.”

Loki picks up the book, glances at the title, and smirks. “A Beginner’s Guide to Asgardian History? How quaint.”

You grin, leaning on the table. “Well, I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you with anything too advanced.”

For a moment, his eyes meet yours, and you swear you see a flicker of amusement there. Then he closes the book with a theatrical sigh. “Very well. Sit, and I’ll educate you—though I can’t promise you’ll retain anything.”

By the end of the afternoon, you’ve learned more about Asgardian history than you ever thought you’d care to know. And, despite his constant teasing, Loki is an excellent teacher.

Another date—a “ride” across the Bifrost on enchanted steeds—proves to be even more chaotic.

“Have you ever ridden a horse before?” Loki asks as you mount your steed, his tone suggesting he already knows the answer.

“Of course,” you reply confidently, though your grip on the reins betrays your nerves.

As the horses take off, galloping across the shimmering bridge, you quickly realize that Asgardian steeds are not like those of your kingdom. They’re faster, stronger, and seemingly unbothered by the laws of gravity.

You let out an involuntary squeal as your horse leaps into the air, soaring above the bridge for a heart-stopping moment before landing gracefully.

Behind you, Loki laughs—an infuriating, delighted sound. “Having fun, princess?”

“Shut up!” you shout, gripping the reins tighter.

By the time the ride is over, your hair is a mess, your heart is pounding, and you’re thoroughly mortified. Loki, of course, looks as composed as ever.

“Well,” he says as you dismount, his smirk firmly in place, “that was exhilarating. Shall we go again?”

You glare at him, brushing strands of hair from your face. “Don’t push your luck.”

Despite the constant banter, you find yourself… not hating his company as much as you expected. Loki, for all his arrogance, is undeniably clever, and his sharp wit keeps you on your toes. He’s also surprisingly observant, occasionally making remarks that reveal a deeper understanding of you than you’re comfortable admitting.

For his part, Loki seems to enjoy sparring with you, though he never lets on too much. There are moments when his smirk softens, when his eyes linger on yours a little longer than necessary. But just as quickly, he retreats behind his usual façade of indifference.

The days pass, and the courtship continues, much to the amusement of the palace staff and the frustration of your parents.

“They’re impossible,” Odin mutters one evening after dinner, watching as you and Loki exchange yet another round of playful insults.

“They’re perfect for each other,” Frigga replies with a smile, her gaze warm as she watches the two of you.

Perfect. You wouldn’t go that far. But as you lie awake in your chambers that night, replaying the day’s events in your mind, you can’t deny that something about Loki intrigues you.

And though you’d never admit it, you’re starting to think that this arrangement might not be so terrible after all.

The day of your wedding looms ever closer, and Asgard hums with preparations. The golden halls are adorned with garlands of flowers, banners bearing the crests of your kingdom and Asgard hang side by side, and the palace is abuzz with activity. Servants scurry to and fro, courtiers gossip behind jeweled fans, and Frigga oversees every detail with her characteristic grace.

You, meanwhile, feel like a tightly coiled spring, caught between nervous anticipation and the persistent irritation that comes from dealing with Loki.

If the prince’s attitude was difficult before, it’s positively maddening now. You’re not sure what changed, but he’s been colder, more distant, his biting remarks sharper than usual.

One day, as you’re walking through the palace gardens, you decide to confront him.

“Alright, what’s your problem?” you demand, stepping in front of him and blocking his path.

Loki arches a brow, clearly unimpressed by your attempt to corner him. “You’ll have to be more specific, princess. I have so many.”

You cross your arms. “Don’t play coy. You’ve been acting like an even bigger ass than usual lately, and I want to know why.”

His lips curl into a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You flatter me with your concern.”

“I’m serious, Loki.” Your voice softens, though your gaze remains firm. “If I’ve done something to upset you, just tell me.”

For a moment, his expression falters, and you think he might actually answer you. But then his smirk returns, colder than before.

“Perhaps I’m simply preparing you for the reality of being married to me,” he says, his tone light but laced with something darker.

Your stomach twists, but you refuse to let him see how much his words sting. “Fine,” you snap. “Be an ass. See if I care.”

You storm off, leaving him standing in the garden, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

The tension between you only worsens with the arrival of Thor.

The golden-haired prince returns from a long mission, his presence immediately commanding attention wherever he goes. Thor is everything Loki is not—open, friendly, and effortlessly charming. He greets you with a beaming smile, his blue eyes sparkling with genuine warmth.

“You must be the princess,” he says, clasping your hand in his large, calloused one. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope,” you reply, returning his smile.

“Of course!” Thor’s laughter booms through the hall, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. “I can see now why my brother is so reluctant to share his time with you. He must be afraid I’ll steal you away!”

You laugh politely, though the comment catches you off guard. Before you can respond, Loki appears at Thor’s side, his expression carefully neutral.

“Thor,” he says smoothly, his tone deceptively light. “How delightful of you to join us. I see you’ve already met my betrothed.”

“Indeed, I have!” Thor claps a hand on Loki’s shoulder, grinning. “She’s delightful. You’re a lucky man, brother.”

Loki’s smile tightens, and you swear you see his jaw clench. “Yes,” he says, his voice a touch colder. “Lucky indeed.”

From that moment on, Loki’s demeanor shifts even further. He grows colder, more distant, and his once playful banter becomes outright cutting.

During a dinner with Thor and the royal family, you find yourself on the receiving end of one of his more caustic remarks.

“Tell me, princess,” Loki drawls, leaning back in his chair. “Have you been enjoying your time here in Asgard? Or is it too overwhelming for someone from such... modest origins?”

The table falls silent, all eyes turning to you. Thor frowns, clearly disapproving of his brother’s behavior, while Frigga gives Loki a sharp look.

You take a deep breath, forcing a smile. “Oh, it’s been lovely,” you reply sweetly. “Though I must admit, the company has been a bit... mixed.”

Thor bursts out laughing, while Loki’s eyes narrow dangerously.

“Well played, princess,” he says, his voice low and icy.

The tension between you only seems to escalate as the days pass, culminating in a heated argument the night before the wedding.

“You know,” you say, standing in the middle of the grand hall where the ceremony will take place, “if you’re so miserable about this marriage, why don’t you just call it off?”

“And bring shame to both our kingdoms?” Loki replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I think not.”

“Shame?” You scoff. “Oh, please. Everyone knows you don’t want this any more than I do.”

“And yet here we are,” he snaps, his eyes flashing with anger.

The argument spirals, both of you hurling insults and accusations until you’re both breathing heavily, standing far too close to each other.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air crackles with tension, and you half-expect Loki to say something cruel, something to end the conversation once and for all.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back, his expression unreadable. “Goodnight, princess,” he says quietly, before turning on his heel and walking away.

You’re left standing alone in the empty hall, your chest tight and your mind racing.

The day of the wedding arrives, and you wake with a mixture of dread and resignation. You’re dressed in an elaborate gown, the finest your kingdom has ever produced, and escorted to the ceremony by your father and a contingent of Asgardian guards.

The hall is packed with dignitaries and guests from across the realms, their eyes fixed on you as you make your way down the aisle. At the end of it stands Loki, dressed in black and gold, his expression a perfect mask of calm.

As you approach, you search his face for any sign of emotion, any hint of the man you’ve gotten to know over the past weeks. But he gives nothing away.

The ceremony proceeds smoothly, the vows exchanged without incident. But as you stand before the gathered crowd, your hand resting in Loki’s, you can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between you.

When the officiant finally declares you husband and wife, Loki leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “The games begin, princess.”

You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “Bring it on, prince.”

The crowd erupts in applause, oblivious to the battle of wills raging between the two of you.

And as Loki leads you down the aisle, his hand resting lightly on yours, you can’t help but wonder what the future holds for this strange, tempestuous union. One thing is certain: life with Loki will never be dull.

The wedding feast is a blur of golden light, laughter, and endless toasts. Your smile is painted on, your cheeks aching as guests from every realm offer their congratulations. Loki plays his part impeccably, charming the crowd with his wit and occasional glances in your direction that are just shy of affectionate.

Inside, you feel like a tightly coiled spring, wound tighter with every passing moment. You know what comes after the feast. The thought sits heavy in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

The hour grows late, and when the last of the guests have finally departed, you’re escorted to the chambers that have been prepared for you and Loki. The halls seem longer than usual, the distance to your destination stretching endlessly as your nerves build.

When you reach the door, the servants offer you both polite bows before disappearing down the corridor, leaving you and Loki alone.

He opens the door, gesturing for you to step inside. His expression is unreadable, though his usual smirk is noticeably absent.

The chambers are stunning, of course—richly furnished and illuminated by soft, flickering candlelight. But all you can focus on is the massive bed at the center of the room, its silken sheets and embroidered pillows looking more like a throne than a place to rest.

Loki closes the door behind you, and you hear the faint click of the lock.

You stand frozen in the middle of the room, your hands clasped tightly in front of you as you stare at the bed.

“Well,” Loki says after a moment, his voice breaking the tense silence. “I suppose this is the part where we consummate the marriage.”

Your stomach flips, and you force yourself to turn and look at him. “I... I know,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

Loki studies you, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. Then, to your surprise, he sighs and moves to the nearest chair, sinking into it with an almost theatrical air of exasperation.

“Let’s make one thing perfectly clear,” he says, resting his elbow on the armrest and propping his chin on his hand. “I have no intention of forcing you—or myself, for that matter—into anything tonight.”

You blink, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he replies, his tone dry, “that we don’t actually have to do anything. All anyone needs to know is that we sayit happened. As long as we both stick to the story, no one will be the wiser.”

Relief floods through you, so sudden and intense that your knees nearly buckle. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” he says, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “I find the idea of spending the night in awkward silence far more appealing than the alternative.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, nodding quickly. “Alright. I... I agree.”

“Good.” He stands and moves to the other side of the room, unfastening his cloak and draping it over a chair. “We’ll sleep in the same bed—appearances and all that—but I promise to stay on my side. You won’t even know I’m there.”

You hesitate, glancing at the bed again. “Alright,” you say softly, your voice steadier now.

Loki changes into a loose tunic and trousers while you slip behind a screen to remove your elaborate gown and don a simple nightdress. When you emerge, he’s already lying on one side of the bed, his back to you.

You climb in cautiously, keeping to the very edge of your side. The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and you can feel the faint warmth of Loki’s presence, though you’re careful not to look at him.

The silence stretches between you, heavy but not entirely uncomfortable.

“Goodnight, princess,” Loki says after a while, his voice quiet but laced with his usual sarcasm.

“Goodnight, Loki,” you reply, your lips curving into a faint smile despite yourself.

The next morning, you’re awoken by a knock at the door. Loki groans softly, rolling onto his back but making no move to get up.

“Come in,” he calls lazily.

The door opens, and a group of servants enters, carrying trays of breakfast and fresh clothing. They’re followed by Frigga, who takes one look at the rumpled bed and your mussed hair and smiles knowingly.

“I trust you both slept well,” she says, her tone light but her eyes sharp with curiosity.

Loki sits up, running a hand through his disheveled hair and flashing her a lazy grin. “Like babes in a cradle, Mother.”

You flush, quickly busying yourself with the tea that one of the servants has placed on the bedside table.

Frigga’s gaze lingers on the two of you for a moment longer before she nods, clearly satisfied. “Good. The court will be eager to hear that the union has been properly sealed.”

You nearly choke on your tea, but Loki remains perfectly composed, raising an eyebrow at his mother. “Of course,” he says smoothly. “They needn’t worry about that.”

Frigga gives him a pointed look, then turns to leave, her skirts sweeping gracefully behind her.

When the door closes, you let out a shaky breath, your cheeks still burning.

