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Chapter Text

Present – Lighthouse Hospital, Solaria, near the border with Eraklyon

The sharp click of towering stilettos rang across the polished hospital tiles as she swept onto the ward, her guard struggling to keep pace.

At the reception desk, a doctor—caught mid-step with a stack of files—looked up as though a storm had just barrelled in. Whatever he had been about to say, she seized the moment first.

“Where is she?” Her voice was tight. Controlled. Threaded with the kind of desperation that could start a war.

“Room two, just down the corridor, Your Majesty,” he replied hastily. “She’s all right—just a few bruises and a shallow cut on her forehead. Mild concussion, nothing serious.”

Farah gave a curt nod—acknowledgement enough—and strode past him, her pace quickening. She reached room two and threw open the door.

Empty.

The bed was unmade, the blanket tossed aside, monitors dark and silent. Panic surged through her chest like a wave breaking against a cliff.

“The princess is here, my queen,” a guard called from the corridor.

Farah spun, heart pounding. A few doors down, room four stood ajar. Framed in the doorway was her daughter—clad in a plain hospital gown, looking far too fragile for someone so infuriatingly reckless.

“Oh, Bloom, are you all right? I was terrified,” she exclaimed, rushing forward. Ignoring the neat bandage on Bloom’s forehead, she wrapped her in a fierce embrace.

“I’m fine, Mum, really. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry,” Bloom whispered, returning the hug, though she winced slightly.

Farah pulled back, cupping her daughter’s face. Her eyes flashed with magic for the briefest moment as she searched Bloom’s features for signs of deeper harm.

“What on earth were you doing on the road through Brighstone Forest?”

“Er… well…” Bloom faltered, caught between guilt and a desperate attempt to avoid trouble. “Mum, this is Sky.” She gestured towards the bed behind her.

Farah’s gaze shifted. A young man lay unconscious, pale and bandaged, with an IV tube in his arm. The machines beside him beeped steadily in rhythm with his breathing.

“They’ve just brought him back from surgery,” Bloom explained quickly. “The doctor said he’ll be fine. It wasn’t that serious… He’s sort of my… boyfriend,” she added, voice shrinking to a near whisper.

“Boyfriend?” The word landed like a thunderclap. “And what, precisely, were you doing with this boyfriend in the middle of a forest?”

“We were going to a fair,” Bloom admitted, squirming. “In Durham.”

“A fair? During school hours?” Farah’s tone sharpened to a razor’s edge.

“It’s not just any fair! They’ve got the most beautiful stalls and a rollercoaster with a huge drop and it ends tomorrow. Sky said I’d love it.”

“He said you’d love it,” Farah repeated slowly, coldness edging her words.

“Yeah, so we took one of the school’s cars and—”

“You stole a car from Alfea?” Farah cut in, voice rising in disbelief. The last shred of patience vanished from her face.

Bloom’s mouth opened, then closed. She stared down at her mother’s stilettos as if they were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” she mumbled.

“Oh, I dearly hope you are,” Farah snapped. “You’re a princess, Bloom! Sneaking off, stealing a car, missing classes, endangering yourself—” She broke off, hands raised in helpless fury. “If your father—”

“I know, Mum! I know.” Bloom’s voice cracked, tears gathering in her eyes.

Farah’s expression softened slightly. She exhaled, letting her hands fall to her sides. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters,” she said quietly, and once again embraced her daughter.

The moment was interrupted by approaching footsteps and hushed voices. A doctor appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a man in jeans and an elegant green jumper.

“He’ll recover quickly, I assure you, Mr Silva,” the doctor said. “The procedure went smoothly—no complications. He should regain consciousness within the hour.”

Both men paused at the sight of the women in embrace. The man in the jumper looked particularly startled, his eyes flicking to the older woman.

“Your Majesty. Princess,” he stammered, bowing stiffly.

Bloom stepped away from her mother. “You must be Sky’s father.”

Farah, meanwhile, stood frozen. Her wide eyes locked on the man in the jumper; her face had drained of colour. She said nothing.

“I’m really sorry,” Bloom said quickly, filling the silence. “It was all my idea. Please don’t be angry with Sky.” Seeing the confusion on his face, she added, “We’ll give you a moment.”

She guided her mother away and back into the room assigned to her.

The door had barely closed when Farah crossed to the window. She stared out, her expression unreadable.

Then: “Get dressed. We’re leaving. Now.”

Bloom blinked. “But, Mum—?”

“There is no but, Bloom,” Farah said, her voice like frost. “You broke the rules. You lied. You endangered yourself. You’re a princess, a future ruler, and you will act like one.”

She inhaled slowly, still facing the glass. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”

At the door, she paused—her final words delivered without turning back.

“And that boy?” she said coldly. “I don’t wish you to continue seeing him.”

She swept out, her heels striking the corridor like gavel blows.

Bloom stood frozen, her mother’s decree reverberating through her like a bell toll. The warmth from earlier—when her mother had pulled her close, relieved she was safe—was gone. In its place: silence, heavy and cold.

Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away. There was no room for crying—not now. She reached for the neatly folded clothes beside the bed, swallowing hard.

Later , she told herself. Later, there’ll be a chance to explain… or to make it right.

Chapter Text

Seventeen years ago – Royal Palace of Eraklyon

“Saul Silva! How long has it been? And you haven’t changed a bit!”

The voice—deep, booming, unmistakably royal—belonged to a tall, broad-shouldered blond man rising from behind a grand oak desk. His grin stretched nearly ear to ear, arms flung wide in welcome, radiating the effortless charm of someone used to commanding both rooms and armies.

“Your majesty,” Saul greeted, bowing with measured grace. His movements were precise, but there was a flicker of uncertainty; he wasn’t entirely sure how formal he was meant to be.

“Andreas, please,” the king insisted warmly, closing the distance with a firm, overly enthusiastic handshake. “Let’s leave the formalities to the balcony speeches, shall we?”

“Andreas,” Saul echoed, straightening. “It has been a while. Though I’m not sure I’ve aged quite as well as you.”

“Nonsense!” Andreas declared, gesturing flamboyantly to his own chest. “It’s not ageing—it’s maturing. Men age like fine wine. Look at us! Two vintage bottles, still corked.”

The bravado earned a faint, reluctant smile from Saul. Despite the years—and the crown—Andreas hadn’t changed. Still cocky, still impossible to dislike entirely, just like back in the military academy where they’d met.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Saul replied dryly, taking the seat the king indicated.

Andreas went back to his seat leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk. “Fabian hasn’t scared you off yet, I hope? He has a way of making palace security sound like life imprisonment.”

“Not at all,” Saul said, keeping his tone neutral.

Andreas studied him for a moment, the easy cheer in his face giving way to a more thoughtful expression. “I’ll admit, I was surprised when I heard you’d gone into security. The Saul Silva I knew was meant to end up a general.”

“I did serve,” Saul said simply. “Briefly. But the reality didn’t quite line up with what I’d imagined. Security suits me better—it’s more… focused.”

“Focused is good,” Andreas nodded, folding his hands. “Fabian gave me the basics, but it was ambassador Thomas who really vouched for you. Said you saved his life. Personally, I still don’t understand who would want the poor man dead.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted—subtly, but undeniably.

Andreas leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. “Fabian didn’t choose you because of your charm, Saul. You’re here to protect the palace—my palace—and more importantly, to protect the queen. Whatever it takes.”

“You have my word,” Saul said, voice low and steady.

Before Andreas could reply, the door to the office opened—without a knock.

A tall woman swept in, every step elegant and deliberate. She wore a simple dress—tasteful, understated—but her bearing was pure royalty. Authority clung to her like perfume.

“And here she is,” Andreas announced, standing. “Darling, meet Saul Silva—our new deputy chief of security. He’ll be replacing Victorien.”

Her gaze landed on Saul. Cool. Calculating.

“I was under the impression I’d be consulted before Victorien’s replacement was finalised,” she said, addressing Andreas, not Saul. Her tone was sharp enough to cut steel.

Andreas waved her off with a familiar grin. “Trust me, Farah. You’ll find no one better suited.”

She turned to Saul then, offering a thin, wintry smile. “A pleasure, Mr Silva,” she said. Though from her voice, nothing about this was a pleasure.

“My lady,” Saul replied, rising again with a bow.

“Queen,” she corrected, her voice slicing clean through the air. “If we’re observing formalities.”

“Apologies, my queen,” Saul amended swiftly, inwardly cursing the slip. His eyes dropped briefly to her stilettos, noting she nearly matched his height in them.

“I’ve finalised the guest list for the ball,” she said, placing a sheaf of papers onto the desk. “Invitations must be sent tomorrow. This is your last chance to review.”

And with that, she turned and strode out, heels echoing with purpose.

Saul kept his expression neutral. Inwardly, however, his thoughts were far less restrained.

What an unpleasant woman.

As if she’d read his mind, the queen paused in the doorway. Her sharp eyes flicked over her shoulder, narrowing as they met his. For the briefest second, Saul felt pinned in place—measured, weighed. Then, a flicker of something crossed her lips. Was it amusement? Contempt?

She was gone.

The silence she left behind was tangible.

“Duty calls, I’m afraid,” Andreas muttered, flipping through the papers she’d brought. “Fabian will schedule more time for us tomorrow.”

Saul nodded and left.

*

By the end of his first week, Saul was buried in his office beneath stacks of security reports, protocol manuals, and threat assessments. It was nearly midnight before he even glanced at the clock.

The door creaked open.

“You’d think this was the archives, not an office,” came a dry voice.

Saul looked up. A woman—sharp-eyed, silver-haired, and relentlessly practical—entered with a tray balanced on one hand.

“Clarice,” he said, standing. “You didn’t have to—”

“Save it,” she interrupted, setting the tray down with brisk efficiency. “It’s past eleven. If you’re going to make a habit of missing meals, I’ll start billing you for room service.”

The scent of something warm and savoury drifted up. Saul’s stomach growled in reply.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I’ll try to keep to a schedule tomorrow.”

“You’d better,” she replied, planting her hands on her hips. “The kitchen doesn’t run on fairy magic.”

Saul let out a short laugh. “No more magic this week, please.”

Clarice arched a brow. “Give it time. She’ll come round—eventually. Fairies are stubborn. Think they’re invincible. But she is a good person.”

Saul leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “Stuck-up fairies.”

Clarice chuckled. “Indeed—stuck-up fairies.”

“Well,” he said, reaching for the plate, “being a fairy didn’t save ambassador Thomas’s life. I did.”

“And that’s exactly why you’re here.” She turned to leave, pausing in the doorway. “But just so we’re clear—dinner’s served until eight.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Saul called after her, still smiling as the door clicked shut.

Alone again, he exhaled, glancing at the neglected reports. Clarice was right. Time might soften the queen’s sharp edges—or at least reveal what lay beneath them.

He’d figure her out eventually. Or go grey trying.

Chapter Text

Since they hit the road, neither had spoken. The tension between them was palpable, each lost in their own thoughts, replaying the events of the past hour. Even upon returning to the palace, silence prevailed—broken only by her curt command: “With me. Now.”

No discussion. No chance for argument.

She strode ahead, the soft glow of the chandeliers catching in her caramel hair, her posture rigid with fury. Saul marvelled at the speed she managed in those impossibly high heels, barely keeping pace as his own irritation simmered. Nearly a month had passed since his assignment, and in that time, she had remained as distant and cold as ever. Every exchange was laced with thinly veiled disdain, their conversations painfully formal. To her, he was an inconvenience—an unwanted shadow tolerated only out of necessity.

But to others, especially beyond the palace walls, she was someone entirely different.

At parades, visits, and audiences, she exuded warmth. She listened, laughed, knelt to speak with children, her hazel eyes sparkling with interest as they told her their stories. She radiated grace with such ease that the people adored her, she was the fairy they had chosen to accept, despite Eraklyon’s long and bitter mistrust of magic.

Saul assumed it was years of careful performance. Or perhaps even her magic. Because surely, the woman who gave him nothing but headaches couldn’t possibly be the same one who smiled so sweetly at her people.

They reached one of the smaller audience chambers. The heavy doors thudded shut behind them. Without a word, she dismissed the attendants. Once alone, she spun to face him, fury blazing in her eyes.

She was beautiful like this, he realised—not that it excused the absolute nightmare she was. Stray strands of hair framed her flushed face, her breathing uneven from restrained anger. The soft cream of her gown seemed to glow in the light, offsetting the heat in her cheeks.

“I don’t know if you came here for action or excitement, Silva,” she began, her voice taut with rage, “but if you ever do that again, I will personally see to it that you are reassigned to polishing silverware.”

He remained unmoved, his own frustration rising.

“You were exposed, your majesty,” he said evenly. “There was no barrier between you and a potential threat. If the boy had hidden a weapon—”

“A boy no older than thirteen!” she snapped, incredulous. “Do you honestly believe a child carrying flowers was a danger to me?”

“It wasn’t clear at the time. My priority is your safety. I had to act.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Act? You frightened a child, humiliated me, and undermined my judgement in front of my people!”

“I couldn’t see clearly; you should not—” He stopped himself, too late.

Her fury deepened. “Are you giving me orders, Silva?”

He recognised the danger instantly. “I would never dare, your majesty. But I had to ensure the situation was under control—”

A deafening crack split the air.

The vase beside him exploded, shards scattering across the polished floor. The burst of force sent a rush of air whipping past his face. Saul’s instincts flared—his hand twitched to shield himself before he realised what had happened. He turned back to her, noting the faint glow fading from her eyes.

“I have the situation under control,” she seethed. “And I can protect myself. Do you understand, Silva?”

His jaw tightened. He forced himself to nod. “Yes, my queen.”