“Well,” Loki says, leaning back against the headboard with a smirk. “That was convincing enough, wouldn’t you say?”

You glare at him, though there’s no real heat in it. “You could have warned me she’d ask.”

“And deprive myself of the pleasure of seeing you flustered?” He grins, clearly enjoying himself.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

The rest of the day is a whirlwind of public appearances and well-wishes from guests and courtiers. You and Loki play your roles to perfection, standing side by side and accepting congratulations with polite smiles.

But every so often, you catch Loki’s eye, and there’s a flicker of something there—something you can’t quite define.

As the sun sets and the festivities wind down, you find yourself wondering if this strange, tentative partnership might become something more.

The passing weeks blur in a mix of royal duties, public appearances, and private moments that seem far too fleeting. You and Loki settle into an unexpected, but not unwelcome, routine. It’s not one born out of affection, nor of any deep romantic feeling—at least not on your part—but something else entirely.

It’s friendship, of sorts, though it has an edge of guardedness on both sides.

Loki is still as sarcastic as ever, his barbed words often making you want to throw a pillow at him, but there’s a subtle shift in his attitude. He doesn’t try to make you uncomfortable, nor does he push you into situations that force your discomfort. Instead, he lets the two of you share moments of quiet companionship, moments that pass without him demanding anything more than just… being together.

At times, you even catch him offering a rare, genuine smile when the two of you exchange witty banter, the edge of coldness in his eyes softening for just a moment before it’s hidden away again.

It’s those moments—small, fleeting—that make you begin to wonder if there’s more to Loki than meets the eye.

But then, every time Thor is around, Loki retreats into himself. His demeanor hardens, his eyes become colder, and the playful teasing he once directed at you disappears, replaced by something almost resembling disdain.

It’s frustrating. You had grown used to Loki’s sharp wit and dry humor, but around Thor, he becomes a stranger. It’s as though he’s a different person entirely.

It’s in those moments that you realize just how much Thor’s presence affects Loki. The way his brother’s easy charm and warmth seem to have earned him the favor of everyone around them, especially their father, Odin.

The stark contrast between the two brothers becomes painfully obvious during family dinners.

On this particular evening, you’re seated at the grand table in the palace hall, flanked by Frigga on one side and Thor on the other. Loki sits at the far end, his posture rigid and his eyes fixed on his plate. The tension between the two brothers is palpable, though it’s subtle, buried beneath layers of carefully crafted politeness.

Frigga chats lightly with Thor about his latest battle, her soft voice carrying through the room. You listen attentively, though a part of you can’t help but glance over at Loki.

You can feel the weight of his silence, the way he seems to withdraw into himself whenever Thor speaks. Loki only offers the occasional half-hearted comment, his tone distant, as if he’s not really a part of the conversation.

Frigga, ever perceptive, seems to notice as well. She glances between Loki and Thor, her expression one of quiet concern.

“Loki,” she says gently, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken understanding, “is there something you wish to add?”

Loki straightens slightly but doesn’t look up from his plate. “No, Mother. I’m simply… observing.”

You can’t help but notice the way his jaw clenches, his gaze still fixed on his food as though he’s avoiding looking anyone in the eye.

Thor, ever the optimist, tries to break the tension. “Come now, brother. Surely you have a better tale to tell than mine. You’ve always been the more… creative one when it comes to storytelling.”

Loki’s eyes flicker toward Thor, but the look he gives his brother is colder than you’ve ever seen it. There’s something there, something unspoken that hangs heavy in the air between them.

“I have no tales to tell,” Loki replies coolly, his voice flat. “Not tonight.”

The silence that follows is thick, awkward. You shift in your seat, unsure of what to say, and Frigga clears her throat, clearly attempting to shift the atmosphere.

“I’m sure Loki has many stories to share when he’s in the mood, Thor,” she says, giving her son a kind smile. “But for now, perhaps we should allow him the peace to enjoy his meal in silence.”

Thor seems to take the hint, though there’s a flicker of confusion in his eyes as he nods. “Of course, Mother.”

But you notice the way he glances at Loki one last time before he turns his attention to you. He smiles, his usual warmth returning.

“It’s good to see you again, Princess,” Thor says, his voice easy and kind. “I trust you’ve settled in well?”

You smile back, grateful for the change of subject. “Yes, thank you, Thor. Asgard has been… more than welcoming.”

Loki stays silent, his fork moving absently as he pushes food around on his plate. You try not to let your gaze linger too long on him, but it’s difficult to ignore the way he seems to withdraw further with each passing moment.

Later, after the dinner has ended and the courtiers have dispersed, you find yourself walking the halls of the palace, your thoughts a tangled mess.

Loki’s behavior continues to trouble you. It’s clear that there’s something between him and Thor, something deep and unresolved. You can sense it in the way Loki acts when his brother is near, the way he retreats inward, shutting everyone else out.

And then there’s Odin. You’ve seen it too—the way the Allfather seems to favor Thor in ways that Loki could never seem to earn. The way Odin’s praise comes effortlessly to Thor, while Loki is left in the shadows, forced to fight for every scrap of recognition.

You’ve begun to notice the small things—the way Loki’s expression shifts when Odin speaks to Thor, or how he watches them both with an almost painful intensity when they stand together.

It’s hard to ignore the dynamic between them. Loki’s desire to prove himself to his father, to gain his approval in a way that seems perpetually out of reach, is something you can’t help but empathize with.

But you don’t know how to talk about it, how to approach him without making things worse.

That night, after the dinner, you retreat to your chambers, the silence of the room settling around you like a weight. Loki is already there, seated on the edge of the bed, his back to you as he stares out the window.

The flickering light from the torch on the wall casts shadows across his face, making his expression seem distant and closed off.

You hesitate in the doorway, unsure of what to say. But the longer you stand there, the more the words seem to push their way out.

“Loki,” you begin, your voice tentative, “I know things have been… difficult lately.”

Loki doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders tense at the sound of your voice. “Difficult? You mean the constant parade of Thor’s victories and Father’s adoration?” His words are sharp, laced with bitterness.

You step further into the room, your heart aching at the venom in his tone. “I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quietly. “But I can see it, Loki. I can see how much it hurts you.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, Loki sighs deeply, rubbing his temples as if trying to stave off a headache.

“I don’t need your pity,” he mutters. “I don’t need anyone’s pity.”

You take a careful step closer, your voice soft. “I’m not pitying you, Loki. I’m just… I just don’t want you to feel alone in this.”

He laughs bitterly, his shoulders shaking as he turns to face you. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t understand what it’s like to be cast aside, to never be good enough no matter how hard you try?”

You swallow hard, your throat tight as you look at him. “I don’t know what that’s like,” you admit, “but I know what it’s like to feel like you’re constantly trying to prove yourself to someone who doesn’t even notice.”

Loki’s gaze flickers briefly to yours, and for a moment, there’s a crack in his armor. But it’s gone almost instantly, replaced by that familiar coldness.

“I don’t need your sympathy,” he repeats, though there’s less conviction in his voice.

“I’m not offering you sympathy,” you reply firmly. “I’m just saying… if you ever want to talk about it—about anything—I’m here, Loki.”

He stares at you for a long while, his eyes unreadable. And then, with a quiet sigh, he nods once, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, princess. But I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

You nod, though your heart aches at the weight of his words.

“I’ll be here when you are,” you say softly.

Loki doesn’t answer, but the silence that falls between you is… less heavy somehow. Less lonely.

You’re not sure what the future holds for the two of you, but in that moment, you both find a small measure of peace.

And for now, that’s enough.

The days following your conversation with Loki are a strange blend of light and shadow. The weight of your words lingers in the air between you two, but there’s an undeniable shift. It’s subtle, at first—a slight softening in the way he looks at you, a rare but meaningful smile that occasionally plays at the corners of his lips.

But it’s clear, too, that there are walls around him, walls that are not easily torn down. You don’t press him further, content to let him open up in his own time, if at all.

Then, one evening, when the palace is quiet and the rest of the court is engaged in a distant gathering, Loki surprises you.

You’re walking down one of the many hallways, heading back to your chambers after a rather dull meeting with various nobles, when you hear his voice.

“Princess,” he calls softly, his voice carrying through the silence of the corridor.

You turn to find him standing a little ways down the hall, leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed. There’s something different in his stance—less guarded, more… open, though he still holds that impenetrable air around him.

You raise an eyebrow. “Loki? What’s the matter?”

He shifts, a subtle but noticeable tension in his posture as if he's deliberating whether or not to speak. Finally, after a beat of silence, he steps toward you, his footsteps soft on the stone floor.

“I… I’ve been thinking about our conversation,” he says, his voice quieter than usual.

You give him a careful look. “What about it?”

Loki glances down, avoiding your eyes for a moment before meeting your gaze. “About my father.” His voice tightens slightly, but it’s not the usual bitterness. It’s something more raw. “You were right. I… I’ve been carrying a lot of things for a long time.”

You wait, not wanting to interrupt, giving him space to speak.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told anyone this, but…” Loki exhales slowly, his breath shaking as if he's letting something go for the first time. “I’ve never felt like I was enough for Odin. For my father. Not in the way Thor is. Not in the way that he needs me to be.”

You step closer, drawn in by the vulnerability in his voice. “Loki…”

He shakes his head, as if frustrated with himself. “I’ve always tried to do everything he wanted. Prove myself, be the son he wanted. But it’s never been enough. Every time I think I’m close to earning his favor, Thor does something. It doesn’t even matter what. Odin just… adores him.” Loki’s words come out with a sharpness, like they’ve been pent up for years, and yet there’s an unmistakable sadness there.

You want to reach out, to comfort him, but you don’t. Not yet.

“Thor…” Loki scoffs, though it’s not with malice—more a mixture of frustration and helplessness. “He doesn’t try. He just is. And Odin… he praises him for every little thing. Meanwhile, I’m left to pick up the pieces, to try to carve out a place for myself. But nothing ever works.”

A knot forms in your chest as you listen to him. It’s impossible to ignore how deeply Loki’s words cut, how much he craves the recognition and love he feels he’ll never receive.

“I know it’s not Thor’s fault,” Loki adds, almost as an afterthought, as if the words pain him. “But sometimes, I just… I can’t help but resent him.”

There’s an ache in his voice that hits you like a physical blow, and without thinking, you step forward and place a hand on his arm.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Loki,” you say quietly. “I can see how much this hurts you.”

His eyes soften for just a moment, a flicker of something—something like gratitude—before the walls go back up. But it’s a start.

“I know you understand,” he mutters, his gaze dropping. “It’s just… hard to admit, even to myself.”

The silence between you two stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels like a shared understanding, an unspoken bond that has formed between you.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” you say softly, stepping back a little but keeping your eyes on him.

Loki looks at you, his expression unreadable. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he gives you a faint smile. “Thank you.”

It’s more than he’s ever said to you in any of your interactions, and it makes your heart flutter, though you don’t show it.

“Anytime, Loki,” you reply, your voice steady, though your hands are trembling ever so slightly.

The next day, Odin makes his usual rounds through the court, his presence like a weight hanging over everyone. He speaks with courtiers, listens to reports from the generals, and gives out orders. But as usual, his praise for Thor is effusive, his voice rich with admiration.

It’s when you’re walking through the hall toward the council room that you catch the conversation between Odin and Thor. They’re speaking loudly enough for you to overhear, and you can’t help but wince as Odin lauds Thor’s latest achievement.

“Thor,” Odin says, his voice full of pride, “you’ve done the kingdom proud. Truly, your battle strategies are unmatched. I’m so glad to see you take your place as the leader Asgard needs.”