Her gaze lingered, sharp as steel, before she turned away, her voice cooling to something clipped and controlled.
“Good. I will spend the rest of my afternoon in the east wing. Ensure I am not disturbed.”

He bowed his head. “As you wish, my queen.”

She swept past him, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air. As the door clicked shut behind her, Saul exhaled sharply. He turned to the shattered vase—only to find it whole again, restored as if it had never broken.

He knew she was powerful—the most powerful fairy of the Otherworld. Still the small demonstration had him rattled, but his duty remained the same. 

Protect her. At all costs.

*

Three days later, the palace thrummed with anticipation as preparations for the season’s grandest royal ball neared completion. Servants bustled through the corridors, chandeliers gleamed with a blinding polish, and the air was rich with the sweet headiness of freshly cut flowers.

Saul had little time to admire any of it.

Buried beneath an avalanche of security protocols, he moved like a shadow through the palace wings, mind consumed with guard rotations, emergency contingencies, and the ever-problematic blind spots in the perimeter.

As dusk fell, the palace transformed. Soft amber light spilled from the stained-glass windows, music drifted through the vaulted halls, and laughter echoed across the grand ballroom. Guests arrived in glittering waves—noblemen in tailored silks, ladies in gowns embroidered with starlight thread. Every turn of fabric caught the gleam of crystal and gold, the polished floor beneath reflecting it all like glass.

From a vantage point above, Saul observed with a soldier’s precision.

His gaze swept the crowd, categorising instinctively—the loyal, the ambitious, the flatterers, and the ever-adapting chameleons whose allegiance bent with the political wind. He prided himself on reading people, predicting them, reducing risk. Controlling the variables.

And yet, after all this time, one remained unreadable.

The queen.

To him, she was maddening—imperious, sharp-tongued, perpetually dismissive. Even her glances seemed to cut, barbed with disdain. But to the outside world, she was something else entirely.

Beyond these walls, she was a sovereign adored. Gracious, radiant, impossibly poised. Tonight, she embodied that image flawlessly.

She moved through the crowd with practised ease, her smiles effortless, her words measured to perfection. She paused to greet guests with what seemed like genuine attentiveness, her laughter light, her sympathy carefully placed. At her side, the king stood tall, exuding the strength the people of Eraklyon revered.

Saul’s fingers tapped idly against the marble balustrade as he considered her. Was it all genuine—the warmth he occasionally glimpsed in private moments, the affection plastered across magazines—or merely another layer of performance? He hadn’t witnessed much intimacy between the royal couple himself. In meetings and ceremonies, they were the picture of partnership: attentive, professional, respectful. But intimacy? That was harder to read.

In public, though, they were flawless.

Andreas wore Eraklyon’s colours—deep green and blood-crimson, his uniform immaculate, posture unyielding. The queen, in contrast, was draped in Domino’s regal burgundy. The gown hugged her frame with the precision of either magic or artistry, her bare shoulders lending height to her already commanding silhouette. Long, dark gloves climbed her arms like silk shadows, and a silver tiara gleamed in her hair, understated yet striking.

Together, they greeted dignitaries with elegance, every movement rehearsed to perfection. When they took to the dance floor for the opening waltz, all eyes followed. They glided effortlessly, poised, elegant, the very embodiment of the kingdom’s ideal.

A perfect couple.

And yet…

Saul felt it—that persistent tightness in his chest.

He saw it—just for a moment—when they welcomed the Queen of Solaria. A subtle shift in posture. A faint stiffness in the queen’s shoulders. The briefest hesitation before she allowed Andreas to guide her forward.

Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps only the natural tension between two powerful women, two proud fairies measuring each other. Still, the coil of unease settled deep in his gut.

Before he could dwell on it further, a sharp voice to his left pulled him back to reality. Two noblemen were growing heated, their alcohol-loosened tongues spilling barbs as their argument rose in volume.

Saul exhaled, brushing aside the thought.

Duty called.

*

Later that night, long after the ball had reached its peak, Saul found himself wandering into the quieter wings of the palace. It was routine, he told himself—a final patrol before turning in for the night.

But his steps were instinctive. And then, pushing open the door to a restroom, he froze.

She stood before the mirror, her reflection staring back at him through the fractured glass.

Her gloves lay discarded on the sink. Blood stained the porcelain. A shard of the broken mirror trembled in her grasp, its jagged edge pressed against her wrist.

His throat tightened. For a moment, neither of them moved.

She was the first to break eye contact.

Saul reacted instinctively, stepping forward with hands raised in a placating gesture. “Easy,” he murmured.

She didn’t resist as he carefully took the shard from her fingers. Turning on the tap, he guided her wrist beneath the water, watching the crimson swirl down the drain. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around her wrist, concealing the wounds.

“It’s okay,” he said softly—though he wasn’t sure if the words were meant for her or himself.

She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. When she opened them again, there was no arrogance, no coldness—only vulnerability.

For the first time, she didn’t look like a queen who couldn’t stand him, who was annoyed with his presence.. She looked lost.

And he… he wanted to protect her.

A single tear traced down her cheek. Without thinking, Saul reached out, brushing it away. His hand settled on her shoulder in quiet reassurance.

Then, just as before, her eyes changed colour..

With a flick of her hand, the mirror reassembled itself. The water ceased.

She stepped away, grabbing her gloves from the other sink.

"Good night, Silva." Her voice was barely above a whisper.

And then she was gone, leaving him standing there—his mind racing, his heart unsteady.

For the first time, he truly felt the weight of his duty.

She wasn’t just a queen.

She was a mystery, the most dangerous puzzle he had ever encountered.

Chapter Text

A few days after the ball, Saul entered his office, ready to finalise the shits for the coming month. His meticulous planning had already earned Fabian’s praise—along with a steadily growing mountain of administrative work that showed no sign of easing.

As his hand closed around the door handle, a scent caught him off guard. Blackberry, vivid and sweet, laced with something sharper—spiced, almost incendiary. It took him a moment to place it.

When his gaze swept the room and landed on the figure standing behind his desk, he froze.

The queen.

She was setting something down with deliberate care, her posture composed yet curiously at ease. Since the night of the ball, they had not spoken privately. On her only excursion beyond the palace walls, a colleague of his had been assigned to her side, while Saul had caught only brief glimpses of her in passing—her face an immaculate mask, her every movement measured. But now, as she looked up at him, there was something different in her expression. Guarded still, but not impenetrable.

“I apologise. I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy,” she said, her voice breaking the silence before he could bow or greet her.

He straightened instinctively. “There’s no need, your majesty.”

She tilted her head in gentle correction. “No—apologising is appropriate.” Her tone was calm, unwavering. “I came to return what is yours.”

She nodded towards the object on his desk: a neatly folded white handkerchief. The same one he had used to bind her wrist—now white as ever.

His eyes flicked briefly to her hands. Her wrist bore no trace of injury, no sign of the quiet, fractured moment they had shared before the mirror.

“Thank you,” he said, a restrained smile touching his lips.

With a subtle tilt of her chin, she indicated the door. He closed it without hesitation, and the soft click of the latch seemed to alter the air between them.

“I would also ask,” she continued, her voice lower now, “that you keep what you saw to yourself.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”

She nodded once, and for the briefest moment, a smile ghosted across her features. It was the first she had ever offered him—enough to give him the courage to speak again.

“I hope… you’re feeling better, your majesty.”

A pause followed. Her gaze drifted to the window, where pale morning light bled through the curtains.

“Those have been long months. I hate winter in Eraklyon,” she admitted, the faint warmth in her voice receding like the tide. “I believe it would do me good to retreat to the mountain residence for a few days.”

She glanced back at him. “Security protocol dictates you accompany me, I assume?”

“Of course,” he replied at once, recalling the relevant note in his handover documents. “I’ll see to the arrangements.”

“Good.”

She moved past him, her perfume lingering in the air like the echo of a thought.

For a moment, he stood still, breathing it in. Then his gaze returned to the desk, where the handkerchief lay folded exactly as she had left it.

*

The following morning, Saul emerged from the palace’s side entrance precisely ten minutes before their scheduled departure. He crossed the courtyard, bag in hand, expecting the usual routine—staff loading the black royal SUV, the queen seated discreetly in the back, flanked by security.

So when a staff member took his bag and gestured not towards the SUV but to a sleek silver sports car parked just beyond it, Saul blinked in mild confusion.

Before he could ask about the change, she appeared.

Dressed in cropped sand-coloured chinos and a tailored navy shirt, with a silk scarf knotted elegantly around her hair, she radiated a different kind of authority—refined, yet relaxed. Oversized sunglasses concealed her eyes, but the tilt of her chin and the certainty in her stride made her identity unmistakable.

She walked straight to the driver’s side, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Shall we?” she asked, taking the keys from the butler.

The realisation hit him slowly, absurdly. She was driving. This wasn’t a whim—this was her routine.

He opened the door for her without comment, then quickly circled to the passenger side.

He’d skimmed the relevant travel notes in the handover documents, contacted the warden of the residence, and ensured all preparations were in order—but had overlooked this particular detail. Clearly, it was common practice that she drove herself to the mountains.

She fastened her seatbelt. “Hope you don’t mind mountain roads, Silva.”

“I don’t, my queen,” he replied—perhaps too confidently.

Because the moment her foot touched the accelerator, the car leapt forward with such force that the palace was gone from the rear-view mirror in seconds.

*

Saul had never minded sharp bends, steep inclines, or high speeds. Roller coasters, cliff roads—he’d handled them all without issue, so long as he was the one in control.

That changed the day he became the passenger of the queen of Eraklyon.

Three hours and countless hairpin turns later, the silver car veered off the main road, slipping through iron gates flanked by towering pines. Gravel crunched under the tyres, and Saul exhaled slowly, realising only then how tightly his fingers had been gripping the seat.

The residence ahead was grand without being ostentatious—an elegant mansion nestled into the mountainside, its stone facade softened by ivy and the hush of alpine air. It looked as though it had grown from the ridge itself, half-hidden by the terrain and trees.

“Welcome to Eraklyon’s hidden treasure,” the queen announced, removing her sunglasses with a smile of pure satisfaction as she parked and cut the engine.

The mountain air had clearly revived her. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair slightly tousled where the scarf had vanished—likely claimed by the wind somewhere along the journey. She looked radiant. Alive, like the wilderness around her, just beginning to wake from winter’s grip.

Saul, by contrast, suspected he was a shade or two paler than usual. From the glimmer in her eyes, she had noticed.

Before he could speak, movement by the entrance caught his attention. A man descended the stone steps, his expression balancing amusement and quiet exasperation.

“Your majesty,” he greeted, opening her door with practised ease. “We were expecting you later.”

She unbuckled her seatbelt, taking his offered hand. “And I was expecting you to stop fussing over protocol,” she replied lightly, stepping out and embracing him. “Oh, Ben, I’ve missed you.”

“It’s been far too long, Farah,” he said warmly.

Ben Harvey. The name clicked instantly—Saul had coordinated with him only the day before.

Still steadying himself with one hand on the car, Saul stepped out as the queen turned to him.

“This is Saul Silva, my new protector,” she said, faint irony and amusement in her tone.

Ben extended a hand with a knowing smile. “Ben Harvey, warden of the residence. We’ve spoken on the phone.”

“Good to meet you, Ben,” Saul said, returning the handshake.

Ben’s eyes twinkled. “So—you survived the queen’s driving through the mountains. Impressive.”

Saul exhaled a short laugh, glancing at her. “I’ve been through worse.”

Her eyebrows lifted in mock offence. He had expected that. The familiarity between her and Ben made the teasing almost irresistible.

Before she could respond, Ben clapped his hands together. “Well, welcome. Everything’s ready for your stay. I’ll walk the queen to her rooms first, then give you the tour. Your luggage should be along shortly—though it may take longer than your drive did.”

Saul nodded, posture casual, though his stomach was still catching up from the final stretch of bends.

The queen gave him a lingering glance—part curiosity, part challenge—before following Ben up the steps, her shoes crunching lightly on the gravel.

*

The day passed easily.

The queen spent most of it outdoors—either in the sprawling greenhouse, where Harvey was animatedly explaining something amidst rare flora, or on the terrace in the shade, once again in his company. From a distance, their conversations carried the ease of long-standing friends rather than the formality of monarch and subordinate.

It made sense. Ben Harvey was a fairy, after all. Saul’s swift background check before their arrival had confirmed as much: a respected researcher, specialising in the flora of the Eraklyon Protected Natural Park. He and the queen had known each other since their studies at Alfea.

When not with her, Ben took it upon himself to show Saul the property. Despite its scale, the residence felt almost intimate: two royal suites, six guest bedrooms, two drawing rooms, a formal library, a generous dining hall, a smaller audience chamber, and a compact library tucked near the garden terrace. The estate also contained a discreet kitchen and modest staff quarters.

Saul had been assigned the bedroom next to the royal suite. For a royal residence, the staff was surprisingly lean—four in total: a cook and housekeeper, an attendant for the queen, a groundskeeper, and Ben, who oversaw everything.

Dinner was quiet. The queen and Ben ate privately on the terrace; throughout the day, Saul had noticed that their conversations grew more serious beneath the easy familiarity. Despite Ben’s kind invitation to join them, Saul declined, choosing instead to dine with the staff in the informal dining room.

Later that evening, he settled in the smaller library—chosen as much for its vantage point as for its seclusion. A reading lamp cast warm light over the pages of a book he wasn’t really reading. Through the closed doors leading to the terrace, he could hear the faint murmur of voices: the queen, speaking with Ben.

The side door creaked open. Instinct overrode thought; he was on his feet at once.

The queen stepped inside, poised, halting when she saw him in the half-light.

“You startled me,” she said quietly.

“My apologies, your majesty. That was not my intent.”

Her expression shifted to something more pointed. “Were you waiting for me?”