Thor laughs, clearly pleased, though there’s no sign of arrogance in him. “Thank you, Father. But I couldn’t have done it without the support of my allies.”

Odin waves off the sentiment with a chuckle, his voice warm. “Your humility is one of your finest qualities, my son.”

And that’s when it hits you—how blatant the favoritism is. How obvious it is that Odin is always quick to praise Thor, but Loki, despite his brilliance, is always left in the shadows.

Your chest tightens with the unfairness of it all. You’ve heard whispers before—how Odin has always placed Thor on a pedestal, how his approval has always been out of reach for Loki.

You’ve seen it yourself, in the way Odin looks at his sons. Thor, with his easy smiles and loud boisterousness, is clearly the favored one. Loki’s quieter, more calculating nature doesn’t seem to earn him that same adoration.

And something inside you snaps.

You’ve had enough of watching Loki suffer in silence. Enough of the obvious bias that Odin so openly displays.

With a deep breath, you step forward, deliberately interrupting the conversation between father and son.

“Lord Odin,” you say, your voice steady and louder than you expect. Both Odin and Thor turn toward you, surprised by your sudden interruption.

Odin’s eyes flicker over you, but his expression remains neutral. “Princess,” he greets, his tone polite but distant. “What is it you need?”

You take a step closer, finding the courage you’ve never had before to speak your mind. “I think it’s time someone pointed out something that’s been bothering me for some time,” you say, meeting Odin’s eyes with unwavering resolve.

Thor looks at you, clearly surprised, but Odin’s expression doesn’t change.

“I’ve noticed,” you continue, “that you never seem to acknowledge your sons equally. You give Thor praise, constantly sing his virtues, while Loki…” You glance over at him, who stands with his arms crossed, looking more uncomfortable than usual. “Loki deserves the same recognition, and it’s time someone said it.”

Thor’s eyes widen at your words, and Odin’s gaze sharpens, though he doesn’t immediately respond.

“Princess, this is a matter between my sons and I,” Odin says, his tone calm but with an edge that warns you to back down.

But you don’t. “It’s a matter of fairness,” you say, your voice unshaken. “Loki is just as capable, just as brilliant, and he deserves the same respect as Thor.”

For a long moment, there’s silence, a heavy, thick silence that seems to hang in the air. Odin’s eyes study you carefully, as if deciding whether or not to chastise you.

But then, to your surprise, he lets out a slow breath. “Perhaps you are right,” he says, his voice thoughtful, though still carrying the weight of authority. “I will consider your words, Princess.”

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest as you turn to leave. You know you’ve probably made a powerful enemy, but for once, it feels worth it.

As you walk away, you can’t help but glance back at Loki, who is now watching you with a look of surprise—and something else, something softer.

Later that night, you’re in your chambers, lost in your thoughts when a quiet knock at the door pulls you from your reverie.

You open it to find Loki standing there, his usual composed demeanor in place, though there’s something different in his expression.

“Loki,” you say, surprised to see him. “What’s wrong?”

“I wanted to thank you,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “You didn’t have to do that. But you did.”

You shrug, trying to appear casual despite the flutter in your chest. “It was the right thing to do.”

“I know,” he replies, his tone soft. “But that doesn’t make it any less… meaningful.” He hesitates, then takes a step closer, his eyes meeting yours. “You’ve… you’ve done more for me today than anyone has in a long time.”

The words settle between you, and for a moment, everything is quiet.

You don’t know what to say. But somehow, it doesn’t matter. The air between you is charged, but calm, like a storm that’s waiting to break.

And then, without thinking, you step forward, closing the distance between you.

Loki’s breath catches slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. His hand brushes yours, tentative but warm, and that’s when you both understand.

You look into each other’s eyes for a moment, the words unsaid but understood, and then you kiss—softly, tenderly, as if this moment, this connection, is something you both desperately need but never quite expected.

It’s gentle, quiet, and everything in between, and for the first time in a long time, you feel as though the walls between you are starting to fall.

The day after you stood up to Odin, something subtle but undeniable changes between you and Loki. The lingering tension that had once surrounded him, the cold barrier he had erected between himself and everyone, especially you, seems to soften just slightly. He still wears that aloof mask he’s perfected over years of deflecting people’s attention, but there are moments when he looks at you differently—like he sees you, really sees you, as something more than just the princess he was supposed to marry.

But of course, Loki is Loki, and despite the small shifts, he’s still a master of maintaining distance. He keeps his emotions locked away as tightly as his wit, but you’ve begun to notice the cracks. Maybe it’s in the way he lingers a little longer when you’re together, or how he catches your gaze in passing, holding it just a little longer than necessary.

Despite the changes between you two, the world around you continues to spin, and your role as the Princess of Asgard, as Loki’s wife, only grows more public.

The next day, after an awkward breakfast with Frigga, where she kept giving you knowing looks and you were pretty sure you heard her suppressing a sigh, you find yourself walking through the gardens, trying to escape the subtle whispers of court life.

As you stroll among the flowers, you hear footsteps behind you. A familiar, booming voice calls your name.

“Princess Y/N,” Thor’s deep voice rings out, and you stop, turning to face him.

Thor looks even more like the golden child of Asgard today, his wide smile blinding and a glimmer of guilt in his eyes. “I’ve been meaning to thank you, for what you did yesterday. Defending Loki like that.”

You tilt your head, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I never saw it, you know?” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “The way Father favors me and how much it’s hurt Loki. I’ve always thought he was… I don’t know, distant, difficult. I didn’t realize I was a part of the problem.”

You blink, a little surprised by his sincerity. You’ve never seen Thor look so humble, so… vulnerable. It’s a stark contrast to the loud, boisterous warrior he usually presents to the world. “You didn’t know?” you ask softly.

He shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a little. “No, not really. And I’m ashamed to admit it. But I never thought about how he might feel when all the praise I get… it takes away from what he deserves. Loki’s clever, more than anyone gives him credit for. I see it now. I see how I’ve made him feel… less.”

Your heart aches a little. There’s so much more to Thor than the world gives him credit for, and perhaps there’s more to Loki’s pain than you even realized.

“Thor,” you start, your voice a little unsure but kind. “I think you need to tell him that. He needs to hear it from you.”

Thor gives a tight nod, the look in his eyes both heavy and sincere. “I will. But… I wanted to talk to you first, because I didn’t want you to think that I… I didn’t care.” He pauses, as if weighing his next words carefully. “I know you’re in a difficult position, Y/N, especially with Loki…”

You shrug lightly. “It’s not difficult. He’s my husband, Thor. I have a duty to him, yes, but I also want to see him happy. I don’t want him to feel this way anymore, either.”

“I understand,” Thor says with a soft smile. “And I promise you, I’ll try to make things right between me and Loki. But thank you. Truly.”

He offers a warm, brotherly smile and pats you on the shoulder, making you smile back, a little touched by the earnestness in his voice. It’s rare to see Thor so serious, but in moments like this, you realize just how much he cares about his family—even if it’s a little too late.

As the conversation dies down, Thor bids you farewell, walking off in the opposite direction to presumably find his brother. You remain in the gardens for a few more minutes, deep in thought. There’s a strange, almost bittersweet tension in the air now, an unspoken understanding of the dynamic between the brothers.

The next day, you find yourself walking the palace halls when you catch sight of Loki. He’s talking to a group of Asgardian nobles, but the moment he notices you, his demeanor shifts instantly. His sharp, emerald eyes cut toward you, his mouth forming a thin line. He says something to the nobles, and they scatter quickly, leaving him alone in the corridor.

You pause for a moment, unsure of how to approach him. But before you can decide, Loki walks toward you, his footsteps purposeful. You can feel the chill of his presence before he even speaks.

“What was that, then?” Loki’s voice is cool, his usual aloofness cloaking his words.

You raise an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes narrow. “You and Thor,” he sneers slightly, as though saying his brother’s name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “You two spent an awfully long time together yesterday, didn’t you? Talking about me, no doubt. What was it this time? His concern for my well-being?”

You bite your lip, taking in the sharp edge of jealousy in his voice. You feel a slight pang of guilt, but you stand your ground. “We talked about you, yes. But it wasn’t to criticize you, Loki. It was about… understanding.”

Loki scoffs, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, and his gaze shifts toward the floor. “I see. Understanding.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, your voice softer now. “You don’t have to push everyone away. Not me. Not him.”

Loki’s head jerks up, and his eyes flash with something unreadable. “I push people away because I know how this ends, Y/N. Thor always takes what he wants. He took Father’s love, and now he wants to take you, too.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, the raw, vulnerable emotion in his voice twisting something deep inside you. You take a step toward him, but he recoils slightly, his posture rigid.

“You don’t have to be afraid of that,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, but there’s certainty in it. “Thor won’t take me from you. I won’t let him.”

Loki’s eyes flicker toward you, the flickering of something darker in his gaze before he presses his lips together in frustration. “How can you be so sure?” His voice cracks slightly, and you don’t know how to respond, except to step even closer to him.

His face softens for a fraction of a second—just long enough for you to see how fragile he really is, how deeply the idea of losing you, losing anything, is etched in him. You place a hand gently on his arm, your voice even softer now.

“I know because we talked. Thor and I. He knows the way you feel, Loki. He’s going to make things right between you two. You don’t have to push him away.”

Loki’s jaw tightens, and you can see the battle within him, the struggle to trust his brother again. But then, something shifts in him, and his gaze softens, if only for a moment.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Loki admits in a low voice, the words barely audible, as though he’s afraid of speaking them too loud, afraid of what they might mean.

You reach up, gently cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin, and he leans into your touch. “You won’t lose me, Loki. I’m not going anywhere.” Your voice is steady, and you see his breath hitch slightly as his emotions threaten to overwhelm him.

He looks away quickly, his throat tightening, but the tremor in his shoulders betrays him. “I don’t deserve you,” he mutters, barely holding it together.

“Don’t say that,” you reply firmly. “You’re not perfect. None of us are. But you deserve all the love and respect in the world. And I’m here, Loki. Always.”

He looks at you then, his expression softening with that familiar vulnerability you’ve seen fleetingly in the past few days, but it’s stronger now, more present than ever before. Without thinking, you pull him into an embrace, wrapping your arms around him tightly. For a long moment, he doesn’t respond, his body stiff in your arms, but then he exhales slowly, his breath shaky, and finally, he holds you back.

The weight of everything between you two finally lifts, and the walls crumble a little more. The steady rhythm of his breathing in your arms is all you need to know that he feels safe.

Later that night, when you retire to your chambers, Loki follows you, a quiet presence in the doorway.

You look at him, feeling something deep inside you—a need for closeness, for reassurance that everything will be okay. “Stay with me?” you ask softly, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you see something like relief wash over his face.

“I don’t think I can ever go back,” he says quietly, his voice laced with exhaustion, vulnerability.

You reach for him, and without another word, Loki walks into your arms, settling beside you on the bed. You pull the blankets up around both of you, and without a word, you curl up against him.

His arm drapes around you naturally, and you breathe in the warmth of his presence, the security of knowing that, no matter what happens, you

’ve found something real between you two.

“Thank you,” Loki murmurs softly, as if you’ve given him everything he’s ever wanted, even when you haven’t fully realized it yourself.

You smile, tracing circles on his chest with your fingers, whispering back, “No need for thanks. Just stay here, with me.”

The night deepens, and the world outside your chambers is cloaked in quiet, but inside, there’s an unmistakable warmth that envelopes both of you. Loki’s arm around you feels like the most natural thing in the world. As the minutes pass, you rest your head against his chest, listening to the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. There’s a comfort in the silence, in just being close to him. You feel safe here, as if this moment is yours and yours alone, something you both can keep in the quiet intimacy of the night.