“I wanted to ensure you returned to your suite safely,” he said evenly.

She exhaled, shaking her head. “Ben must have shown you every security measure in this place. And with a staff of four—none of whom could be a threat even if they tried—you can’t possibly believe I need guarding every second.”

“This residence may be secure,” he replied, “but my duty doesn’t vanish with the sunset.”

His tone was professional, though his thoughts betrayed him—blood on her wrist, the night of the ball, that fleeting fracture in her composure.

Her gaze sharpened. “That little incident you witnessed changes nothing. I can look after myself—better than you or any of your men.”

“I’ve never doubted that,” he said, careful not to rise to the challenge.

She studied him, weighing, calculating. Then, abruptly shifting the subject, he asked, “What time should I be ready tomorrow?”

She paused, then gave a faint huff, turning towards the stairs.

“You’re a stubborn man, Saul Silva,” she remarked.

He waited until she was out of sight before murmuring, “Good night, my queen.”

His voice was low, rough at the edges. If anyone here was stubborn—it was her. And it was beginning to drive him mad.

Chapter Text

He had spent most of the night tossing and turning, sleep eluding him at every twist. Whether it was the unfamiliar surroundings or the weight of his thoughts, he couldn’t say. At last, just before dawn, sheer exhaustion overcame him. By the time he opened his eyes again, sunlight was already spilling into the room.

With a sharp intake of breath, he glanced at the clock. Swearing under his breath, Saul leapt from the bed as though stung, striding to the window in three quick steps.

He threw open the curtains—and froze.

Down by the lake’s edge, a solitary figure stood on the pier, draped in a bathrobe. There was no mistaking her. Honey-blonde hair, twisted into a loose bun, shimmered where the light caught it. Her arms were raised, directing something unseen—until Saul noticed the droplets of water suspended in the air, drawn up from the lake’s surface. They hung and danced, caught in a graceful ballet. Large and small, they spun and swirled in perfect synchrony with her hands, like notes in a silent symphony.

He unlatched the window and leaned against the frame, transfixed. For a moment, duty slipped away, and he was simply a man watching something… extraordinary. The droplets moved with elegance, responding to her will—until, with a flick of her wrist, they fell back into the lake, sending soft ripples across the water.

Then she turned. Their eyes met. Distance did little to soften the intensity of her gaze. She held it for a heartbeat before turning away again. And then—with a fluid motion—she untied the robe. It slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. Beneath, she wore a sleek black swimsuit that clung to her like a second skin.

Saul’s breath caught. Slender arms, long legs, graceful curves—everything about her was impossibly poised. She reached up, pulled the pin from her hair, and a cascade of honeyed waves tumbled over her shoulders like sunlight through a waterfall.

His brain stalled.

In that instant, he wasn’t her protector. He was simply a man—undone by beauty.

As if sensing it, she turned again, just slightly—enough for him to catch the unmistakable curl of a smirk. A challenge flickered in her eyes, striking him with almost physical force. Then she turned back to the lake and, without hesitation, dove gracefully into its depths, vanishing in a shimmer of droplets.

Whatever awe had sparked in him was abruptly swept aside by instinct. She was alone. In deep water. His training roared to life.

Still in nothing but his boxers, he snatched his clothes from the back of a chair and bolted from the room, dragging them on as he ran.

By the time he reached the side entrance of the villa, he was half-dressed and fully alert. A servant was just finishing setting the outdoor table for breakfast. Saul’s eyes darted about, spotting a towel draped over a nearby chair. He took it without a word and sprinted towards the lake.

She was still in the water, gliding effortlessly through the final strokes of a lap. As he reached the edge of the pier, she turned and swam towards him. In one smooth, unhurried movement, she hoisted herself up onto the pier.

She stood, dripping and radiant, the morning sun catching every drop on her skin, making her glow like something out of myth.

“Good morning, Silva,” she said, her voice pulling him back to reality.

“Good morning, your majesty,” he managed, stepping forward and offering the towel. He bent quickly to retrieve her robe, trying to mask his disarray.

She accepted the towel with a small smile, wrapping it around herself as she began walking back towards the breakfast table. Saul followed, her robe folded neatly over his arm like the world’s most formal attendant.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked lightly, unwilling to let silence settle.

“Very well, thank you,” he lied smoothly, then added, “I hope your night was restful too.”

“It was,” she said, glancing sideways just as Ben emerged from the main house, heading their way.

“Just in time for breakfast,” she announced, smiling. Then, with a quick glance at Saul: “Hopefully you don’t mind eating so soon after waking.”

He offered a faint nod, still navigating the curious rhythm of their interactions.

The table was laid beautifully. Crisp morning air mingled with the scent of pine and dew. Birds flitted through the trees, their chirps forming a soft, contented chorus. Saul pulled out a chair for her, and as she sat, she let the towel slip from her shoulders and took her robe from him with a nod of thanks.

He exhaled quietly. It was ridiculous how often she left him breathless.

Throughout breakfast, he mostly listened—Ben was describing aspects of his research, including something called earth resonance and a form of dormant forest magic Saul didn’t fully understand. But when the conversation shifted to the surrounding landscape, he found an opening.

“It is beautiful here,” Saul said. “The lake, the forest… it feels untouched.”

The queen glanced at him over her teacup, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Yes, it is.”

As if sensing his effort, she added casually, “After breakfast, I’ll be walking one of the forest trails.”

Saul stiffened slightly. Hiking was not standard royal activity, especially without formal escort. Security concerns leapt to mind—no guards, no surveillance, no fallback protocol.

She didn’t even look up as she spread jam across another slice of toast. “No need for security. I’m sure I’ll be fine with just you.”

The ease with which she dismissed layers of protective detail was maddening. Yet he couldn’t argue—not when she was so calm. So sure.

He inclined his head. “Of course, I’ll prepare accordingly.”

“You might want sturdy boots,” she added with a teasing lilt. The glint in her eyes made it clear: this wasn’t a joke. It was a command dressed as banter.

“I’ll be ready, your majesty,” he replied smoothly, though inwardly a knot of unease tightened in his chest.

*

When she finally appeared, Saul realised—yet again—that he had underestimated her. After witnessing her earlier at the lake, he had assumed he was past the point of surprise. But now, seeing her dressed and ready, he found himself caught off guard once more.

Gone was the image of the palace queen adorned in silks and stilettos. In her place stood a woman outfitted for the wild. She wore snug hiking trousers that clung to her long legs, a fitted top layered with an unzipped hoodie, and a pair of boots that bore the marks of genuine use—scuffed, weathered, dependable. The sight was almost jarring against the poised elegance she so often displayed. More than that, her gear didn’t merely look right; it looked lived in. It spoke of habit, of experience.

Without ceremony, they set off along a narrow woodland trail, the morning light breaking through the canopy in shifting golden shafts. Birds called in the distance, and the scent of pine and damp moss lingered in the air.

Saul realised that her attire was no mere costume. She moved like someone born to the terrain. Her stride was steady, confident, her pace brisk. Where he kept careful watch for loose rocks or tangled roots, she strode with instinctive ease, barely glancing down.

They climbed steadily, weaving higher through the trees towards the summit of the nearest ridge. Saul felt warmth gathering beneath his hoodie, the incline pressing his breath, but she showed no sign of strain. No gasp. Not even the sheen of sweat. She was quiet as they walked—not distant, simply absorbed. Present. At ease in the wild in a way that told him this was not a novelty. It was her refuge.

When at last they reached the crest and the land unfurled before them, Saul found himself speaking without thought.

“That’s beautiful,” he murmured.

She turned, offering him a smile that was simple and unguarded. “It is. The most beautiful piece of land in Eraklyon.” Her eyes wandered back to the horizon, softened by memory or perhaps by longing.

He had to agree. Eraklyon was often shrouded in cloud—grey-blue, cold, and imposing. Its landscapes were dominated by stone mansions and spires. But this place… this felt like an oasis. A quiet escape from the weight of the crown.

“Are you glad to be back?” she asked suddenly, her gaze still on the distance. “Linphea is such a beautiful realm—lush, green, brimming with life. It must have been difficult to trade its forests for our ever-grey skies.”

“Linphea is indeed beautiful, my queen,” he replied. “But… home is home.”

The words slipped free before he could reconsider them. And the moment they hung in the air, he regretted them. Of course. She had no home. Not truly.

Ascendant of Domino’s royal line, heir to a ruined realm—frozen in time, destroyed long before she could remember it. His chest tightened as he opened his mouth to amend the blunder.

“I’m sorry, that was—”

She interrupted gently, her voice steady. “If you’re apologising for speaking of home… don’t. I have no memory of Domino.”

He turned to her then. The breeze caught a strand of her hair, lifting it across her cheek. She smiled faintly, though wistfulness traced its edges.

“The records say it was lush—like Linphea. Endless skies, green forests, crystal lakes. I like to imagine it was like this.” She gestured across the expanse before them. “That’s why I come to the mountains. It reminds me of what I never had. And yet… I feel closer to it here.”

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure there was an answer. So he stood beside her, silent, until her voice carried again.

“What was it that brought you back?”

The question surprised him. “After the attack on the ambassador—and his decision to resign—there was nothing to hold me in Linphea. The new ambassador would likely bring their own people. So I returned. But before I began to look at options, the ambassador reached out to me, told me about the opening in the Royal Security Service.. encouraged me to apply.”

She was quiet for a time, studying the view.

“Do you regret applying?” she asked at last, her voice calm, though faintly edged with challenge.

He blinked, caught off guard. Not the question he had expected. “I don’t,” he said carefully. Then, without thinking, added, “Do you?”

Her laugh came lightly, surprising him. He could hardly blame her—the question had sounded foolish the instant he’d spoken it. From the day he arrived, she had made it clear that his presence was… not entirely welcome. And truthfully, he had wondered himself what purpose he served. To the most powerful fairy alive, what use was a bodyguard? His presence was duty, not necessity.

“The value of every life is the same,” she said at last, her voice level. “I hate the idea that someone should risk theirs to preserve mine.” She glanced at him then, her tone softening. “But I don’t have much choice, I suppose.” A crooked smile tempered the weight of her words.

“I’m afraid not,” he replied, allowing his own smile to echo hers. For a heartbeat, the unspoken tension between them eased.

“Tell me your story,” she said suddenly, turning to face him.

“There isn’t much to tell, your majesty.”

“Well,” she replied, arching a brow with playful command as she began the descent, “try to make it last. The walk back is long.”

And with that, she led the way down the mountain path. Saul followed, still surprised, but not unwilling.

*

It was good they had a hearty breakfast; the hike stretched well into the afternoon. Despite Saul’s initial claim that there wasn’t much to say, the walk back was filled with conversation. He spoke of the winding path of his life—touching briefly on his childhood, then his years at military school where he had first met the king, through his time serving in the royal army, which eventually led him to the security service: first in Solaria, and later in Linphea, where he had been assigned to ambassador Thomas.

By the time they returned to the house, the sun was already dipping low. They parted ways to change and rest before dinner. As the night before, the queen dined on the terrace with Harvey, her laughter occasionally drifting across the gardens like music, while Saul joined the household staff, comfortably settled in the kitchen, quietly listening to their easy banter.

Later that evening—without much conscious intent—Saul found himself once more in the small library near the side entrance, just as he had the night before. The wine from dinner lingered warmly in his veins, and the quiet of the room soothed him. Just before half past nine, the door from outside clicked open. She stepped in.

She paused when she saw him, her expression flickering between surprise and faint annoyance.
“I thought I was clear last night,” she said, tone dry but not sharp. “You don’t need to wait up for me.”

“I’m not,” he replied quickly, straightening. “I may have had more wine than I intended, and I didn’t quite feel ready for bed.” It was partly true—though the pull that had led him here felt like something else entirely.

A smirk tugged faintly at her lips. “Let me guess—Mathias convinced you that his beef couldn’t possibly be paired with anything but a dry red, vintage ’85?”

Saul chuckled, relaxing. “He was very persuasive.”

Without another word, she crossed the room towards the back shelves, rifling through the collection of vinyls. A comfortable silence settled before she made her choice. Moments later, the room filled with the gentle swell of a waltz—strings soft, elegant, tinged with melancholy.

“You dance, Silva?” she asked, turning back towards him.

“I doubt I could match his majesty’s skill,” he replied, only half-joking. But she was already standing before him, her hand extended.

“Prove it, then.”

He hesitated for only a breath before taking her hand. Their fingers brushed, and then he drew her into hold, his movements careful, deliberate. They began to turn, slow and precise, finding the rhythm together. The air seemed to shift, thickening with something unspoken. Saul realised he had been holding his breath and exhaled slowly, acutely aware of her closeness.

Her scent lingered in the space between them—something delicate, floral, not just perfume but the faint fragrance of her hair, which tonight fell loose across her shoulders. The sight, the scent, the moment—it pulled at something buried deep within him. Her lips bore the faintest trace of red, and he smiled inwardly, guessing the cook had likely persuaded her into the same wine as him.

She breathed in, and he stiffened slightly, reminded of himself—his role, his duty. He straightened, giving them space. But then she spoke.

“Are you scared of me, Silva?”

“Scared?” he echoed, unsure.

“You’re leaving enough room between us for another person,” she murmured, a note of amusement in her voice.

He smirked, pulling her gently closer. “I wouldn’t make much of a bodyguard if I were scared of you.”

“True,” she said, smiling faintly. Then her expression shifted, her tone dropping lower. “Some people still fear me… for what I did.”

Her head came to rest lightly against his shoulder, and without thinking, he tightened his hold, instinctively protective.

“They are fools, my queen. You did what you had to do to survive,” he said gently but firmly. She slowed, lifting her eyes to his.

“You asked me if I regret that you applied,” she said quietly, her gaze steady, almost searching. “My parents died trying to protect me. I don’t wish anyone else to risk their life for mine.”