Loki doesn’t speak, but the occasional brush of his lips against your temple is all the words you need. Each kiss is a small promise, gentle and soft, as though he’s trying to tell you everything his voice cannot. The warmth of his lips against your skin lingers long after he pulls back, and the weight of the past few months—the distance, the uncertainty, the doubts—slowly begins to dissolve. You realize now that it was never about the marriage contract, nor the obligations that bound you together; it was about this—this connection between the two of you that had always been there, waiting for the right moment to surface.

You kiss him back, tentatively at first, but as you feel him pull you closer, your kisses deepen. They’re slow and deliberate, as though you both want to savor this, to make sure it isn’t just a fleeting moment but a beginning. His lips are warm and soft, and every time they meet yours, there’s a spark—a connection that has been years in the making, one that now feels as though it’s blooming into something beautiful, fragile, and new.

The kisses grow longer, more meaningful, as if both of you are learning how to express the things you’ve kept hidden for so long. Loki’s hand gently cradles your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, as if memorizing the feel of your skin. He deepens the kiss slightly, and you meet him with equal fervor, the world outside fading away until there’s nothing left but the two of you, tangled in the quiet intimacy of shared tenderness.

When the kiss finally breaks, neither of you moves, just breathing in the same air. Loki’s forehead rests gently against yours, and you can feel the warmth of his breath, still heavy with emotion.

“Stay here,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with something you can’t quite put into words. It’s a question, but more than that, it’s a plea—a quiet request for this peace to last.

“I will,” you reply softly, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. And you mean it, more than anything. You know that, in this moment, everything between you has changed.

The night goes on quietly, both of you finding comfort in each other’s presence, the soft and tender kisses gradually fading into the warmth of shared silence. It’s a perfect peace, a moment of vulnerability and connection that neither of you had ever expected but now can’t imagine living without.

As the days pass, the dynamic between you and Loki shifts. What once seemed like a forced relationship, something borne out of duty and circumstance, is now something more. The distance that once existed between you two has shrunk, replaced by an ease that only comes when two people begin to trust each other in ways neither expected. Your interactions are now filled with light touches, shared glances, and quiet smiles. There’s a softness in Loki’s demeanor that wasn’t there before—a gentleness that’s slowly replacing the walls he’s built around himself.

You see it in the way he looks at you, the way he seeks out your presence even when there’s no need for it. There’s an undeniable shift in his behavior, one that others notice, too.

Frigga, ever observant, notices the change in the air the moment she steps into the palace halls. She smiles knowingly when she sees the way Loki watches you during breakfast, his eyes soft and full of affection. It’s the first time she’s seen him like this in a long while—less guarded, more present. She watches you both from across the room, her heart swelling with a mix of pride and relief. For all the missteps and misunderstandings, she’s always known that the two of you could find something real.

Thor, too, sees the change, though he’s not as subtle in his observations. He slaps Loki on the back one afternoon, his booming laugh echoing through the palace halls. “Well, well! Looks like someone’s finally figured it out,” he teases, a wide grin plastered on his face.

Loki stiffens at first, but then the corner of his lips quirks up, a smirk that’s less mocking and more content than it’s ever been. “What do you mean?” Loki asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t play coy,” Thor says, his tone playful. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. It’s about time, brother.”

Loki sighs, rolling his eyes dramatically. “I’m not in the mood for your commentary, Thor.”

But even as he says this, there’s a subtle flush to his cheeks, a fleeting moment of embarrassment that makes you chuckle softly. Loki’s pride may be as sharp as ever, but there’s a vulnerability there too, one that he tries to hide behind his biting sarcasm and quick wit.

As the days go by, your connection to Loki only deepens. The two of you spend more time together, finding moments of quiet solace amid the chaos of palace life. You talk—about everything and nothing at all. You learn more about each other in those quiet, unspoken moments than you ever did in the months before. It’s in the way he brushes your hair out of your face when it falls in your eyes or how he looks at you when you laugh at something absurd he says. It’s in the way he remembers small details about you, like the way you take your tea or how you always tie your shoes in the same knot.

The change doesn’t go unnoticed by the people around you. The courtiers whisper about it, the nobles gossip behind their fans. They notice the way Loki looks at you when you enter the room, how his eyes soften when you speak. They notice how the two of you sit together at dinner, heads close, sharing small private jokes no one else seems to understand. The shift in the way he treats you is almost palpable, and it doesn’t take long for the rest of the palace to catch on.

But the real surprise comes from the children.

It starts innocently enough. One evening, as you walk through the palace gardens with Loki, you hear giggling in the distance. When you look around, you see a group of young children playing near the fountain. They stop as soon as they notice you, eyes widening before they run over to you, their faces alight with excitement.

“Princess Y/N!” one of them exclaims, a little girl with bright red hair. “Is it true that you and Prince Loki are really married now?”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised by the question, but before you can answer, another child chimes in.

“Yes! I heard you two are so in love!” The child’s voice is full of awe, as though this is the most magical thing they’ve ever heard.

Loki scoffs, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes. “I assure you, we’re simply fulfilling our duties. Nothing more.”

But the children aren’t convinced. They gather around you, bombarding you with questions. “When will you have babies?” one of them asks innocently.

You blush deeply, not quite sure how to handle the question. Loki looks absolutely mortified, but there’s an amused edge to his expression.

“Well,” you start, unsure of what to say, “we haven’t really discussed that yet. But we’re very happy.”

“Oh, I bet you are!” another child giggles, clearly not taking you seriously. “You two are always together now. You must be so in love!”

Loki looks at you in mild horror. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

You laugh, feeling the warmth in your chest spread. “I think we’ve just become a fairytale, Loki.”

The children’s excitement doesn’t end there. The next day, they’re playing again, this time reenacting your supposed “love story” with elaborate costumes. They insist on calling you and Loki the “Royal Lovers of Asgard,” and you can’t help but smile at their innocent enthusiasm. It’s impossible not to see the joy they find in the idea of your relationship, an idea that, in their eyes, is full of magic and wonder. The way they view you both—so wrapped up in this imagined romance—is innocent and sweet, and it makes you realize how far you and Loki have come.

As the days go by, the children’s stories spread throughout the palace. The courtiers begin whispering more frequently about the Royal Lovers, and soon enough, even the servants are in on the tale. You and Loki have become the subject of countless stories, both real and imagined. The court’s expectations of your relationship have shifted, but for the first time, it feels like you’re not just playing a part anymore. You’re both actively shaping this life, together.

And for all the teasing from Thor and the gossips from the children, there’s a part of you that feels proud of what you’ve built. It may have started as a duty, a contract forged by fate, but now it feels like something more. You and Loki are no longer bound by obligation alone. There’s affection, there’s trust, and there’s something deeper—something far more real.

It’s not the fairytale the kingdom expected, but it’s yours. And somehow, that feels perfect.

part 2 with royal kids? ;)

[homunculus-argument]

Random character dynamic: A ruler of a massive, mighty empire, and his pet wizard who foretells the future for him. The emperor has absolute, unwavering trust in the wizard's abilities, and never makes a desicion before consulting the wizard first. The emperor's wizard is of no noble birth nor formally educated, and the way they'll casually break courtly etiquette and speak like a peasant instead of a scholar is used to highlight their power - this is a true wizard, with powers natural born, not someone raised and trained to act like one.

Everyone knows the story of how the emperor encountered his wizard. The emperor's party was on a hunting trip in a distant region, and while going out to pursue some unusual game, they encountered a shepherd who warned them to not go this way, a storm will rise and kill the whole party. The emperor and his party ignored this warning and went after the beast they were hunting. A horrible storm came down on them and killed the whole party, save for the emperor.

As the sole survivor of this calamity that appeared out of nowhere, that nobody could have seen coming, the emperor suddenly remembered the shepherd, and realised that hold on, that strange hermit had foreseen this. Had we heeded their warning and not pursued the game, there would have been no storm. So he goes back to the village, finds the shepherd and goes holy shit are you a fucking wizard. And since only a true wizard would deny being a wizard, the emperor takes them with him.

Most of the things the emperor consults the wizard for are matters of common sense, that the wizard learns to weave into flattery - saying that the emperor's utterly idiotic idea would be a masterful move in any other time and place, but there is wisdom in knowing when to bide his time. Other members of the court and clergy start slipping the wizard requests of things that they should herd the emperor into doing, or not doing.

When the wizard admits to the other advisors that they don't actually have any kind of power of divination, they're told that the court already knows. This is how it has always been. The line of the emperors knows that the rulers who heed the warnings of their royal wizards tend to prosper, and the ones who ignore their sages or neglect to have one at all will fail.

This has been the case ever since the one emperor whose wizard had warned him to not let his wife drink so much while pregnant, or his heir's reign would be fated to be disastrous. The emperor ignored the warning and 30 years later, the aforementioned heir struggled to rule before being assasinated by his cousin, who took over the throne and whose line has ruled ever since, adamantly drilling it into every new generation to not ignore their wizards.

One might not be able to convince an emperor about things like "local peasants know how to predict the weather patterns of where they live" or "fetal alcohol syndrome is bad for your child", but they sure can believe in fate, and those with the power of divination.

[mahowaga]

WHERE THE PLUM BLOSSOMS FALL | N.K. — ACT I

SUMMARY: you were born beneath a crown, nanami was raised beside a blade—two lives shaped in silence, crossing in the hush between breath and bloom.

PAIRING: general!nanami kento x princess!reader CONTAINS: slow burn, forbidden romance, angst, hurt/comfort, yearning, historical au, imperial court shenanigans, period, monarchy dynamics, political intrigue, court politics, non-sexual intimacy, mutual respect, power dynamics, repressed emotions, courtship in silence, loyalty and betrayal WC: 9.8k WARNINGS: implied violence, depictions of grief and loss, character death, emotional manipulation, dubious morality, sexism

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🌸 ACT I — THE APPOINTMENT OF A SHADOW

EASTERN WING – THE PRINCESS’ QUARTERS

The sun dips lazily beyond the palace walls, casting golden beams across the stone corridors. The light spills into the palace courtyard, stretching long shadows that sweep over marble floors and delicate stonework. Petals from the plum blossoms drift, lethargic, in the air like forgotten dreams, floating on the wind before settling silently along the well-kept pathways. They line the ground like a soft blanket, untouched, but destined to be trampled beneath heavy boots and royal slippers alike.

General Nanami Kento stands outside the Princess’ quarters, tucked away in the eastern wing, his back straight, his hands clasped behind him. His posture is calm, almost serene, but beneath the composed exterior, his mind is always at work. Thoughts spin within him like gears turning in a well-oiled machine, calculating the risks, analyzing the expectations, and weighing the precarious balance he must maintain.

The palace around him hums with life–a mix of distant voices, rustling footsteps, and the faint clinking of armor–but here, outside your chambers, there is only silence. The stillness seems unnatural, as though the very air holds its breath in anticipation, waiting for something to happen.

Nanami’s gaze shifts toward the palace walls, but his attention remains on the door he stands near. He knows his duty, the reason he stands here, so close to you. To the Princess. His new charge.

He has heard the stories, the whispered conversations that seem to float through the palace like a secret language. The youngest of the Emperor’s children, but the most efficient. The most distant. The brightest. The coldest.

It’s no secret that you have become a figure of mystery, even fear. Your reputation precedes you, carried in hushed tones among ministers, wary servants, and soldiers who know not to speak of you unless required. For some, you are an enigma–a woman who walks the line between legend and reality. But for others, you are something far more dangerous: a royal whose ambition and cunning run deeper than blood, a child of the Emperor who has learned how to navigate the court’s labyrinthine politics with an icy grace.

Though Nanami has never spoken to you directly, he knows you. He knows the weight of your presence before you even step into the room. He has studied you from afar, analysed the movements of the court, and understood the subtle dynamics at play. And now, it seems, he must stand at the center of it all, watching you, guarding you, even though your isolation seems to be a wall no one can scale.

It is not protection that you need, Nanami knows. Not in the way that a soldier would guard the gates of a fortress. You are not vulnerable to assassins or traitors. You are far more dangerous than that.

It is yourself he must guard you from.

The sound of the door creaks open, the soft, almost imperceptible noise cutting through the silence like a breath held too long. Nanami does not flinch. His stance remains unchanged, his back straight, his expression stoic.

And then you step forward.

For a fleeting moment, Nanami feels the pull of something ancient in your presence–a quiet power that seems to vibrate in the air, as if the world itself acknowledges you. You step into the light, your form gliding forward with such quiet grace that it feels as though the ground beneath your feet bends in deference. Your robes, the pale fabric shimmering in the sunlight, trail behind you like the remnants of a dream.

Your hair sways faintly in the breeze, and your eyes–dark or bright, he cannot tell–hold the fading glow of something smoldering quietly, waiting to burn; something that threatens to ignite but remains carefully controlled, as if you have learned to keep your fire contained. You move with a deliberate slowness, each step measured and purposeful.

In that moment, Nanami’s thoughts freeze.

He does not see royalty. He does not see the daughter of the Emperor, the heir to an empire, should the Crown Prince forgo his position.

He sees light. He sees something delicate yet unyielding, a force both fragile and impossible to touch. A figure as ephemeral as moonlight on still water, draped in silk, less flesh and blood, more the whisper of a story half-forgotten, lingering between dream and waking; as if something otherworldly has stepped from the pages of a legend and into the mortal world.

He blinks, and for the first time since he arrived, he allows himself to feel something like awe, but only for a moment. His mind quickly shifts back to the present, and the duty that he must fulfill.

You are untouchable. His first thought. The thought he pushes away almost immediately.

His second thought is darker.

No one should be left this alone.

You meet his gaze, and for the briefest instant, Nanami wonders if you can see through him. If you know exactly what he is thinking. But he knows better than to make assumptions. You are calculating, and there is something about you–something quiet–that makes him pause before speaking.

“General Nanami Kento,” you greet, your voice soft, but not warm. There is no welcome in it, no courtesy extended. It is a statement, not a greeting. An acknowledgement of his existence, and nothing more.

“Your Highness,” he answers smoothly, bowing deeply, but his golden eyes never leave your form. His gaze is steady, unwavering, though a flicker of something–something he cannot identify–passes through them as he watches you.

You study him with the same intensity, your eyes locking onto his like an arrow finding its mark. You are practiced at it–examining him the way one might assess a painting in a foreign style, or a weapon newly forged. You take in the polished pauldrons, the sword at his hip, the eerie calm in his eyes.

There is no subtlety in your gaze, no effort to hide your assessment. It is as though you are measuring him, calculating his worth in an instant.

He holds still, his face betraying nothing. But inside, there is a slight shift. A recognition that he has become the subject of your scrutiny.

“I am told by my father that you are my new shadow,” you say plainly, your voice cold and impassive. There is no warmth in your words, no acceptance of his presence beyond the bare necessity. “I have little need for one.”

Nanami’s jaw tightens slightly, but his expression remains neutral. He knows his place in this moment. He knows how easily his words could be twisted by your keen mind, how a single misstep could send him spiraling into disfavor. But he is not here to make an impression. He is here to fulfill a task, and he will do so without hesitation.

And yet, here I stand.

“It is the Emperor’s will, Princess,” he answers, his voice steady, calm, the weight of his words unmistakable. “I am merely his sword.”

Your lips curl in the faintest trace of something–too subtle to be called a smile, too sharp to be dismissed as indifference. It is not a gesture of kindness or friendliness, but something more akin to disdain or perhaps curiosity.

“Then swing when necessary,” you murmur, your words cutting through the air with the same precision as the blade he wields. “Do not stand in my way.”

Your gaze flickers away from him then, your eyes moving toward the horizon. Without another word, you turn, your silk robes hissing against the stone floor with the sound of something quiet, yet decisive. Your movements are fluid, controlled, as though you have spent your entire life mastering the art of walking with purpose.

“I wish to walk in the gardens,” you say, your voice still carrying the same icy tone.

Nanami hesitates for only a fraction of a second before he responds. “Allow me.” His voice is quiet but firm, the words carrying an unspoken strength. His presence falls into step behind you, large, silent and–despite his best efforts–imposing.

You do not acknowledge him, but he does not expect you to. There is no need for further conversation. His role has already been defined. He is not here to engage in idle chatter or pleasantries. He is there to be what he has always been–a shadow.

And so, the two of you walk together through the empty halls towards the palace gardens, the soft hum of life continuing unabated around you. Nanami’s footsteps echo quietly behind you, steady, as he remains the silent guardian you never asked for.

Your pace is deliberate, your every movement imbued with purpose, and yet, to Nanami’s trained eye, there is something almost restless about the way you move. Something that hints at a deeper tension beneath the surface–a rumbling storm, gathering force, waiting for the moment it will break.

But for now, there is only silence between you. Only the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the faint sound of your breath.

Nanami keeps at your side, every instinct attuned to the unspoken rhythms between you. He is not here to be your companion, not here to offer words of comfort or counsel. He is here to observe. To protect. And, as the Emperor has commanded, to remain in the shadows.

But even as he follows in your wake, Nanami cannot shake the feeling that he is standing on the precipice of something far greater than a mere assignment.

He is standing on the edge of a story that has yet to unfold.

EASTERN WING – 静かの庭 (THE GARDEN OF TRANQUILITY)

The garden is nearly empty–by design, perhaps.

Nanami notices it immediately. He was trained to notice. The absence of attendants, the lack of wandering nobles, the calculated retreat of palace officials who, under normal circumstances, might leap at the chance to ingratiate themselves with royalty. Yet here, in this garden, carved from the empire’s wealth, they vanish as if carried off by the wind.

Even the servants are gone. Their presence lingers only faintly–fresh water in the basins, the trimmed hedges still wet from careful tending–but they remain in the distant halls, outside of sight. Out of reach. Careful not to cross paths with the imperial daughter.

It is not happenstance.

This is intentional.

You, it seems, prefer solitude. The garden is yours. And no one dares contest that.

Nanami understands it. He does not know you–has only begun to know your silhouette, your stride, the weight of your silence–but he knows people. Leaders, even more so. Men and women who shoulder crowns, who wear power like armor until it consumes them. He has stood beside too many great men, watched too many brilliant generals, too many ruthless warlords shape themselves into something more–and less–than human. And always, he has seen the same thing:

Command is a blade. And it cuts both ways.

It refines, hardens. It strips away what is unnecessary, leaving only what is required.

You walk ahead of him, steps measured, shoulders square beneath the flowing silks of your robe, the hem barely grazing the ground. The plum blossoms sway above, pale petals stark against the now darkening sky. Their beauty is soft, ephemeral–the kind of pulchritude that poets cling to and soldiers die beneath.

Nanami does not admire the flowers. He studies you.

Your posture is too perfect. Too precise. It is not delicacy. It is control. The kind that has been carved into the marrow of your bones, refined over years of survival. There is no laziness in your step, no idle drifting gaze.

You do not look at the world–you calculate it. Every movement, every breath is deliberate. Not careful–not delicate–but controlled, as though even your glances are measured for effect. 

The blossoms drift downward, catching faint beams of the dying sun. You tilt your head, gaze lifting toward them. But you do not see them the way others might–with awe, or longing. No. You look at them like they are something to be memorized, committed to your mind and filed away, so that you never have to look again. So that their beauty can be recalled later, at will, without ever needing to linger here.

Nanami breathes, quiet as the shifting wind running its fingers through his hair, smoothing your silks, and waits. 

You speak first–your voice lilting, carried lightly on the air not unlike the plum blossoms falling around you. It is almost a murmur, not meant for the world to hear.

“I heard,” you begin, “that you once defended the southern border from the rebels. They called you the Stoic Blade.”

Your words carry no admiration. No warmth. A test, perhaps.

Nanami’s golden gaze does not waver. “I am what the empire needs me to be,” he answers. “Nothing more.”

You stop before a pond–a perfect, still thing tucked away between marble wings. Koi swim lazily beneath the surface, their bright scales flashing like molten gold in the waning light. You watch them, head tilted, the faintest crease between your brows, an imperfection in your beautiful features. It’s soft, for a moment. Almost human.

Then, you speak–your voice gentler now, as though the koi might overhear and flee. 

“Is that what you will be for me, General?” you ask. “What I need?”

Nanami stills. The question is not simple. There is a trap somewhere in it–layers he cannot yet see.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he says finally, the words uncomplicated, solid.

You turn, slowly, until your eyes–cynical, endless–fnd his. And it is cutting. Nanami feels it like the edge of a blade pressed too lightly against his skin–no blood drawn, but the threat ever-present. The promise.

You search him. Measure him. Weigh him in the same cold way you view the blossoms. You are seeking something unspoken in the space between his words.

And he lets you. He does not look away.

“What I need, General,” you murmur, “is silence. Loyalty. And discretion. Can you offer me that?”

The air is inert, waiting for his reply.

His voice is steady. Unshaken. “I can.”

There is a moment–thin, sharp–where you simply stare. And then your gaze slides away, returning to the pond.

“And if I choose to walk among the commoners, unguarded?” you ask, voice light again, almost mocking.

“I will follow. Unseen.”

“If I command you to leave me be?”

“I cannot.”

There. Silence falls.

Something flickers–faint, fleeting–behind your perfect mask. Surprise. Amusement. Maybe even bitterness.

And then–a sound Nanami does not expect.

A laugh.

Small. Breathless. So soft the koi barely ripple the pond beneath your feet.

Not a real laugh, not truly, but something close. A breath of something that nearly became one before you buried it.

“Ah,” you breathe. “So even the Stoic Blade is bound by duty.”

Nanami’s gaze lowers slightly, not in submission, but with grim understanding. “As we all are, Princess.”

The words settle between you like ash.

The wind picks up, whispering through the garden, sending a cascade of pale petals into the koi pond. The fish stir beneath them, indifferent. And for a moment, you and he stand together in the dying light, two shapes carved in stark contrast–one of silk and ice, the other of steel and shadow.

Finally, you speak again, voice quieter now. Thoughtful.

“You do not speak unless spoken to, do you?”

“It is not my place.”

“Then speak now,” you command, a sharpness creeping into your tone. “Tell me what you see.”

Nanami’s brows furrow slightly, hesitating just long enough for the pause to be noticed. But he obeys. He always obeys.

“I see a garden meant for beauty,” he says slowly, “but kept too pristine to be natural. Controlled. Managed. It is meant to appear wild, but every blade of grass is where someone willed it to be.”

His eyes lift, meet yours. He does not falter.

“I see a princess they say is cold,” he adds, voice lower now. “But who walks alone because there is no one left willing to meet her eyes.”

The words strike. He sees it–a shift, subtle, but there. You inhale, sharp and silent, as though the air itself cuts going down. Your fingers tighten slightly at your sides. Your chin lifts a fraction higher. A crack appears–there, then gone, sealed in an instant.

“You presume much,” you whisper, the edge of something dangerous lining your voice.

Nanami does not look away. “I am merely your shadow, Princess. Shadows see what light cannot.”

Silence, again. It stretches so thin between you that Nanami feels it might snap.

You turn away first.

For a few long moments, you say nothing. The koi swim lazily. The wind hisses. The garden listens.