The music slowed, the final notes lingering in the air like a memory. A silence followed—heavy, though not uncomfortable. She slipped from his arms, stepping back.

“Wine makes me sentimental. I’m sorry,” she said softly, already turning away.

He caught her hand—not forcefully, just enough to stop her.
“Please don’t… don’t apologise,” he said, his voice low, the words carrying the same gentle weight as the way he held her hand.

She looked at him then—really looked—her eyes wide, thoughtful. Something in his expression seemed to strike her: quiet but intent, his gaze darkened by the low lamplight, lips still tinged with red from the wine. She drew in a breath and gave his hand the faintest squeeze.

“Good night, Silva,” she whispered. And then she was gone.

Something about her unsettled him—something that drew him in, unbidden and undeniable. Something that made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in a very long time.

Chapter Text

Fear her?

A month ago—perhaps even a week ago—Saul might have understood why some did. She was powerful, her name bound to stories darker than shadows. But now, after what he had seen in these past few days—what he had witnessed that very morning during the visit of the nearby town—he could not fathom how anyone could fear her.

The queen had moved through the senior home like sunlight filtering through old glass—warm, unhurried, gentle. She listened with patience as the residents recounted their memories—some clear, others fractured by time—nodding, smiling, offering words of comfort with an ease that seemed entirely natural. Later, at the pre-school, she had perched on one of the tiny chairs, surrounded by children who hung on her every word as she read aloud. Her voice shifted playfully from character to character, her eyes bright with mischief. At moments, she laced her storytelling with flickers of magic: a book floating above their heads, a flame dancing across her palm, a globe of light drifting lazily through the circle. Each display was met with gasps of delight, small hands clapping, eyes wide with awe.

There was no fear there. No suspicion. Only admiration. Love.

The woman before him was far more than the shadow of her past.

Princess Farah of Domino—heir more to a name than to a realm buried beneath centuries of ice and silence—had spent most of her childhood in Solaria, her mother’s homeland. Her father had been a close ally of the king of Eraklyon, and so it was little surprise when, at ten years old, Farah and Andreas were betrothed. Her early years were happy: filled with travel, learning, and the warmth of devoted parents.

At fifteen she entered Alfea, Solaria’s elite academy for fairies. The scion of Domino, bearer of the legendary Dragon Flame—her raw power was evident from the first spark, and it only grew, tempered by relentless discipline. She stood out, even among the extraordinary. That brilliance was always bitterly noted by her distant cousin, princess Luna of Solaria—ever the rival, never quite her equal.

Rosalind Hale, then Headmistress of Alfea, took a particular interest in Farah’s rise. To most it seemed a mentorship—the grooming of a prodigy, perhaps even the shaping of Eraklyon’s first fairy leader, in a realm that prized physical strength and strategy over magic. And for a time, perhaps, that was true. But beneath the lessons, something darker stirred.

Even after Farah’s graduation, when she moved with her family to Eraklyon to prepare for her role as future queen, she continued to study under Rosalind. Until the betrayal came.

According to the records Rosalind Hale visited the family estate under the pretence of another lesson. Her true purpose was to persuade her protégé and her family to abandon their path, to rise against the governance of the Otherworld, to shatter the balance of power and remake it in her vision. When persuasion failed, she turned to force.

Only one of the four fairies within the house survived the confrontation.

Farah.

She emerged alive, but with blood on her hands—carrying the weight of loss too heavy for her years: the deaths of both her parents, and of the mentor she had once admired and trusted beyond measure. Surviving the attack of Rosalind Hale—a woman both feared and revered as the most powerful fairy of their age—earned Farah a new title: the strongest fairy alive.

But it also birthed rumours. Whispers. Suspicions among Eraklyons who placed their faith in swords and force rather than magic. Was she a victim, or a monster? Fear clung to her name like smoke.

And yet the royal house of Eraklyon stood with her—loudly, firmly—proclaiming her courage. They embraced her when she was most shaken, most vulnerable, and in time, she became their queen.

Since her coronation she had worked tirelessly to earn her people’s respect—not by decree, nor by fear, but by showing them who she truly was. Not a weapon. Not a threat. A leader worthy of love and trust.

And Saul saw it. He saw it in the laughter of the elders as she lingered at their tables. In the wide-eyed wonder of children clinging to her hands. They did not fear her. They adored her.

And he was beginning to understand why.

*

Their final stop that morning, before returning to the residence, was an antique shop tucked neatly between two bookshops on a quiet cobbled street. From the outside it looked deceptively small, but once inside, Saul discovered it stretched far back, each room unfolding into another like a labyrinth of timeworn curiosities.

After performing his routine sweep of the main floor for security purposes, he gave a slight nod to the queen, who had already engaged the shopkeeper in animated conversation. Satisfied the area was safe, he drifted towards a dimly lit corner filled with old armament artefacts—racks of ancient swords, knives, and daggers, many with elaborate hilts or jewel-encrusted pommels. Though antiques were not his particular interest, he could not help but appreciate the craftsmanship of the blades.

He was weighing one of the swords in his hands when a voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Found your pick?” the shopkeeper asked, appearing beside him with a warm smile.

Saul offered a polite shake of the head. “Just looking. They’re beautiful, but I’m not really a collector.”

The older man chuckled. “That’s what I said twenty years ago—when I bought my first piece. Look at me now.”

They shared a brief laugh before Saul glanced around, instinctively checking his surroundings.

“Where’s her majesty?” he asked, his tone kept neutral though an edge crept into his voice.

“In the attic,” the man said casually. “She wanted to look through the old maps up there.”

Saul froze.

The attic?

He had seen no access point. He had not checked it. He had not cleared it. How had he missed that?

Whatever the shopkeeper said next was lost on him—Saul was already moving, striding quickly in the direction he hoped led to a staircase.

He found it tucked behind a curtained archway and took the steps two at a time, ignoring the bemused glance of a staff rearranging the art aisle. His heart pounded—not with exertion but with the cold spike of anxiety that always came with the unknown.

At the top, the attic was dim, shafts of light spilling through high windows. Dust hung in the air, stirred by his arrival. And then he saw her.

She was standing by a shelf of worn scrolls and maps, thumbing through a heavy leather-bound book as though the world outside did not exist.

“What’s gotten into you, Silva?” she asked without looking up, her voice teasing as she caught sight of his flushed face. “Trying to give yourself a heart attack?”

“I… I didn’t know there was an attic,” he said, catching his breath.

“Well, now you do.” She turned a page, eyes still scanning the text with interest.

He watched her, forcing himself to calm. She looked effortlessly poised, even here, surrounded by dust and shadows. Today she wore a fitted navy pencil dress and polished heels—a sharp contrast to the practical attire she had favoured over the past few days. A few loose strands of hair softened the lines of her regal profile, catching the light like threads of gold.

He was just about to speak when a soft tapping sound drew their attention to the window.

Instinct overrode thought. In one swift movement, Saul stepped forward, pressing her gently but firmly back against the shelf, his body shielding hers.

She blinked at him in surprise. “It’s a pigeon, Silva,” she said, lips twitching into a smile. “We’re in an attic. Birds tapping at windows are not exactly a high-level security threat.”

He stilled, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must have looked. “I… I thought—”

“You were distracted,” she said, still smiling, amused but not unkind.

“No. Yes. I mean…” He trailed off, trying to gather himself—trying not to notice how close they were.

His hands rested on her hips. Her gaze was locked onto his. Her perfume—something soft, floral, with a hint of spice—wrapped around him, familiar now, maddeningly so. A strand of hair brushed his cheek, and without thinking, he reached up and tucked it behind her ear.

She tilted her head slightly into his touch. Her expression softened.

His fingers lingered on her cheek.

And then, almost without meaning to—almost without realising—he leaned in.

Their lips met in the gentlest of kisses. Barely a breath, just a brush of skin against skin, but it sent a shiver through him. The attic seemed to hold its breath, the silence thick with the weight of something unspoken and undeniable.

Then the pigeon tapped at the window again.

The moment shattered.

“We should go,” she said quietly, straightening and smoothing the front of her dress. Her voice was calm, but the faint pink flush on her cheeks betrayed her.

Saul stepped back, letting her pass, the warmth of her still lingering on his skin.

They descended the stairs in silence, the hum of the shop returning around them like static. He barely noticed it. Every step echoed with the memory of that kiss.

They did not speak in the car on the way back. But the silence between them was not empty—it pulsed with everything they were not saying. With everything that had changed.

*

Upon returning to the house, they went their separate ways. The queen retired quietly to her suite, while Saul threw himself into a round of unnecessary perimeter checks—something, anything, to keep his body moving and his mind distracted. The alternative was thinking about what had happened. What he had allowed to happen. What he had done.

By the time dinner came, he barely noticed it. He ate mechanically, exchanged few words with the staff, then retreated to his room and began pacing, already composing a resignation in his head. He needed a drink—desperately. Something to wipe clean the memory of that kiss: the feel of her lips, the warmth of her body, her perfume lingering on his skin. But drinking was the last thing he should do. He shouldn’t drink while on duty. And as her personal guard, he was always on duty.

The sun had long since set when a soft knock at his door snapped him out of his spiralling thoughts. He froze. Something tight and uncertain coiled in his chest as he crossed the room and opened it.

She stood there—barefoot, dressed in a flowing nightgown that caught the faint glow of the corridor light. Her hair was loose, her face bare of make-up, the simplicity lending her an almost ethereal appearance. For the first time since he had met her, she looked somehow… smaller. Fragile.

He stepped back instinctively, widening the door.

She entered without waiting for an invitation.

“Your majesty…” he began as he closed the door behind her, unsure what this was—what she wanted—but she cut him off.

“You didn’t wait for me,” she said simply.

“Didn’t wait?”

“In the library. Tonight.”

Of course. He had avoided the library like the plague. Avoided her. Avoided the very idea of being alone with her again.

“You said yourself there’s no danger here,” he replied, forcing himself into formality, clinging to it like armour.

She turned to him with a smirk and took a slow step forward. Then another.

“Are you sure there’s no danger here, Silva?” she asked, one brow lifting in quiet challenge.

She was so close now he was certain she could hear his heartbeat, hammering against his ribs like a warning bell.

“I… I’m not sure anymore,” he murmured, unable to look away as she leaned in and brushed her lips against his.

He didn’t move. He didn’t kiss her back—but he didn’t pull away either.

“This is dangerous,” he whispered, the words barely audible as she drew back slightly, her gaze searching his.

And then she kissed him again.

This time there was nothing tentative about it. Her hands pressed against his chest, her lips more insistent, her confidence slicing through his restraint like a blade. He responded before he could think—his mouth parting, giving in, his arms locking around her as he pulled her flush against him.

All his frustration, all the tension that had built up since the first moment he met her—he poured it into the kiss. Their bodies melded together, divided only by the thin satin of her nightgown and the cotton of his shirt. Her hands slid up his chest, to his neck, into his hair. His lips travelled from her mouth to the soft line of her throat. She gasped, tugging at the hem of his shirt, her fingers slipping beneath to touch bare skin.

And that—that—was what jolted him back to himself.

He broke the kiss abruptly, stumbling back as though the air between them had ignited.

“No. No. This… we can’t,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She stared at him, stunned. Her brows knit together, confusion darkening into something sharper. Then, as if ignoring him, she leaned forward again.

“You… you must leave. Go, please,” he managed, aiming for calm but sounding breathless, ashamed.

For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Then it happened—the shift. Surprise gave way to fury. Her eyes flashed with something wild and unguarded as her magic flared with her frustration, the air crackling faintly around her. Without another word, she spun on her heel, stormed to the door, and slammed it behind her with enough force to rattle the frame.

Saul stood frozen, the silence in her wake deafening.

Finally, he sat heavily on the edge of his bed, dragging a hand over his face, trying to steady his pulse.

Part of him almost wished she had slammed his head in the door instead.

Chapter Text

It had been another near-sleepless night for Saul. His mind refused to stop replaying every detail—from the electric brush of their lips in the antique shop to the fire that had ignited in his room only hours earlier. He cursed himself again and again for his lapse in judgement—for crossing a line he should never have approached. What had possessed him to act on something so reckless, so utterly incompatible with his duty?

It was him. He had kissed her first, in the shop. That truth seared more deeply than any shame. He had let his feelings—whatever this thing was—override years of discipline and instinct drilled into his bones. What excuse was there for such failure? He had never let desire interfere before; his duty had always stood above any pleasure, physical or otherwise. There had never been a woman he would choose over it.

And then, of course, there was the king.

What would Andreas do if he ever discovered that the man entrusted with his wife’s protection had kissed her—had let desire outweigh responsibility? The thought twisted in Saul’s gut. More than guilt, it was the fear of what it said about him. About the kind of man he was becoming. The kind of man who faltered.

The hours passed slowly as he lay staring at the ceiling, exhausted in body but wired in mind. Only when dawn crept over the horizon, did his weary body finally surrender to sleep—his thoughts still tangled with duty, guilt, and inexplicable longing.

When he woke, his first instinct was to look out the window.

He expected to see her—swimming in the lake, or perhaps strolling along the shore as she had the day before. Maybe seated on the terrace with a cup of tea, chatting idly with Ben. But the surface of the water was still, undisturbed. The wooden patio lay empty. A humid heaviness clung to the air, the sky above darkening with the threat of rain.

Dressing quickly, Saul passed the doors of the royal suite on his way downstairs. They remained closed. The house was quiet—eerily so. Perhaps she was sulking, he thought, and though he would never admit it, part of him felt relief. He wasn’t ready to face her yet. Not while the memory of her lips lingered so vividly.