Then–so soft he almost misses it–you speak.

“Perhaps you will not be as intolerable as I thought, General.”

Nanami exhales slowly, dipping his head, fist against his heart. “I live to serve.”

The sky bleeds gold into violet above you. The garden, once pristine, begins to fade into shadows. Yet neither of you moves.

Nanami watches you, the Princess–still as a blade unsheathed.

You watch the fish–eyes dark, unreadable.

There is more to be said. Words left unspoken. Questions neither dares ask.

And the night is still young. The servants will light the sconces soon, painting you in the shades of a captive flame.

The Princess turns, eyes finding his once more–so ruinous they seem bottomless. “Walk with me, General.”

Nanami obeys without a word.

For the first time, the cold princess and the stoic general stand in the garden–two distant stars forced into each other’s orbit, their slow collision inevitable.

And in the silence, beneath the weight of duty and expectation, something lingers unfinished between you.

A question. A test. A quiet war yet to be waged. And Nanami knows–this is only the beginning.

NORTHERN WING – 天命の殿 (THE HALL OF HEAVEN’S MANDATE) (PRIOR)

The throne room was a cold, cavernous expanse of stone and gold–beautiful, but dead. Silent except for the faint rustle of silk against marble. Light streamed through high windows, slanting down in pale beams that caught on the dust suspended in the air, illuminating the crimson banners that hung like silent witnesses to the conversation about to unfold. They fluttered slightly, as though even they shuddered at the oppressive stillness.

The scent of incense–rich, cloying–lingered heavily, almost choking in its attempt to mask the staleness of the place.

The cold, heavy air pressed against General Nanami Kento like a physical weight, the sense of waiting hanging thick in the high-vaulted space. The Emperor’s throne sat at the far end of the room, towering over the gathered figures, its opulence not just a symbol of power but a remainder of the distance between the ruler and all those who stood beneath him.

Nanami stood at attention, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture as perfect and rigid as the sword at his side–his figure a study in discipline. The polished steel of his pauldrons gleamed faintly in the muted light. His cape, a mirror of the sky’s sacred blue with a golden trim, lay still against his back. No tremor, no flicker of emotion marred his face.

His golden eyes flickered from the ornate floor to the man seated upon the throne, the man who held the entire empire in his grasp. His Majesty, the Emperor, did not stir. The aged monarch leaned back into his golden seat, the weight of years and tyranny upon his shoulders. Time had worn down neither his cruelty nor his ambition, though the lines carved deep into his face hinted at the cost of both. His gaze, distant and sharp, bored into the silence.

The man looked less like a father and more like the embodiment of power made flesh. His heavy robes of black and crimson pooled around the throne, stitched through with golden dragons twisting through waves of blood-red silk. A crown rested upon his head–not ornate, but severe. Its sharp edges mirrored the nature of the man beneath it.

Nanami, ever the stoic soldier, didn’t flinch.

“General Nanami,” the Emperor’s voice cut through the stillness like the slow drawing of a blade from its sheath. It was low, rasping, filled with authority, but underlined by something much more jagged. There was no greeting, no pleasantries–only the dry, sharp edge of command.

“Your Majesty,” Nanami replied evenly, his tone betraying none of the tension that swirled in his mind. He bowed his head just enough to show deference–but no more than duty required. His gaze never wavered from the Emperor’s face, though his mind was already working, calculating.

The Emperor leaned forward, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrests of his throne. His eyes flicked over Nanami for a moment, before turning away, as if dismissing the general’s presence. But he was far from dismissing the conversation. He would never do that.

“I have summoned you because I have a task,” the Emperor spoke again, slower this time, colder. “One that requires… precision. And loyalty.”

Nanami was silent, sensing there was more. There was always more.

The Emperor’s gaze settled on him fully, like a weight pressing down. “It concerns my daughter, the Princess.”

Nanami’s breath caught briefly, though his face remained passive. Of course. He had been summoned urgently, and now he understood why. Of all the possible assignments–border disputes, hunting traitors, escorting foreign dignitaries–this was the one he’d suspected might come.

The Princess.

Rumors of your brilliance, your biting tongue, your cold beauty. Of the way you moved through the court like a blade wrapped in silk. The way you refused to play the meek daughter, the way you left even seasoned ministers scrambling for footing. Soldiers admired you from afar. Ministers feared you. And the Emperor–clearly–could no longer control you.

Your name fell from the Emperor’s lips with such disdain that it was almost palpable, the monarch speaking your name as if it was some kind of powder, dry in his mouth, choking, unpleasant–a poison, a shadow passing across the room. Even after years of service under the Emperor’s command, Nanami could sense the old king’s discomfort when mentioning his own flesh and blood. His distaste for you was no secret.

The Emperor exhaled slowly, like a man preparing to voice something repulsive. “You know why you are here, General,” he began, his voice cold and low. “You are not a fool. Speak your mind.”

Nanami inclined his head slowly. “The Princess, Your Majesty. You would have me guard her.”

“Guard?” The Emperor’s mouth twisted, bitter amusement flaring in his eyes. “No. You will watch her. Guarding is incidental. A dog guards the gates. You are not a dog. You are my blade, sheathed and waiting. You are to observe.”

The words hang in the air, sharp and laced with something darker.

“Observe her, Your Majesty?” Nanami echoed, his brows furrowing just enough to be seen. He had expected the task to be difficult, perhaps even perilous, but this–this felt like a snare waiting to close. There was an undercurrent here, a bitter implication too thick to ignore.

“Yes,” the Emperor rasped, his hooded eyes narrowing in thought as he leaned back again. “Do not mistake your role, General. You are not to be her companion. You are to be her shadow.” He paused. “She has grown… unpredictable.” The word was laced with disgust. “Too clever. Too ambitious. I see it in the way she speaks, the way she looks at my ministers as if weighing their worth. The way she makes allies where she should have none. Traits that are valuable in my son. In a daughter, they are… problematic.”

Nanami’s throat tightened, but he kept his posture unwavering. Problematic. That was what you were to your father. Not beloved. Not blood. Merely a liability he could not control.

“I am no fool, General.” The Emperor’s lips twisted into a cold, mirthless smile. “I know what they say. That she weaves words like silk, that she charms the ministers, that she stares down the nobles as if she were already seated upon my throne. A pretty serpent in the gardens of power.” His fingers drummed against the throne’s armrest, each tap like a ticking clock. “If she is left unchecked, there is no telling what chaos she might bring to the empire. We cannot afford to lose control over her.” His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, though the threat behind the words was clearer than crystal. “Not to her own arrogance. Not to her schemes.”

The last words are spoken like a curse. As if to remind himself that you are his, and he would not be undone by his own blood.

Nanami pressed his lips into a thin line. 

“I did not carve this empire from the bones of my enemies to have it undone by the whims of a spoiled girl,” the Emperor growled. “No matter whose blood runs in her veins.”

The room seemed to grow colder as the Emperor’s words settled in the air. For the first time in seasons, Nanami felt the weight of his duty settle uneasily on his shoulders. He had heard the rumors, of course. Of your wit, your cruelty, your brilliance. But to hear the Emperor speak of his own daughter with such venom–such disdain– was something else entirely.

“And now,” the Emperor continued, his voice dropping, “she defies me in more ways than one. I have arranged suitor after suitor. Young men of noble houses, older men with titles and armies. She turns them all away. Each rejection is an insult. Each refusal a declaration of her independence. She refuses me, General.”

Nanami’s gaze lifted. “If I may, Your Majesty… is this truly so grave a threat? A woman rejecting marriage proposals?”

The Emperor’s laughter was short and humorless. “You are simple in your honor, General. And that is why I chose you. But no–this is not merely about marriage. It is about control. Every rejection she makes, every minister she outwits, every foreign envoy she embarrasses–it undermines me. It paints me weak. If I cannot control my daughter, what message does that send to my court? To my enemies?”

He leaned forward then, his hooded eyes gleaming with something vile. “I have been patient. Longer than she deserves. But my patience is at its end. She will be wed. She will be useful. And if she will not choose, I will choose for her. I have already begun negotiations.”

Nanami felt his jaw tighten, a muscle feathering there. “Negotiations, Your Majesty?”

“A distant cousin from the northern lords. Crude, but loyal. A brute, but one who understands obedience. He will not love her, but he will breed heirs. And he will keep her far from this court, where her clever tongue cannot stir my ministers into rebellion.”

The words were cold. Practical. Calculated cruelty.

“Until then,” he continued, “you will watch her. You will learn her habits. You will know her secrets. And you will ensure that when the time comes, she will not escape me.”

Nanami’s hands clenched behind his back. “And if she resists, Your Majesty?”

The Emperor’s eyes sharpened. “Then you remind her that no one resists the will of the throne. That she can bleed.”

Silence reigned.

“Understood, Your Majesty,” Nanami said. His voice remained composed, as always, though a slight edge now hardened his words. It was the first sign of a question breaking through his normally flawless demeanor.

He took a slow breath.

“Your Majesty, if I may ask,” he said carefully, the question coming from a place of duty but also genuine curiosity. “Why entrust this task to me? Why not a more trusted advisor, or even one of the other captains?”

The Emperor’s lips twitched, as though the question amused him, though there was a flash of something like suspicion in his eyes. “Because, General, you are loyal. But not foolish. You understand duty. You know silence. And most importantly–you are not driven by greed or ambition. You will not create attachments. You will not be swayed by her… charms.”

He spat the word as if it disgusted him.

Nanami nodded slowly, though something gnawed at him. He understood the weight of his duty, but there was something in the Emperor’s voice–a darkness in his words–that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. There was more to this task than mere observation. It was about controlling you. Manipulating you.

He did not respond, but his mind whirred with more questions. Loyalty, yes. But to whom? To the Emperor? To the empire? Or to something darker, more insidious that lay beneath his command?

“You will leave for the Princess’ quarters immediately,” the monarch finished. “And you will do as I command. Do not question me again, General. Do not fail me.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Nanami’s voice was steady, unshaken, despite the contradiction in his chest. He gave a respectful bow, turning on his heel.

The Emperor’s final words rang out like a verdict. “Keep her sharp, General. Keep her close. And when the time comes, deliver her to me–untouched by foolish dreams of power. Until she is wed, General, she is your burden. She is your leash. Keep her from turning that blade against me.”

Nanami’s boots clicked softly against the marble floor as he walked toward the door. His mind was far from the task at hand. As he exited the throne room, the weight of his assignment settled fully onto his shoulders. As much as Nanami had vowed loyalty to the empire, he could not ignore the flicker of unease that remained lodged in his chest. His task was simple, but the game he was about to play was far from it.

This was no mere assignment. It was a war of wills he had been sent to witness–perhaps even to end.

And somewhere ahead, waiting like a flame ready to burn him, was the Princess.

No mere pawn. No mere prize. 

A blade waiting to be drawn.

And he–he was your shadow now. Whether you wanted him there or not.

NORTHERN WING – 絵静の間 (THE HALL OF PAINTED SILENCE)

The palace is quiet in the late morning, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty, but suspended. Even the wind seems reluctant to stir the silk-draped corridors, as if hesitant to interrupt something unspoken.

General Nanami Kento follows three steps behind you, the Princess.

Your steps are precise–deliberate in a way that reveals nothing of your thoughts, only your control. Every movement is practiced, but not artificial. You do not move like someone taught to be elegant. You move like someone who has learned what power looks like in a woman, and have chosen to wear it like a blade.

The long sleeves of your robe whisper against the polished stone floor. Plum red silk trimmed with black embroidery, its folds curling behind you like smoke. He registers the subtle sway of your figure, the way you never hurry, the way your hands remain still, folded loosely before you like you’re always weighing something.

You haven’t spoken to him since you left your wing of the palace. He doesn’t expect you to.

Then, just as you pass beneath a carved archway, you stop.

Nanami halts immediately, hands behind his back, golden eyes steady on your silhouette.

You turn slightly, enough for him to see the faint gleam of morning light on your cheekbone.

“I wish to visit the Grand Archives.”

The words are quiet, almost idle, but there’s an edge behind them–sharp, like a test. Everything you say feels like that: a blade hidden in brocade.

Nanami’s reply is automatic. “I’m afraid I do not have authorization to escort you there, Princess.”

A pause, heavy.

You turn fully now, arms still folded, your posture flawless. The tilt of your head is elegant, but your gaze is cool. Not angry. Simply measuring.

“Do you need authorization to follow your charge where she leads, General?”

Nanami holds your gaze. “I have orders not to take you beyond the eastern and southern wings unless accompanied by a minister or senior tutor.”

There is a beat of silence, taut as a drawn bowstring.

“I see,” you say at last. “Then your loyalty is to orders, not to logic.”

“Loyalty is not about logic, Your Highness. It is about obedience.”

You raise a brow. “And if obedience is wrong?”

“That is not for me to decide.”

He watches you process his words, sees the flicker of something pass across your face–irritation, perhaps. Or intrigue. He cannot tell.

Not yet.

Then, you say, “Very well. If you cannot take me to the Grand Archives, then take me somewhere.”

He blinks. “Somewhere?”

“Anywhere,” you reply smoothly, unbothered. “Unless you plan to walk behind me until I wither and die of boredom.”

A moment of surprise, quickly buried. Your voice doesn’t betray any impatience, but your eyes do.

Nanami bows slightly, his mind racing. “Then allow me.”

You follow without protest. Your footsteps fall into rhythm behind his, light but confident. You walk as though you own every corridor you cross, and perhaps you do–if not in title, then in presence.

He leads you not toward the gardens, nor the council halls, but down a narrower corridor that winds behind the central courtyards. Few pass this way, and fewer stop.

Eventually, you reach it: the Hall of Painted Silence.

He steps aside, gesturing for you to enter first. You do, with a glance over your shoulder that brushes past him like the flick of a fan.

The space is long and hushed, the walls lined with folding screens–each painted with scenes from the empire’s history. The lacquered floor reflects them like water. The light, filtered through narrow windows of carved stone, moves across the scenes slowly, as if time itself hesitates here.

You look around.

“The Hall of Painted Silence?” you murmur. “Hardly a lively alternative.”

“It is away from prying ears,” Nanami answers, returning to his usual stance; one hand behind his back, the other resting gently near his sword. “And rarely used.”

“And here I thought you didn’t know how to break rules.”

“I don’t,” he says. “This is a compromise.”

You walk slowly down the hall, your sharp gaze moving over the painted screens with interest. A tiger stalking the clouds. A queen bent over a bloodied scroll. A child kneeling in the ashes of a burning city.

Nanami doesn’t speak. He watches you instead.

There’s something in the way you stand before each painting–like you’re peeling back the story behind the story. Not for sentiment. For understanding.

It strikes him, suddenly, that this is not a woman who is cold.

You are deliberate. You are always choosing.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring until you speak again, softly.

“Ask what you want to ask me, General.”

It snaps him out of his thoughts almost instantly, your voice striking him like a sword cuts through flesh. You can read him too well, and it unnerves him, for he cannot tell what is happening inside your own head. It seems almost unfair.

He hesitates. “Is there something specific you were hoping to find in the library, Princess? I assumed you had a reason for requesting it.”

You turn to face him, your expression unreadable, but no doubt beautiful. “Records. Trade routes. Temple taxes. Merchant permits.”

His brow lifts, only slightly. “Unusual reading.”

“Unusual interests,” you correct lightly. “But useful ones, hm?”

Nanami studies you.

Most royals he’s protected sought out luxuries, distractions. Hunting falcons, rare silks, philosophy scrolls that they never finished reading. But this–this is something else entirely.

“You memorize more than poetry and etiquette,” he says.

You give him a look–one he cannot yet name. Wry? Appraising? It makes something low in his chest shift.

“I memorize what matters.”

He asks, before he can stop himself, “And what matters, Princess?”

You smile. It is not soft. Not fond. It is sharp. “Knowing which strings to pull before the net is cast.”

His throat tightens.

He has never met a woman like you. Never heard a woman speak like this–without apology, without flattery, without fear.

You turn back to the painted screens, letting the silence grow. He tries to ignore the way his gaze lingers on the fall of your hair against your skin. The slope of your neck. The glint of firelight on the lacquered screen behind you.

There is nothing improper in his stance. But something in his thoughts feels dangerously close to it.

You are not his to admire. You are not his at all.

After a while, you turn back.

“I will return to my quarters now,” you say simply. “I trust you can escort me without further issue?”

He nods. “Of course.”

You begin walking side by side, your steps quiet, his precise.

But in the brief moment your hands swing in sync, almost close enough to brush, he feels the ache of proximity, and knows it means something.

He doesn’t speak of it. He never will.

Behind his mask, however, behind the perfect lines of his posture and the grip on his sword–

He’s already begun to think of you. Not as an assignment, but as a woman made of steel, silence and something he’s not sure how to name yet.

Not quite yet. But soon.

EASTERN WING – 静かの庭 (THE GARDEN OF TRANQUILITY)

The sky is dimming hurriedly, the last golden fingers of sunlight retreating slowly behind the imperial palace walls. Shadows lengthen, swallowing the edges of the pathways, stretching quietly across stone and silk alike. The gentle hush of evening settles upon the garden like a delicate silken shroud, draping softly, soundlessly over the world.

You walk ahead of Nanami, each step precise, measured, as he has quickly learned is your habit. The pale fabric of your robe whispers against the stones, almost imperceptibly–like the sound of secrets being shared. The air around you is thick with the fragrance of plum blossoms, cloying yet delicate, their sweetness nearly intoxicating. Each breath seems to carry a taste of distant spring, even as the chill of twilight nips softly at your fingertips.

Nanami follows a few paces behind, hands clasped at his back. Silent as ever, he moves with a quiet certainty, golden eyes watching your every gesture, every subtle shift in your posture, with practiced care. Even his footfalls are controlled, steady, fading into the garden’s stillness, unnoticed. He is your shadow now, after all. He’s been your shadow for weeks.

You pause before one of the older plum trees–gnarled branches thick and strong from countless winters endured, now heavy with delicate blossoms. The pale petals tremble slightly with each breeze that whirs through the garden, weaving between the branches and leaves, their beauty fragile, fleeting. You tilt your head slightly, your baleful eyes lifting to one particular bloom–a blossom perched just out of your reach, swaying gently above.

Nanami notices instantly: the way your gaze narrows, thoughtful, evaluating. He sees it clearly–you are selective. The dozens of perfect flowers within easy grasp do not interest you. You want something else, something just beyond easy reach.

Your lips part slightly, as though tasting the air, before you speak. “General,” you say softly, your voice a whisper, threading effortlessly through the distance between you and him. It wraps around him–soft, precise, purposeful.

“Yes, Your Highness.” Nanami’s response is instant, respectful, calm.

You lift one graceful hand, slender fingers gesturing delicately toward the bloom. “Pluck that flower for me.”

Nanami hesitates–for just a fraction of a heartbeat, nothing more. Yet it is enough to betray the faintest ripple beneath his careful mask. Not out of defiance–Nanami would never–but because the act itself feels strangely intimate. He is a man who has cut down enemies without hesitation, who has waded knee-deep through rivers of blood for the empire’s glory. And yet, here, in the fragile sanctuary of the Garden of Tranquility, the thought of reaching upward to claim a single blossom feels somehow intrusive, sacred.

But duty–his constant companion–guides him forward without further hesitation.

Without a word, Nanami steps toward the plum tree. The worn leather of his gloves creaks softly as he reaches upward, his tall frame barely needing to stretch to grasp the branch. The flower is delicate, its petals thin as rice paper, fragile enough that even his careful touch risks bruising it. He considers the flower solemnly, brows drawing together slightly in concentration–then gently, meticulously, plucks it free.

Turning toward you, he finds your eyes already waiting, unreadable, reflecting the dying embers of the sunset. You watch his approach silently, the heavy quiet lingering between you like a tangible presence. Nanami extends the blossom toward you, his movements slow, deliberate.

“For you, Princess,” he says simply.

You do not take it immediately. Instead, your gaze drifts from the flower to his eyes and back again, quietly appraising. “Why this one?” you ask, a curious lilt in your voice.

Nanami’s golden eyes meet yours evenly. “You chose it.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smile curls at your lips, but there is no warmth in it–only something like quiet amusement. “Did I?”

He does not waver. “Your gaze lingered on it longest, Your Highness. Thus, you chose.”

“Observant,” you murmur softly, a subdued hint of approval edging into your voice. You finally reach out to take the blossom, your fingertips grazing softly against his gloved palm.

The instant your skin meets the worn leather of his glove, something sparks–quiet, fleeting, but undeniably there, a crackling charge neither of you openly acknowledges. Nanami’s jaw tightens subtly, and as your fingers brush his palm, he flexes his hand involuntarily–almost as though to erase the sensation, or perhaps to preserve it. You do not comment, though your gaze flickers briefly, knowingly, to his hand before returning to the flower.

“Thank you, General,” you say softly.

He nods, his voice steady, professional, despite the way his heart batters against his chest. “Of course, Princess.”

You hold the blossom carefully, fingertips turning it gently, watching the petals shiver slightly with your breath. You speak again, your tone deceptively casual. “Tell me, General–if I were to do something reckless, something foolish, would you stop me?”

Nanami’s posture straightens slightly, though his face remains carefully neutral. “My duty is to protect you, Princess. From any harm–including that which you might bring upon yourself.”

You tilt your head, the muted glimmer of amusement returning to your eyes. “And if I insist?”

“Then I must insist otherwise,” he answers, steadfast. “Respectfully.”

The corner of your lips twitches, something closer to genuine humor igniting beneath your controlled demeanor. “Respectfully defiant?”

“Respectfully dutiful,” he corrects smoothly, his voice level.

A soft, fleeting laugh escapes your lips–rare, musical, surprising even you. Nanami considers himself blessed to hear you laugh twice in the same day. “Stoicism and wit? They did not tell me you possessed both, General.”

His eyes remain steady. “They rarely ask.”

You pause, considering him anew. “I could test you,” you muse quietly, almost to yourself. “I could slip out of the palace gates at dawn. Walk through the market unguarded, dressed as a commoner.”

Nanami does not smile. He schools his expression and voice to be level, unmoving. “I would follow. Unseen.”

“What if I climbed the palace walls?”

“I would catch you, Princess.”

“What if I vanished into the crowds? Would you search every street, every alley?”

“Without hesitation.”

Your voice drops, softer now, a murmur, thoughtful. “And if I ordered you to let me go?”

He meets your gaze, quiet resolve in every word. He has his orders. “I would disobey.”

A pause, heavy as nightfall, settles between you.

Your brows lift, intrigue shimmering as you regard him, the General of the Imperial Guard. “They say you are unyielding, General. Yet it is another thing entirely to see it.”

Nanami inclines his head respectfully. “I am what the empire needs me to be,” he repeats, almost inaudible. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

You consider him silently, your calculating eyes thoughtful, curious, unreadable yet again. Then you look away, lifting the flower once more, letting its petals brush softly against your lips as you inhale its sweet fragrance.

“Hm,” you murmur. “Perhaps I will not find you entirely intolerable at all.”