In the kitchen, he downed a bitter cup of coffee and grabbed a peach before stepping outside. The calm of the lake offered some semblance of solace, though it did little to silence the storm raging in his mind. Around the estate, all was still. Only Ben could be seen, moving between the main house and the sprawling greenhouse that bordered the gardens.

By midday, there was still no sign of her.

He paced the house, checking each room with casual precision, as if on routine patrol—but always hoping, searching. Nothing. The worry that had been smouldering now flared into something sharper, something real.

Stepping out onto the patio just as the first raindrops began to fall, he froze at the sound of Ben’s voice.

“Saul, there you are—come and look at something?”

Saul wasn’t in the mood for a lecture on botany, but anything was better than the relentless churn of his own thoughts. He turned towards the greenhouse where Ben was waving him over.

“I need to show Farah as soon as she’s back,” Ben added casually.

Saul stopped dead. His stomach dropped.

“Back from where?” he asked, his voice edged with steel.

Ben looked up, blinking at his tone. “From her walk.”

“Walk?” Saul’s voice sharpened. “When did she leave?”

“Sunrise,” Ben replied, still unbothered.

“She’s been gone for over four hours?” Saul’s voice rose, the note of alarm unmistakable.

Ben nodded easily. “Yeah.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it?” Saul snapped, his words laced with panic.

“I thought you knew,” Ben answered, defensive now.

Saul didn’t bother replying. He turned on his heel, striding towards the narrow back gate that led into the forest trails.

“You at least know where she went?” he called over his shoulder.

Ben’s voice followed. “Don’t worry, Saul—she knows the trails better than anyone.”

“Sure she does,” Saul muttered, the rain now falling harder, soaking into his shirt. But worry had already taken hold, tight and unyielding in his chest, laced with anger—at her for wandering off so carelessly, and at himself, for letting everything unravel.

*

The rain grew heavier with every step Saul took, soaking through his clothes and seeping into his boots. First, he circled the estate grounds, searching the places she was most likely to go. When that yielded nothing, he headed for the trail they’d walked together days ago. The familiar path was now slick with mud, the downpour unrelenting, the chill sharpening the edge of his concern.

She’d left around sunrise—according to Ben—meaning she could be anywhere by now. Saul felt as if he were gambling on the only trail he knew. What if she was injured? What if she’d run into a wild animal—or worse, some stranger? What if she’d been caught off guard, not enough time to summon her magic? Each dreadful possibility clawed through his mind like wildfire.

The kiss was one thing—unprofessional, reckless—but this was worse. He had failed at the most fundamental duty he carried: to protect her.

By the time he reached the foot of the peak they’d once climbed together, his lungs burned and his patience frayed. He stopped, forcing himself to reassess. He should have pressed Ben for details, should have roused the staff for a coordinated search. Charging blindly into the forest helped no one.

It took him half an hour to slog back to the estate. The rain eased at last, though the weight in his chest did not. He pushed open the heavy doors, already preparing to raise the alarm.

He froze.

At the top of the staircase she stood—woollen socks, an oversized sand-coloured jumper, black leggings, a steaming mug of tea in her hands. Her damp hair framed her face, composed and serene. She met his gaze with cool detachment, chin lifting in what felt like deliberate defiance.

Her expression maddened him. She was perfectly fine, while he’d been tearing through the storm like a fool. Relief swelled in him, but so did a hot, simmering fury.

Without a word, she turned and walked down the corridor, her head held high, not sparing him a backward glance.

Saul remained by the open door, water pooling beneath him, his muscles aching, his pride bruised. He felt like a complete idiot.

In silence, he stripped out of his sodden clothes, took a blisteringly hot shower, and dressed quickly. The warmth soothed his body, but not the storm in his head. Was this some kind of punishment? A cruel game? Since the ball—since the mountains—she had seemed softer, warmer. But the look she had given him on the stairs was something else entirely. Cold. Smug.

And yet, even furious with her, he couldn’t stop remembering her lips, her skin, the way she had fit against him. This couldn’t go on.

He left his room before reason could stop him. At her suite he knocked once. Twice. A third time.

No answer.

He knew she was inside. She was ignoring him.

Enough.

He pushed the door open and strode inside.

She leapt from her bed, eyes flashing. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I came to ask you the same thing, your highness,” he snapped, sarcasm heavy in his tone.

Her face hardened. “How dare you, Silva?”

“I just want one thing clear,” he cut across, his voice rising. “My job is to protect you. And whatever that little excursion was this morning, it will never—”

“You’re really commanding me in my own—”

“I’m here to keep you safe! How hard is that to comprehend?”

Her voice sharpened to match his. “And how many times must I say it? I can take better care of myself than you ever—”

“I don’t care what you’re capable of. My duty is to—”

“Your duty is to obey your ruler,” she fired back, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. “And let me remind you, I am that ruler.”

“You’re driving me mad, woman!” he bellowed, fists clenched.

“You’re driving me mad!” she shot back, jabbing a finger into his chest.

That single touch — sharp, defiant — was a spark in dry tinder. Their fury tangled with something hotter, darker, impossible to smother.

In a heartbeat, he caught her hand where it burned against his chest. His other hand rose, cupping the back of her neck, pulling her towards him. She was already moving, already leaning in, the fight collapsing into something reckless.

Their lips collided — furious, hungry, desperate. The kiss was all teeth and fire at first, but softened only to ignite again, like neither could decide whether they wanted to punish or consume each other.

She fisted his shirt, dragging him closer until the fabric strained. He wrapped his arms around her waist, crushing her against him as though proximity alone could erase the chasm between them. Every line of her body pressed into his, every breath fanned the embers already raging inside him.

She broke away just long enough to tear at his shirt, pulling it over his head. His skin prickled under the sudden chill, under her gaze. He caught the edge of her jumper and tugged it upwards, baring her shoulders to his touch. Her skin was warm, soft, intoxicating.

For a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other — chests heaving, lips swollen, eyes wild. There was no rank between them now, no titles, no duty. Just two people locked in a storm they could no longer hold back.

Then she kissed him again — slower this time, deeper, a deliberate surrender and a provocation all at once. He answered with equal force, lifting her effortlessly as her legs wrapped around his waist. They staggered toward the bed, lips never parting.

Moments later they were tangled in one another, her rhythm guiding him, his hands steadying her hips as heat and urgency consumed them both. It was raw, reckless, desperate—yet in the silences between, when their eyes locked, something softer stirred. Something dangerous.

Her body trembled against him, cries spilling from her lips as pleasure overtook her. The sight and sound undid him, his own release tearing through with a guttural groan.

Breathless, they collapsed together. Limbs tangled. Hearts racing.

Silence stretched, broken only by the storm intensifying again outside. His hand traced her cheek, tender despite everything.

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” she whispered, eyes glossy. “I was furious—at you, at myself—”

He pressed a finger to her lips, shaking his head. “It’s all right, your maje….”

She met his gaze. “Farah,” she said softly.

“Farah,” he echoed, tasting her name.

For a moment they just looked at one another. No duty. No regrets. Just the fragile present.

Her fingers traced his chest; his hand slid along her jaw, her neck, her side. She giggled softly as he leaned in, her laughter turning into a whisper against his lips.

“Saul?”

The sound of his name was a thrill. “Yes?”

“Take me again.”

Part plea, part command.

He smirked, positioning himself above her, already teasing her centre with aching precision. “As you wish...”

Her reply was a moan swallowed by his kiss as he thrust deep inside her once more.

Chapter Text

He lay on his back, chest bare, skin warm and slick with the fading heat of her. His body was loose, spent, undone by her in ways he had never thought possible. His eyes remained closed—not in sleep but in surrender—savouring the quiet tingles still dancing over his torso as her fingers drifted across him, featherlight and unhurried.

There was tenderness in her touch, yes, but something else too—something more dangerous, more intoxicating. A claim.

She had drained him, consumed him, in the most maddeningly blissful way. The night before had been no different—they had barely slept before he slipped from her suite like a thief, careful not to wake her, more careful still not to be seen.

The following day had passed slowly, dreamlike. After a night of ceaseless rain, the skies cleared, bathing the grounds in a golden, forgiving light. She wandered the gardens alone, book in hand, or joined Ben in the greenhouse to marvel at the blooming of some rare flower Saul could not name but found himself staring at for far too long, as if it might reveal something to him. They hadn’t spoken much. But the glances they shared when no one was watching, the subtle brush of fingers in passing—those were enough. A memory. A promise. No guilt. No regret.

When she appeared at his door that evening—barefoot, hair unbound, a satin robe clinging to her frame—he hadn’t hesitated. He pulled her in with both hands. Into his arms. Into his mouth. Into his bed.

Now, as her fingertips traced a lazy path over his ribs, a small smile tugged at his lips. Breathless, almost boyish. His queen was unlike any woman he had known—ravenous and restrained in equal measure, fire in her veins and hurt in her bones. That night, she had taken him apart piece by piece, her hips rising and falling with fierce, deliberate purpose, her back arched like a goddess banishing her own demons. She had ridden him as though she were trying to drive out something buried deep within herself. And he had let her—gladly, helplessly.

When her moans had grown too loud, too dangerous, he had silenced them gently with his fingers against her lips—not from shame, but to shield her. To protect them both. And when she had collapsed beside him, breath ragged, limbs trembling, he had gathered her against him instinctively, as though his arms alone could keep her safe.

Now her energy stirred again. Her hand toyed at the skin above his hip, light, teasing, inviting.

In one swift, instinctive movement, he caught her wrist and rolled, pinning her beneath him. She squealed in surprise, then laughed—bright, unguarded, almost girlish.

But the laughter stilled when she saw the look in his eyes.

He hovered above her, the playful smile replaced by something deeper, heavier. Reverence. Concern. He lowered his head and kissed her softly—her lips, her jaw, the delicate curve of her hand—until he pressed his lips to her wrist. The pale skin where a scar might have been. A scar she had given herself.

His voice was low, raw. “Why?”

Her body stiffened. The joy of moments before drained away, replaced not by the polished mask she so often wore, but by something worse: defeat.

She inhaled slowly, her eyes turning towards the ceiling. He thought she would not answer—she didn’t owe him the truth. But after a moment she turned back, meeting his gaze. When she spoke, her voice was stripped of armour.

“It was foolish,” she said quietly. “I was angry. Frustrated. I wasn’t trying to… end things. Don’t worry about that.”

She rolled onto her side, away from him. He followed, watching the line of her back, the fragile curve of her shoulder. His fingers trailed over her lightly, waiting. Patient.

Her voice, when it came again, was barely a whisper. “My cousin, Luna. She announced at the ball that she’s expecting.”

Saul’s breath caught. Suddenly he understood everything. For more than a decade, the kingdom had waited. An heir. A promise of the future. Hope that had withered into doubt as year after year passed with nothing.

“It will come,” he began gently. “When the time is—”

“It will never come,” she cut in with a bitter laugh. Her eyes fixed on the side wall, flat and unblinking. “We’ve tried everything. Magic. Medicine. Hope. I cannot bear children.”

He hesitated. “Perhaps… perhaps the problem isn’t—”

“It’s me,” she said, not harshly, simply certain. “Andreas… he has a son.”

Saul blinked. “What?”

“Months ago, one of his… affairs bore fruit. A boy. Healthy. The mother died in childbirth.”

His voice sharpened. “Where is he now?”

She turned back to face him. “In an orphanage near the south-eastern border.”

Disbelief hardened Saul’s features. “He left him in an orphanage?”

“He would never bring him to court. He wouldn’t wound me like that.” Her eyes glassed with unshed tears.

“But he did,” Saul said bitterly.

Silence stretched, heavy. Then, daring, he asked: “Do you love him?”

She hesitated, then sighed. “I do… as much as you can love someone you were never free to choose. His family took me in, and stood behind me. I owe him more than I can say.”

“But gratitude isn’t love,” Saul murmured.

“We respect each other. We built something together. In the early years, we were in love, happy. But as the years have passed, and still no heir… we grew distant. He’s had other women. Discreetly. He guards our image. He doesn’t know that I know about them or about the boy. But that child is proof…” Her voice broke. “Proof that I failed my part of the deal… He was to provide the kingdom. I was to bring the magic. And I—” she swallowed hard—“I am the faulty part.”

Tears spilled, and Saul gathered her in his arms, pressing soft, reverent kisses against her cheeks, her temple, the corners of her mouth. He whispered comfort against her skin, not with words but with touch.

When her tears dried and silence stretched, his hand drifted to her stomach. His fingers brushed the rough scar just beside her navel. He had noticed it the night before. Now, with her confession, it seemed to speak differently.

His hand lingered. “Is that why you can’t…?”

“No one knows,” she whispered. “Doctors insist nothing’s wrong. But years pass and there is still nothing.”

“She did that?” His voice was tight, careful.

Farah gave a faint nod—she didn’t need him to say whom he meant. “When she told us about her plan, she expected obedience. But my parents refused—my father sent her away.” Her breath caught. “So she struck. Swift, merciless. One moment he was alive, defiant—and the next, he was on the floor, dead.”

Her voice thinned. “My mother screamed at me to run, but I couldn’t. I froze. My body wouldn’t move. It was like being trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. And then… she was gone too.”

Farah’s hand clenched at the sheet, her whole body trembling. “When I finally moved, Rosalind slammed me into the wall. She came slowly, leaned in, and said that she’d carve the Dragon Flame out of me—dead or alive.”

Her voice cracked, fingers brushing over the scar. “But she failed...”

Saul’s chest tightened painfully. He touched the scar again, reverently, as though it were holy. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Her gaze caught his, desperate, pleading. “That’s why I don’t want you—or anyone—shielding me. I can protect myself. I don’t want more blood on my hands. Do you understand?”

He nodded slowly. He understood, and yet he knew that if danger came, he would put himself before her without thought. And she knew it too.

Her voice dropped, almost broken. “Why can’t you?”

“Because my duty is to protect you. And because—” he faltered, then admitted softly, “I care.”

He leaned in, kissing her forehead with a tenderness that nearly undid him. She closed her eyes and rested against him, at last allowing herself to be still.

At that moment, she was not a queen. She was a woman who had lost too much. And Saul, just a man, who held her as long as she would let him.

*

“Good morning…” Saul’s voice came firm, touched with roughness, as he stepped onto the sunlit patio.

Ben was already seated at the long table, his plate half-finished, the steam of his tea curling upward in the cool air. He looked up with his usual brightness. “Good morning to you! Slept well?”

Saul moved to the sideboard, fingers curling around the coffee pot. He poured a dark stream into his cup, the clink of porcelain loud in the morning hush. “Yeah…” he muttered, swallowing the rest of what wanted to spill. “The queen—”

“She hasn’t woken yet,” Ben interrupted quickly. His cheer softened into concern. “Very unusual. She’s always the first to greet the dawn. I hope she’s not coming down with something.”

“Hopefully not,” Saul murmured, nodding once. But he knew better. He knew she had left his room only when the first pale line of dawn broke across the horizon. He knew she had slept little, if at all. His own body ached with fatigue from the last two nights, yet he would not—could not—grant himself rest while she lingered so close.

He sat beside Ben and reached for bread, tearing a piece with deliberate calm.

“How do you find the service at the palace?” Ben asked lightly, filling silence as was his habit.

Saul chewed slowly, forcing away the flicker of memory—of Farah’s hands, her whispered laughter, the fevered intensity of her touch, her moans of pleasure. He swallowed, disguising the weight of it with a faint smile. “So far, so good.”

Ben chuckled. “Farah can be… particular when it comes to security.”

“Tell me about it,” Saul muttered, more to himself than to Ben, though the earth fairy caught it and laughed softly.

“But aside from that,” Ben went on, “she’s easy to get along with, no?”

Saul nearly choked on his coffee. Heat flared across his neck and ears, but he kept his face still. He deflected with a question. “You’d know better than me. You studied together?”

Ben’s eyes warmed at the memory. “Yes. Same year at Alfea. To be frank, I think I survived because of her.”

Saul raised a brow, intrigued.

“Let’s just say,” Ben continued with a conspiratorial grin, “earth fairies don’t pair well with fire. She coached me through some exams, taught me tricks, saved my hide more times than I care to admit.”

Saul allowed the ghost of a smirk. “I see.”

“I wasn’t entirely useless,” Ben added with a laugh. “I taught her earth remedies, how to work with certain herbs—poultices, pain relief.”

Saul’s eyes sharpened. “Hale?”

The humour drained from Ben’s face. His jaw set as he gave a curt nod. “She put us through hell. Even then, as students. I never understood how Farah could admire her so deeply…” He broke off, the weight of silence settling between them.

Saul cleared his throat. “And how did you end up here, in Eraklyon?”

“We were close at Alfea, but life pulled us different ways after graduation. When I heard what happened with her parents and Rosalind, I reached out and we kept in touch. Two years ago, my research led me here. The former warden of this residence was just retiring, and Farah offered me the position. Not an offer you turn down.”

“It’s quite isolated here, don’t you miss your family?” Saul asked.

“I visit my parents once or twice a year when I’m in Solaria for work. Beyond them, there’s no one to miss. Truth be told, I’ve always preferred plants to women.” He grinned cheekily.

Saul allowed a quiet huff of laughter.

“And you?” Ben asked, tilting his head. “Your family?”

“My mother’s glad I’m back in Eraklyon. Beyond that, there’s no—”

“Good morning, dear!” Ben cut across brightly, his attention shifting.

Saul turned—and froze.

Farah stood in the doorway, framed by the soft light of the sun. She wore loose, kimono-style trousers and a pale blouse scattered with faded blossoms, her hair pinned in a haphazard knot with golden strands escaping to frame her face. Morning had softened her, lent her a gentleness that disarmed even as it enthralled.

“Good morning,” she said warmly, her smile brushing over them both.

Saul was on his feet in an instant, pulling out her chair with a small bow. She accepted with a faint incline of her head, settling gracefully at the head of the table.

“I was worried you might be unwell,” Ben said, studying her closely. “You’re usually up with the sun.”

“All is perfectly well, don’t fuss,” she replied lightly. “I simply found the sheets too comfortable to leave.”

The words were smooth, but when Ben glanced back down to his plate, Farah let her eyes linger on Saul. A spark of mischief glinted there, subtle but enough to unsettle his pulse.

“Glad to hear it,” Ben said cheerfully, oblivious. “We were just talking about Saul’s family.”

“Family?” Farah’s head turned sharply, her expression unreadable.

“Nothing,” Saul said quickly. “Apart from my mother, there’s no one else.”

Ben leaned in with a teasing grin. “Don’t tell me there are no women?”

“No,” Saul replied firmly. His eyes shifted toward Farah, softening for a heartbeat. “There’s only one in my life…” His tongue caught, the truth perilously near the surface. He forced the words away. “…My mother.”

Farah’s lips parted as though she’d been holding her breath. She lowered her gaze to her tea, fingers wrapping tightly around the cup.

“It’s unfortunate you’re leaving tomorrow,” Ben continued, oblivious to the current flowing between them. “I’ll miss eating out here. For some reason Mathias and the others always prefer eating indoors.”

“You know how dearly I cherish this place,” Farah replied, her tone even. Yet her eyes, steady and unyielding, rested on Saul. “If duty allows, I plan to return soon, very soon.”

Her smile belonged to Ben. But her gaze—deep, intent, unflinching—was Saul’s alone.

Chapter Text

The scent of her lingered in the still air between them—warm, floral, maddening. Saul leaned closer, helpless against the magnetic pull of her presence.

“You smell incredible,” he murmured, his voice low and roughened by longing. His lips grazed the curve of her neck, featherlight kisses brushing the hollow of her throat. “Is that a new perfume?”

A faint smile curved Farah’s lips as her fingers slipped into his hair, tugging just enough to make him shiver. She tilted her head, granting him access. “No,” she whispered, playful. “You’ve simply gone far too long without enjoying it.”

It wasn’t quite true. Only eight days had passed since he had last touched her, though the ache of absence had settled in him like months. He’d been away on mandatory training - eight long, restless days.

Since the beginning of their affair five months ago, they had become masters of stolen moments. A handful of clandestine returns to the mountain residence. The occasional diplomatic trip that ended behind locked doors. More than once they had found themselves tangled in her marble bathroom, steam curling around them, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist as they drowned themselves in forbidden fire.

Tonight was no different.

Her bare feet touched the cool tiles, the bathroom door left carelessly ajar—a silent invitation to danger. Saul’s lips wandered from her neck to her collarbone, his hands guiding her firmly against him. She kissed him back with hunger, her fingers sliding over the planes of his chest, tugging him closer until their bodies pressed together as though they might fuse into one. Reckless. Daring.

The king himself was only floors below, sipping whisky with the winners of the annual Eraklyon hunt.

Desire burned brighter than caution.

Saul’s hands cupped her arse as he lifted her onto the marble sink, holding her as though she were both sacred and necessary. She arched into him, fingers roaming his abdomen with maddening precision. He groaned softly, surrendering to her touch—until she suddenly went still.

Her head snapped towards the open doorway.

“What is it?” Saul whispered, every muscle tensing.

Her eyes flashed and widened, the blood draining from her face. “Andreas,” she breathed. “He’s… close.”

A cold jolt of dread pierced Saul’s chest.

In a flurry she slid from the sink, urgency thrumming in her every movement. He scanned for exits, calculations racing through his mind. She could cast an illusion, but the risk was too great. They stumbled into the adjoining bedroom, hearts hammering.

“He’s coming here,” she gasped, voice tight with panic.

Saul gripped her shoulders, grounding her with the steadiness he always had. “Trust me,” he said, calm even as his insides twisted. Then, just as the door creaked open, he moved swiftly towards the window, forcing composure back onto his face.

Andreas entered without knocking, confidence written in the ease of his stride. But his smirk faltered at the sight of Saul standing there.

“I can’t see anything out of place, my queen,” Saul said smoothly, his tone clipped and professional. “But if you prefer, I can organise a full sweep of the gardens and perimeter.”

Farah, ever the queen, recovered without a flicker of hesitation. “Andreas, darling,” she said, her voice laced with both urgency and grace. “I thought I sensed movement outside. But clearly, I was mistaken.”

Andreas’s brow arched with mild amusement. Suspicion melted into a roguish grin. “My fierce, brave fairy getting soft?” he teased as he strode over to her.

Farah’s stomach clenched as his arms wound around her. His lips brushed precisely the spot Saul’s had kissed only moments before. Saul stiffened, fists curling tight, fury and helplessness burning beneath his skin.

Farah dared a fleeting glance at him—an apology written raw in her eyes, helpless and pained.

“I’m probably just being paranoid,” she said lightly, attempting to ease from Andreas’s hold.

But he did not release her. His hands framed her face possessively as he smiled down at her, whisky on his breath. “Let Silva check the palace,” he said with casual dismissal. “While we attend to something more… pleasant.”

He kissed her softly, then with more hunger, lips trailing down her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. His murmurs, his sucking breaths filled the silence. Farah stood frozen, shame clawing at her chest. She could not meet Saul’s eyes now—not while Andreas touched her with such entitled ease.

Suddenly Andreas’s head snapped up, his gaze sharp. “What are you waiting for?” he barked at Saul.

Saul didn’t move. Rage and heartbreak tore through him, an urge to strike the king almost unbearable. But then—Farah looked at him. Her lips didn’t move, but her voice rang in his mind, desperate, pleading: Go, please!

And so he did. His steps felt hollow, mechanical. The door closed behind him with a soft click that landed like steel in his chest.

*

It took her two days to gather the courage to seek him alone.

She stood at his office door, steadied herself, then knocked—soft, deliberate. His reply was clipped: “Come in.”

Farah stepped into the familiar, paper-strewn room. The late afternoon light slanted across the desk, catching the edge of a stack of documents. “I came to align the itinerary for tomorrow’s foundation visit,” she said, letting the words land like business. The door closed behind her with a small, final click.

Saul rose from behind his laptop, all formal reserve—tied collar, measured tone, the machine-like politeness of a professional man at work. “Of course, your majesty,” he said, riffling through the papers as if to keep his hands busy.

She paused. The distance in the room felt vast. When he didn’t meet her eyes she stepped closer, lowering her voice until it was almost private. “I’m sorry, Saul,” she said. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He kept his gaze on the papers. “There’s nothing to apologise for,” he said, but his voice was tight; the pauses between the words gave the lie away. “I shouldn’t have been there.”

“You know what I mean.” Her voice softened further. She moved until the warmth of him was close enough to feel. On impulse she rested her cheek lightly against his shoulder. His body remained rigid, as if he didn’t dare lean into her, didn’t dare let himself ease.

Her gaze shifted to the desk—and froze on a single sheet. The chill that climbed her spine was immediate. “A resignation letter?” The words came out small, incredulous. “You cannot mean this. No. No.”

Saul turned then, finally meeting her eyes. He raised his hand—just one this time—and pressed a finger gently to her lips to silence her pleading. The touch lingered only a heartbeat before he drew back.

“I can’t do this anymore, Farah,” he said at last, voice breaking. “I just… can’t.”

Her throat bobbed. “We’ll be careful,” she whispered, words tumbling in earnest—too earnest. “It won’t happen again. I’ll plan more trips; we’ll go away, back to the mountains, far from the capital—no risk, no danger—”

He cut her off, raw and quick. “It’s not about that.” The line of his jaw tightened. “It’s something else. Something I can’t betray myself for.”

Her eyes filled. “Don’t leave me, Saul.”

He gave a shaky breath. “Even if I abandon every shred of dignity I still have; even if I accept I am a traitor, a man who betrayed everything he believed in—” His hand curled on the edge of the desk, knuckles white—“I can’t do this.”

“You’re not a traitor,” she said.

He stepped forward, all at once, the restraint gone. “I love you, Farah.” The words struck the room like a thrown stone. “For you, this may be physical—exciting, temporary—but for me it has never been that.”

She made no sound at first. The breath left her; her lips parted as if to reply, then closed. His confession hovered between them: naked, dangerous, true.

“I’m in love with you,” he finished, eyes bright with something fierce and hopeless. “And I cannot pretend it doesn’t tear me apart, knowing you’ll never be mine. Knowing the thought of you being mine is a treason. That he touches you…that I’m only someone in the shadows.”

For a moment she stood as if carved from stone; then her hands came up on their own, cupping his face with trembling fingers. “Please don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Not now. Not now of all times.”

He tried to turn away, to keep the professional facade intact. Instead one of her hands slipped from his cheek, guiding his palm down until it rested against the hollow of her abdomen. The gesture was deliberate, steady, intimate.

He frowned, confusion and alarm sparking all at once. His gaze dropped to where their hands met and went up again.

She nodded once, fragile but sure.

“That can’t be…” he breathed. “You’re—?”

She nodded again, this time with a small, shaky smile. Silent tears traced tracks down her cheeks. “Seven weeks,” she said softly.

Time stalled. Saul felt the world narrow to that number. The air thinned; the room tilted.

“And…I am…?” he asked, voice a bare thread.

“Yes,” she whispered, scarcely trusting the sound of the word. “It’s yours.”

The raw, complicated emotion that surged through him was almost too much to bear. “What if he finds out?” he managed, fear and possessiveness and protection braided tight in his tone.

“He won’t,” she said, firm now, placing her free hand over his heart as if anchoring them both. “Please. Don’t leave.”