Nanami says nothing. You said this to him before, that first evening he escorted you here, when the sun hung high. Perhaps you have been thinking about him more than you should. He does not smile. But he tilts his head slightly, as though listening more closely than before, and in the stillness between heartbeats, something in his gaze shifts–almost impassively. The gnawing touch of softness. Maybe not approval. Nor amusement. But simply acknowledgement.

He hears you.

The hush of twilight descends fully now, enfolding the garden in a deepening shade of blue. The stone paths beneath your feet darken; the last rays of sun fade from the tips of the plum blossoms. The wind turns colder, brushing past both of you with a whisper of impending night.

You look down at the flower in your hand. The edges of the petals are already beginning to curl.

The silence stretches, long and taut, like a bowstring, but you do not fill it with pleasantries. You are not that kind of royal.

Then, slowly, your voice returns. Different this time. Still quiet, still composed–but heavier now. It slides into the space between you like a blade sheathed in silk.

“Do you know what they want from me, General?”

Nanami’s head lifts. He does not speak, not yet. He has learned that your words, when you are not testing him outright, are rarely casual. And this is no idle question.

You don’t wait for an answer.

“They want obedience,” you say softly. “They dress it up in words like marriage or loyalty or service to the empire, but in the end, that is all it is. Submission.”

You do not raise your voice. You do not need to. The cold calm in your tone is more striking than fury ever could be.

And Nanami knows fury. This is different. Worse.

“They want me to sit beside some man I did not choose. Smile sweetly. Breed heirs. Be beautiful. Be quiet. Die slowly.” You tilt your head toward him. “Is that what you see, General? A thing to be kept in line?”

Nanami’s jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. The words echo with uncanny precision to the Emperor’s own. She has grown… unpredictable. Too clever. Too ambitious.

She will be wed. She will be useful. And if she will not choose, I will choose for her.

You continue, your eyes returning to the blossom in your hand. There is a sadness in your tone, your eyes, your gaze.

“Power is never given freely,” you murmur. “But they expect me to relinquish mine as if it were a gift they granted me, not something I carved out with my bare hands.”

The bloom trembles in your grip as a breeze brushes past. Still delicate. Still alive.

You turn your gaze to him once more, and this time, there is something behind your eyes that was not there before. Not fire. Not ice. But something much more dangerous.

Clarity.

“So tell me, General,” you say, steady and low. “When you report to my father, what will you say? That I am composed? Obedient? Fit for a noble’s leash? Or will you tell him the truth?”

The question slices through the quiet like a drawn blade. Not an accusation. A test.

Nanami does not flinch. He cannot afford to. But he does not answer, either.

Because he doesn’t know yet.

You stare at him a moment longer, weighing something behind your still, dark gaze. Then, just as easily, you drop the weight of the moment, like shedding a cloak.

Your voice turns again, lighter, but not hollow. Merely practiced.

“Escort me back,” you say. “It grows cold.”

You turn without waiting for confirmation, your footsteps already moving deeper into the garden, where the shadows deepen and the paths narrow between the carefully manicured trees.

Nanami hesitates–only for a breath. Nothing more.

And then he follows, as is his duty.

No response. No protest. Only the echo of his own footsteps behind you, steady as the pull of gravity.

But behind his golden eyes now lingers something else. A thought. A question.

What if the Emperor is wrong?

He shakes his head quickly, fixing his cape, a reminder of where his loyalty lies. Not to you. To the Emperor. The empire. He cannot plague himself with such thoughts.

He knows, however, that the damage has already been done. That morning with you in the Hall of Painted Silence is proof enough.

The two of you disappear into the waiting dark, the light of the sconces not nearly enough to suppress the crawl of night.

And the garden remains, hushed beneath the emerging stars–silent witness to the beginning of something no command can contain.

EASTERN WING – THE PRINCESS’ QUARTERS

The journey back to your quarters is uneventful–outwardly. But beneath the surface, tension coils like a second shadow.

The palace at night is a different creature. Gone is the grandeur paraded for foreign dignitaries and favored courtiers. The polished stone corridors feel more like veins than hallways–cold, echoing, lifeless beneath the pulse of torchlight. Tapestries of silk and gold shift faintly on the walls, tugged by invisible drafts that seem to whisper through the silence.

Your footsteps sound first–soft against the marble, light but deliberate. Each step is confident, the pace measured, unhurried. You wear your composure like a mantle, letting it trail behind you with the swish of your silk robes.

Nanami follows three paces behind.

His steps are heavier, deliberate, echoing faintly in the vast space. The heels of his boots strike stone with quiet authority. Even without speaking, his presence is announced–unshakeable, a constant you seem to neither acknowledge nor dismiss. You never glance back.

But he knows you’re aware of him.

You are always aware.

Nanami’s eyes stay forward, but his mind does not. He’s watching you, the line of your spine beneath silk, the faint motion of your shoulder as you adjust your grip on the plum blossom. It is still in your hand, petals turned inward now, cradled almost protectively.

He flexes his right hand.

The same one you brushed when taking the flower. He can still feel the whisper of contact through the leather, maddening in its simplicity. There had been no significance in it–not from you, at least–but it lingers in his nerves all the same, a ghost of touch.

He clenches his fingers once. Lets go.

He was trained to ignore distractions.

And yet.

You had spoken openly in the garden. Not formally, not diplomatically. No royal performance. You had dropped your veil–just for a moment. He wonders if you meant to. He wonders if you regret it. He wonders why, despite every rule drilled into him over years of service, he finds himself wondering at all.

Ahead, you pause. The corridor ends before the ornate double doors of your chambers–tall lacquered wood, carved with coiling dragons and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Two palace guards stand at attention, backs straight, hands on the hilts of their ceremonial swords.

They do not speak. Only straighten more sharply at your approach, eyes flickering briefly–not at you, but at the man behind you.

Nanami steps to the side, folding his arms behind his back in silence. He does not miss the way their gazes dart between him and you. Even in a palace where eyes are trained not to see, tongues not to speak, your association is already drawing questions.

You don’t seem to care.

You turn your head just a fraction–not fully, only enough that Nanami catches a sliver of your profile. The torchlight touches the side of your face, catching on the curve of your cheekbone, the arc of your lashes, the faintest gleam in your eyes.

“I will dismiss the other guards,” you say, voice quiet, but firm. “General–you will remain.”

There is no space in your tone for interpretation. It is not a favor. It is not an invitation.

It is a command.

Nanami’s brow furrows, but he says only, “As you wish, Your Highness.”

The guards hesitate–not from confusion, but from the break in protocol. One begins to open his mouth, perhaps to protest, to question–but then your gaze turns fully upon him, cool and unwavering.

He closes his mouth promptly.

They bow as one. Then they step away into the shadows of the corridor, their armor whispering with each movement until the sounds fade entirely.

Now it’s just the two of you.

Without another word, you step past the threshold of your chambers, the soft rustle of your silks brushing against the carved wooden frame as you vanish into the dim light beyond.

The doors begin to close behind you–silent, deliberate–until only a sliver of light remains, casting a narrow golden line across the marble floor. It stretches between you and the man standing just outside, a line of separation that feels impossibly thin and unbearably final.

He feels it before it happens–you pause.

The glow of the torchlight flickers as if holding its breath.

Your voice, when it comes, is so quiet he almost doesn’t catch it–barely a ripple in the still air, more felt than heard.

“You were right, General.”

Nanami straightens ever so slightly. His eyes, golden and sharp beneath the low light, narrow with the instinctive alertness that has been honed into him over years of battlefields and thrones.

“About what, Princess?” he asks. His voice is soft now. Careful. Gentler than protocol allows, but not yet insubordinate. The corridor listens with him, the silence growing deeper, cutting.

“That shadows see what light cannot.”

A pause. One heartbeat. Two. 

And then the door closes. Softly. Cleanly. Without fanfare.

The echo of it lingers far longer than the sound itself.

Nanami exhales slowly, the breath catching in his chest before slipping free through barely parted lips. The torchlight dances along the edges of his armor, catching on the silver trim of his pauldron, glinting faintly off the hilt of his sword. The warmth of it does not touch him.

He stands in the silence. Still. And yet–he is not at ease.

Those words. Shadows see what light cannot. They shouldn’t mean anything. A flourish of poetry, perhaps. A clever remark before retreating behind the safety of doors. A mockery of his own words.

But it does not feel like that.

There is something behind them–layered beneath the calm, regal tone. A thread of vulnerability. Of recognition. Of trust.

Nanami is not meant to be trusted. He is meant to watch. To report. To obey.

And yet, with those quiet words, you have turned something in him that has long since calcified. Something beneath the armor and the silence and the duty he wears like a second skin. Not sympathy–he has no space for sentiment. But understanding.

You are not like the others.

And this assignment–this task of observation–is not like the others.

Nanami shifts his weight. Not out of discomfort. Just enough to feel the flex of his glove again. The leather pulls faintly across his knuckles, too tight. Or perhaps it’s only his imagination.

The touch had been nothing. A brush of fingers. That is all.

But his body remembers.

He remembers the precise warmth of your skin. The way your fingers curled so gently around the plum blossom, not even flinching as they brushed his glove. There had been no hesitation. No coyness. But neither had it been dismissive. You had taken the flower like someone accepting a secret.

And now you were holding both.

He shouldn’t be thinking about this. He shouldn’t be feeling anything at all.

Nanami closes his eyes for a moment and steadies his breath. The Emperor’s voice rises again in his mind–hard, sharp, cold:

You are not to be her companion. You are to be her shadow.

She will be wed. She will be useful. And if she will not choose, I will choose for her.

You will not create attachments.

But how is he meant to remain unaffected when each time you speak, it strikes with precision? When each look reveals more than your silence conceals?

You speak like a tactician. Like a woman who knows exactly what is expected of her and has already measured every step she will take to defy it. Your composure is not the arrogance the Emperor sees. It is not pride. It is armor.

Nanami has seen men build walls around themselves to survive. Has seen how heavy those walls become. He knows the weight of wearing control like a shield.

He sees it in you.

And the more he sees, the more he wonders who truly needs protection here–and from whom.

His hand flexes again. Slowly this time. Thoughtfully. Then he lowers it to his side and lets it rest against his sword hilt.

He should send a report. A detail of the evening. An update, as the Emperor had requested. But what would he say?

That the Princess is cold? Controlled? Calculated? That you walk like a ghost through the palace halls because no one dares meet your eyes? That you took a flower tonight–not as a gesture of indulgence, but because it was the only thing in the garden that was just out of reach? That you asked him whether he would stop you from being reckless, and smiled–not cruelly, but quietly–when he said he would?

That you see him?

Would the Emperor understand any of that? Would he care?

Nanami closes his eyes again. Breathes in. Lets the scent of old stone, torch smoke, and faint plum blossoms still clinging to his sleeve settle in his senses.

There is no choice to be made–not yet.

But there is a storm brewing beneath the marble and silk of this palace. He can feel it in the way your words linger, in the way the night feels heavier than it did before. The Emperor wants control. The ministers want obedience. The palace wants silence.

And the Princess–

You want none of it.

Nanami opens his eyes.

He does not move. He does not pace. He does not sigh or shift his stance. But something in him has already changed.

He is still your shadow. But the line between obeying and choosing has thinned. And for the first time in a very long time, the general forged for duty wonders–not with panic, but with calm, careful curiosity–

What if he let himself be more than just a blade?

The torchlight flickers. The corridor grows still. 

Behind the sealed door, you cradle the blossom in your hand. Its petals are soft against your fingers–tender, fragile, alive.

And outside, the man meant to watch you stands sentinel. Unmoving. Unflinching. But no longer untouched.

A/N: i just love general nanami so much but not as much as @gojover (art by ykRRR23 on X)