He looked at her—at the woman whose crown weighed heavier than anyone saw; at the woman who had taken his life and rearranged it by mere presence, the woman he loved and who carried his child. His defences, brittle and brittle again, crumbled as if in a single gust of wind.

“Of course I won’t leave you,” he breathed, the vow finally settling like something whole and true. He pulled her into his arms, holding her with everything he had: protectively, fiercely, without pretense. She folded against him, cheek pressed to his shoulder again, her breath hitching. For a while there was nothing more to be said—only the quiet of two people clinging to an impossible future together.

Chapter Text

The nursery was quiet, bathed in the softened light of late morning. Beyond the tall windows, Eraklyon’s skies stretched wide and pale, clouds drifting with unhurried grace like thoughts unspoken. The faint scent of chamomile lingered in the air—sweet, calming, almost fragile.

Saul stood by the cradle, his broad frame bent slightly forward, eyes fixed on the tiny figure nestled within. Awe softened every hard line of his face. “You’re so small,” he whispered, his voice rough with wonder and something more vulnerable. “So impossibly tiny.”

He crouched lower, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket before gently tugging at one minuscule foot. The baby shifted but didn’t stir, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Saul exhaled slowly, as though even the sound of his breath might shatter her peace.

“That’s not true,” Farah said from behind him, her voice carrying both tiredness and quiet fondness. She moved across the thick carpet, her steps soundless, her presence filling the space with ease. “She’s grown so much already. Only five weeks, and she’s bigger every day.”

Saul’s mouth curved in a faint smile, though his eyes never left the child. Tentatively, he extended a finger. The baby startled—just slightly—but then her hand, impossibly small, closed around his finger with surprising strength. His breath caught, his eyes brightening with a glimmer that was part pride, part disbelief.

“And strong too,” he murmured. “She’ll be wielding a sword in no time.”

Farah gave an affectionate eye-roll, folding her arms across her chest. “She’s a fairy, Saul. She won’t need to wield a sword.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, low and warm. “True. I’ll protect her. Always.”

The words hung between them, fragile but unshakable. Farah felt her heart twist at the weight of his vow. It wasn’t loud, but it was absolute.

“Why don’t you hold her?” she suggested gently.

He glanced at her, hesitating. His eyes, usually so sure, flickered with uncertainty. Carefully, almost reverently, he leaned forward and lifted the baby from the cradle, cradling her against his chest like she was made of porcelain. 

It was only the third time he’d dared. Each time before had been short, tentative—his hands always a bit too still, as though afraid to feel too much, to build a bond he wasn’t allowed to have.

“She doesn’t like me,” he muttered under his breath, studying the baby’s scrunched little face, somewhere between pout and frown.

“She just needs time,” Farah reassured him softly. She stepped closer, adjusting the blanket in his arms, her fingers brushing lightly against his. “She needs to get used to you. That’s all.”

He cast her a sideways grin, humour tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Time to get used to me—that’s definitely from her mother.”

Farah snorted, rolling her eyes even as warmth crept to her cheeks. “Perhaps. But her eyes…” Her voice softened, gaze drifting back to Bloom’s face. “Those are entirely her father’s.”

The air shifted. Saul looked at her then, really looked, and for a moment the palace walls and the weight of all their secrets dissolved. There was only her, only him, and the child breathing between them.

She met his gaze, her chest tightening, and he leaned in until his forehead rested against hers. The contact was grounding, a tether to something real.

“We need to be careful,” he whispered, his breath brushing her lips.

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she lifted her chin and kissed him—slow, deliberate, lingering. Not a kiss of passion but of understanding, of sorrow, of promises they could never voice aloud. Her lips pressed to his as though she could imprint everything she felt into that fleeting moment.

She was exhausted. Her body still ached from labour, her emotions frayed and tender. Since Bloom’s birth, she had laughed and cried in equal measure, overwhelmed by the storm of love and joy—and the constant undertow of guilt and fear. Fear that Andreas, who had fallen head over heels for the baby the instant he first held her, would one day discover the truth.

The secret never slept. It waited with her in the still hours before dawn, curling around her heart like smoke, suffocating. Other times, like now, it slipped to the edges, quieted by Saul’s arms around her and the serene weight of Bloom’s small body.

She didn’t know how long this fragile peace could last. But deep down she knew—it would never be long enough.

*

Several weeks later, Saul stepped into the king’s private office at Andreas’ request. The heavy door clicked shut behind him with soft finality, and even before the echo faded, Saul felt it—something was wrong.

The room seemed altered. The curtains were half-drawn, muting daylight into dusky shafts that cut across the wooden floor. Shadows pooled thickly in the corners, stretching long and sharp. The air itself felt denser, pressing on his chest with unspoken tension.

Andreas sat behind his desk, his posture unnervingly rigid. He stared at the papers before him, unmoving, not even acknowledging Saul’s entrance. It was a stark contrast from the past weeks. Since his daughter’s birth, Andreas had radiated an almost unshakable happiness, striding the halls with laughter and pride, basking in a newfound role.

But now, all of that warmth was gone.

Saul stepped forward anyway, each bootfall echoing lightly against the stone floor until he came to stand before the desk. His voice, when it came, was steady, professional.

“What can I do for you, your majesty?”

Andreas didn’t answer. Instead, he flicked a sharp glance toward the servant standing discreetly in the corner. With a single curt gesture, he dismissed him. The servant bowed quickly and slipped out, the heavy door closing once more—sealing the silence around them like a tomb.

Only then did Andreas move. Slowly, deliberately, he rose from his chair and stepped out from behind the desk. He circled it like a predator assessing its prey, boots whispering against the polished oak floor. He stopped mere inches from Saul, eyes burning with something that was neither joy nor sorrow, but pure, simmering rage.

“I think you’ve done enough… haven’t you?”

His voice was low, sharp-edged, every syllable weighted with menace.

Saul’s instincts rang like alarm bells. Every nerve screamed danger, yet he held his ground. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral, rehearsed like armour.

The first blow came without warning.

Andreas’ fist smashed into Saul’s jaw, sending him staggering sideways into the desk. His hands shot out, bracing against the wood to keep himself upright. Pain exploded across his face, his vision flashing white, the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth. For all his years of training, his reflexes had betrayed him. Andreas—diplomat, politician, ruler—had struck with terrifying force.

“Beg my pardon for what, Silva?” Andreas snarled, his voice raw with fury. “For fucking my wife? The queen! In my own house? For daring to claim my daughter as though she was yours?”

The words cut deeper than the blows. Saul slowly straightened, jaw throbbing, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Guilt pinned him heavier than any strike. He had no defence.

Andreas’ eyes blazed hotter. “Did you think I wouldn’t see it? The way you look at her? The panic on your face the night she went into labour? The way you hold my daughter, like she belongs to you? Did you truly think I’d never notice, you bloody bastard?”

The second punch came harder, snapping Saul’s head back, rattling his teeth. Blood sprayed across the polished desk. Still, he didn’t raise a hand.

“How did it feel, huh?” Andreas spat, voice guttural with rage. “Did you enjoy fucking the royal cunt? I hope you savoured every second—because that’s the last you’ll ever have. Once I’m finished with you, you’ll pray you’d been born without a cock!”

His fists rained down, a brutal flurry driven by betrayal, by wounded pride, by feral fury. Saul absorbed it all. His body screamed to defend itself, but his arms stayed limp at his sides. Every blow was earned. Every bruise, every fracture—deserved. If Andreas killed him here, Saul would not resist.

But then—suddenly—the storm stopped.

Andreas froze, his fist halted mid-swing. His whole body locked as though chained by invisible bonds. His chest heaved, teeth bared in a snarl, but he could not move.

A different energy thrummed through the room—calm, cold, absolute. Both men turned their heads, eyes snapping toward the doors, where Farah stood.

Silent. Eyes glinting. A faint shimmer of magic lingered around her, betraying the storm of emotions beneath her carefully held composure. Her face was pale, lips parted, as if even the act of speaking cost her strength.

“Stop,” Farah said—low, trembling, but firm enough to command the room. “Please…”

Neither man had heard her enter. She must have arrived only moments ago. Her magic dimmed as she stepped forward, her gaze falling to Saul. The guilt etched across her features was as stark as the bruises already blossoming on his face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, so softly it was almost lost in the charged silence, as she moved towards her husband.

Andreas’ expression twisted, disbelief giving way to raw heartbreak. His voice cracked as he spoke. “How could you do this to me? My family gave you everything—a home, protection, a future—”

“I know,” Farah said gently, inching closer, every step tentative. “And I will always be grateful—”

“I gave you everything, Farah,” he cut across her, his voice breaking. “I stood behind you when my people would expel you. I defended you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, her tone cracking under the weight of truth. She reached towards him, though her hands faltered, hoping he might release his grip on Saul’s shirt.

Andreas turned his fury back to Saul, his eyes red-rimmed, a single tear cutting through the anger. “You lied in the worst way. You let me believe Bloom was a miracle. That she was mine—”

“She is your daughter,” Farah interrupted, her voice stronger now, though thick with emotion. “Bloom will always be your daughter, Andreas. A fairy child you longed for. A child you will love and raise. Her magic is strong, and her heart will be yours. She will never know another father but you. Blood doesn’t change that.”

She stepped between the two men, her body shielding Saul. Her hand lifted hesitantly, brushing Andreas’ cheek and drying his tear with a gesture that was soft, pleading, desperate.

For a moment, he didn’t pull away. His eyes closed briefly under her touch, then opened again—storm-tossed and unrelenting. Pain. Fury. Love. And something deeper, buried so far it was almost beyond reach.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and for the first time, it sounded as though the apology might break her.

Andreas exhaled shakily, each breath weighted. “She is my daughter. My heir.” The words rang like a vow, like a sentence passed.

His expression hardened, his voice dropping to something colder, final. “And no one will ever know.”

Farah nodded through tears. “No one will ever know,” she echoed, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

But even as she spoke, she sensed his intent shift. His jaw clenched, his movements deliberate. He turned away, crossing to the wall display beside his desk, where weapons gleamed in the dim light. His hand closed around the hilt of a ceremonial dagger.

“No,” Farah gasped, darting forward to place herself between him and Saul once more. Her body was small against his, but immovable.

Andreas’ eyes were no longer stormy—they were cold, resolved. His fury had calcified into purpose. “It must be done. You don’t expect me to let him walk free after what he’s done?”

“Please,” she begged, pressing her palms against his chest, trying to halt his advance. “Please don’t do this.”

“No one can know,” he repeated, voice taut, slipping into something almost feverish.

“Don’t do this, Andreas. Please.”

“This dies with him.”

Farah drew a shaky breath, her mind racing. Only one truth might stop him. The words tore from her lips before she could question them.

“Let him raise your son.”

The air shifted as though the world itself had stilled.

Andreas froze, the dagger suspended in his grip. His eyes widened in shock, disbelief crashing across his face. “You knew,” he breathed. His voice fractured into a whisper. “Of course you knew…” He stared at her, his fury faltering as the weight of his own secret bore down on him—his betrayal of her.

Farah’s voice was soft, urgent, insistent. “Let him give your son a family. A home. Things you could never give him. Let him raise your son… while you raise Bloom.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

At last, Andreas’ grip slackened. The dagger slipped from his hand. He set it on the desk with slow, deliberate care. His shoulders sagged beneath the crushing weight of betrayal, guilt, and loss.

He stepped back.

Then he turned to Saul, towering over him one last time, eyes burning with warning. “You have one hour to leave,” he said darkly. “A contact will find you with instructions. Make sure our paths never cross again.”

Finally, he looked back at Farah. His gaze held a tumult of pain, rage, love—and then, hollow emptiness. Without another word, he brushed past her and strode from the room.

The door closed with a heavy finality, leaving silence in his wake.

*

Silence.

A stillness, thick and unforgiving, settled in the wake of kings’ departure. What had been hidden was now laid bare, and there was no path to rewind, no spell to undo the damage done.

Farah stood frozen a moment longer, her breath caught between lungs and throat. Then, as if released from invisible binds, she moved—swiftly but carefully—crossing the room to where Saul was slumped against the desk, his chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm.

He was a ruin. His lip split, blood trailing down to his chin. A deep cut marred his brow, already swelling purple. One eye was puffing shut, his jaw darkening with bruises.

“Saul…” she whispered, her voice breaking as she reached for him. “I’m so sorry.”

Her hands trembled as they found his arms, his shoulders, as if steadying him might steady her. Grief summoned her magic unbidden—her eyes flared violet, her palms glowing with soft, healing light. She hovered them over his wounds, pouring warmth into broken skin, dulled nerves, battered bone.

He exhaled shakily, relief mingling with pain, his eyes fluttering but refusing to close.

Both her hands rose to his face then—one spilling light, the other tenderly brushing over his bloodied brow. Her thumb smeared crimson away, as if she could erase the truth of what had happened with touch alone.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered again, her voice fraying. “I don’t know how—how he found out—I didn’t sense anything, I swear…”

Her words cracked, breaking under the weight of guilt. Tears welled, blurring her vision. The glow from her fingers faltered, flickering in time with her unsteady breath.

“What are we going to…” Her voice failed, the question trailing into air like a broken prayer.

But Saul, bruised and battered, lifted a hand—so carefully it ached. His fingers brushed against her lips, silencing her. Featherlight. Final.

“Farah…” he murmured, his voice rough with pain but steady, certain. “It’s over, love.”

The words landed like a spell—binding, merciless. Her eyes widened, disbelief flooding them, even as the truth sank deep.

“But I—” Her protest shattered into sobs. Tears fell freely, streaking down her cheeks, catching in the glow of her fading magic. “But…” It wasn’t even a word, just a plea. A child’s cry. A last reach for a future already slipping away.

She knew. In the hollow stretching between them—where love burned reckless—she knew. There was no plan to mend this. No turning back. No spell strong enough to bind what had broken.

So she stayed silent.

She let her magic do the only thing it still could—quietly knit torn skin, soothe fractured ribs, numb the worst of the ache. A final attempt to protect him. One last gift.

When the light at her hands faded, her eyes dimmed back to hazel. He forced a smile for her. It barely held—his face too swollen to manage more than a ghost of what he intended—but he gave it anyway.

Something better to remember. Not the blood. Not the betrayal. Just him.

He leaned in, lips brushing hers. Gentle. Reverent. A kiss without urgency, as delicate as their first. A goodbye, soft as snowfall.

When he drew back, he lingered. His gaze devoured her, as if desperate to memorise every line of her face—the sweep of her lashes, the curve of her cheek, the mouth he would never claim again.

And in his eyes she saw it reflected: their love, vast and forbidden; their grief, sharp as glass; the knowledge that this, too, was already becoming memory.

“Kiss Bloom for me…,” he whispered. Barely audible. Steady.

That was all.

He held her one final time. Then, with infinite gentleness, he released her and turned towards the doors. He did not look back. He knew that if he did—if he saw her face one last time—he would not be able to walk away.

And so, without another word, he was gone.

Chapter Text

Present – Road between Durham and Alfea, Solaria

The hum of tyres against tarmac was steady, almost soothing. Forest flanked both sides of the narrow road, a green corridor that offered a kind of refuge. The sun was high, its light fractured into fleeting patterns as it filtered through branches and flickered across the windscreen of Alfea’s car.

Inside, Bloom fiddled absently with the radio dial, skipping past static and half-tuned stations. A beat caught, bright and familiar. Her lips parted in delight.

“Oh! This one’s my favourite. Do you mind?” she asked, turning quickly to Sky.

“This one’s fine. Leave it,” he said with an easy smile, eyes on the road. One hand rested lightly on the wheel, the other drumming along to the rhythm. He mumbled a few words of the chorus, off-key but content.

For a moment, Bloom joined in shyly, her voice barely above a whisper. But after a few notes, the song faded into background noise between them.

“I can’t believe we actually took the school car…” she murmured, cheeks flushing pink as she fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve.

Sky shrugged, his tone casual though his grin betrayed a flicker of unease. “No one’s going to notice. Last time I was assigned to patrol, the car we were meant to use wasn’t even there. Honestly, these things get swapped around more than the students do. We’ll be back before anyone realises.”

He shot her a quick sideways glance, teasing. “And if—hypothetically—someone does find out… didn’t you say your mum’s reasonable?”

Bloom gave a half-laugh, half-groan. “She’s reasonable when it comes to shoving me into official ceremonies and pretending I enjoy them. But I’m not sure she’d be so calm about breaking rules and skipping lessons.” She turned towards him, smiling despite herself. “She’d definitely kill me.”

“What about your dad?”

“Oh, he’d be mad,” he admitted before realising the mix-up, chuckling at himself. “Rules and principles—those were sacred to him. I’d get the full routine: a scolding, a lecture, and that look. You know the one—quietly disappointed, somehow worse than yelling. Like from any dad I guess.”

Bloom’s smile lingered only a moment before it slipped. She turned back to the window, watching the trees blur past.

“Not from mine,” she said softly. The brightness in her tone dimmed, her voice carrying something far more fragile. “Yes, he’d tell me I shouldn’t have done it, but… he’d let me off easy. He never really got angry with me, not properly.”

Her fingers toyed absently with the edge of her seatbelt. The brightness that usually lived in her expression dimmed, replaced by something fragile—something old. The silence between them deepened, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It just was.

The past crept in uninvited, painting her gaze with that faraway look Sky had learned to recognise—the one that meant she was somewhere else entirely.

And then, softly, the memory began to play.

She was nine again.

Tucked into the vast cocoon of a four-poster bed, its canopy breathed softly with every draft that slipped through the cracks of the palace walls. The air was cool, but the covers were thick and heavy, smelling faintly of lavender. Moonlight spilled in through the tall windows, painting silver pools across the floor and tracing delicate patterns over the quilt pulled snug around her.

“Where’s mum? Is she very angry with me?” Bloom’s small voice trembled in the half-dark, thin with guilt and worry.

Andreas sat carefully on the edge of her bed, his broad frame dipping the mattress beneath him. His presence—solid, warm—filled the room with something far gentler than the silence that had lingered before. He tucked the blanket beneath her chin and smoothed it with slow, steady hands.

“She’s with the professor,” he said warmly, his tone a quiet balm. “Making sure she’s alright… and probably telling her your room is on the opposite side of the palace.” He chuckled at his own joke, then brushed a strand of fiery hair from her forehead, his touch tender and familiar.

“I didn’t mean to set her on fire… I promise,” Bloom whispered. Her eyes glistened, shame burning hotter than any flame she could conjure.

“I know, firefly.” He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You’d never do it on purpose. You just need to listen carefully when your mum talks about tempering that flame of yours.”

Her little hands twisted in the covers, knotting them between her fingers. She nodded solemnly, lower lip quivering.
“You were talking and talking and… and her skirt looked like lava! Like in that story Uncle Ben told me—about the wild mountains of Eraklyon, remember?”

Her voice lifted, bright with sudden excitement at the memory before faltering again. “I didn’t want…”

“Shh, it’s alright.” Andreas gathered her up, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. She melted into his arms, head resting against his chest as he rocked her gently. His voice dropped to a low murmur—steady, grounding. “No one was hurt. Your mother stepped in quickly, the professor is fine, and you—” he kissed the crown of her head “—you’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

Bloom’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, the soft cotton damp beneath her lashes. His heartbeat thudded beneath her ear, strong and certain—the one rhythm that had always silenced fear.

“Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?” she mumbled, half-buried against him.

His smile was quiet, touched with something tender—and something sad. “Of course I will, my little gorgeous.”

“And will you read me a story?”

“Only if there are no fire elements involved.” He gave her a mock-serious look, brows furrowed in pretend warning.

Bloom giggled, the sound bubbling up bright and unrestrained. It filled the room, chasing away the heaviness of guilt and smoke and magic gone wrong.

And so they curled back beneath the blankets together, father and daughter. Andreas opened a worn storybook, the parchment pages crinkling as he turned them. His deep voice filled the room in gentle cadences, threading the words into something softer than the night.

The memory faded like the last note of a lullaby, lingering just long enough to ache.

Sky risked another glance at her, his profile lit in fragments by sunlight breaking through the canopy of trees. He caught the shift in her expression—the distant glaze in her eyes, the way her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her seatbelt.

“You miss him a lot?” His voice was softer now, careful, as though the question itself might bruise.

Bloom’s eyes shimmered faintly, caught between light and shadow. “Yeah… Can’t believe it’s already been three years.” She blinked hard, forcing the lump in her throat to ease. “He wouldn’t be thrilled about this trip, but… he’d forgive me in a heartbeat. He always did.” A small, wistful smile tugged at her lips. “One magic trick, and he’d be laughing again. He loved seeing me grow stronger.”

Sky smiled gently but didn’t interrupt. The car filled with the sound of the wind rushing past and the low, rhythmic hum of the tyres.

After a moment, Bloom turned to him. “Would your dad forgive you if you told him this was for a date?”

Sky hesitated, his hands tightening briefly on the wheel before he exhaled through a short laugh. “No. Definitely not.”

Bloom snorted, grinning. “Does he even know you have a girlfriend?”

A crooked smile ghosted across his face. “I told him there was someone. Sort of. Last time I visited, he caught me glued to my phone and guessed. Last night, when we spoke, he asked if I was still seeing that ‘mysterious someone’.” His grin widened, faint mischief in it. “But I didn’t tell him it was you.”

Bloom raised an eyebrow. “You think he’d mind you dating a princess?”

“I don’t know,” Sky admitted, his tone dipping thoughtful. “He’s never been a big fan of monarchy, to be honest. Whenever there’s a royal announcement on Solaria One, he changes the channel. When I told him the princess of Solaria was in my year, he couldn’t have cared less.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “When I was a kid, I loved the Eraklyon military parades. I thought they were the coolest thing in the world. He’d switch them off every single time. Said they didn’t have anything in common with the real army, that it’s just a theatre.”

“I feel him,” Bloom said, rolling her eyes playfully. “I hated those too. Fell asleep once—standing up—mid-knighting ceremony.” She grinned, the mischief returning for a moment. “Since my father died, mum doesn’t make me go. Says there’s no need for both of us to suffer.”

Sky chuckled, though the sound softened quickly, his smile dipping into something quieter. “Actually… the only time I remember him watching royal news was the day they announced your father’s accident. He just froze. Stared at the screen like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Burned the whole pot of stew.” He shook his head, eyes distant on the road. “We ended up ordering pizza instead.”

Bloom’s smile faltered, touched by grief that never seemed to fade entirely. The air in the car thickened—silent but full, as if both of them were holding their breath for different reasons.

Sky glanced at her again, then back at the road. “And your mum… she wouldn’t mind that I’m not royal? Does she know about us?”

Bloom leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, her reflection a faint ghost in the blur of passing trees. “I haven’t told her yet. I was planning to during the break. She’s very busy, and since I started at Alfea we barely see each other. But she’s always said I can be with whoever I want. Just because an arranged marriage worked for her and my dad doesn’t mean she’d ever impose that on me.”

Sky’s lips curved into a smirk. “She sounds cool. I bet Stella wishes your mum would adopt her.”

Bloom burst into laughter. “Whoa, hold on! I’m not sure I’m ready for Stella as a stepsister!”

Their laughter filled the car, bright and unrestrained, bouncing off the dashboard and spilling out through the open windows. For a fleeting moment, they were just two teenagers—young, free, in love, the world unfurling before them like the endless road.

But the moment shattered.

Something darted across the road ahead—too fast, too sudden.

“Shit—!”

“Sky!” Bloom’s voice cracked, sharp with alarm, as his hands jerked the wheel.

Tyres screamed. The world tilted.

A violent jolt—metal against motion, a sickening thud that stole the breath from the air.

And then—

Silence.

Chapter Text

The golden hue of the setting sun filtered through the tall windows of the Queen’s office, spilling amber light across the wooden floor and the polished curve of her desk. Shadows stretched long and thin, pooling beneath shelves lined with years of treaties, maps, read and unread correspondence. 

Papers lay scattered across the surface of the massive desk—reports, decrees, letters demanding her attention—but Farah straightened at the sound of approaching footsteps and the voice that followed.

“Ben! I thought you weren’t due until next week!” she exclaimed, her tone bright though fatigue clung to its edges. She stood, smoothing the folds of her tailored black trousers and tugged in shirt as her friend entered. His presence brought with it a familiar steadiness she hadn’t realised she’d missed.

“That was the plan,” he replied, striding toward her with long, confident steps. “But what sort of godfather would I be if I didn’t check on my goddaughter after a car accident?”

Farah didn’t hesitate. She stepped around the desk and embraced him tightly.

“She’s all right,” she murmured quickly, relief and frustration tangled in her voice. “More luck than brain, that girl.”

Ben chuckled as they drew apart, his expression warm but knowing. “I’ve just been with her,” he said. “She’s been doing a fair bit of thinking.”

“Glad to hear it,” Farah said, though the strain beneath her composure was unmistakable. “She scared the life out of me.”

She gestured toward the sitting area by the window, where a silver tea service waited—a small ritual she never abandoned, no matter how chaotic the day. She poured two cups with measured grace, but her hands trembled ever so slightly.

Ben settled into one of the velvet armchairs, watching her carefully. “She knows she frightened you,” he said gently. “She understands.”

Farah passed him a cup before sitting opposite. “I hope she truly does,” she whispered. “When they told me she’d had an accident, that she’d been taken to hospital…” Her voice caught, the words trailing into silence. “It all came back. Andreas… the blood….”

Ben didn’t interrupt. He set his tea aside, offering her calming words.

“She’s fine, Farah,” he said quietly. “Bruised, but alive. Safe.”

She nodded, blinking rapidly as she brought her teacup to her lips. “Yes… I know.” She managed a small, grateful smile at him.

The pause that followed was gentle but taut, filled with unspoken things. Ben finally leaned back and changed tack, his tone casual—though his eyes were sharp.

“Apparently,” he began, “she’s also in love.”

Farah snorted softly, though the sound lacked humour. “And let me guess—she’s asked you to speak to me, to change my mind? I told her already, and I’ll tell you the same: she is not to continue seeing that boy.” Her voice hardened. “He’s reckless. He could have killed her.”

Ben tilted his head, unconvinced. “Farah, we both know Bloom doesn’t exactly let herself be led. That trip wasn’t only his idea—it was both of them.”

Farah put her tea aside and stood abruptly, pacing toward the window. The fading sunlight framed her in gold, the silhouette of a queen carved from glass and strength.

“That’s the problem, Ben! What was she thinking? What if something had happened to her?” Her hands clenched at her sides. “She is Eraklyon’s sole heir. The realm cannot afford another loss.”

Ben rose slowly, holding up his palms in a peacekeeping gesture. “She knows, Farah. Believe me, she understands that now. But she’s still a child.”

“She’s sixteen,” Farah snapped.

“A sixteen-year-old who’s already carrying the weight of a crown,” he countered gently. “That girl bears more than most people do in a lifetime.”

Farah’s shoulders faltered; her voice broke, almost imperceptibly. “I know… I just—” She stopped, inhaling shakily. “I can’t go through that again. My parents… and losing Andreas was… I barely held this realm together.”

Ben stepped closer, his voice soft but firm. “I know. And Bloom knows it too. She’s not careless, Farah. She’s just… in love. It’s new, overwhelming. But she’ll remember.”

“Oh, she will,” Farah murmured, straightening once more, reclaiming her composure like armour. Her tone cooled to something regal. “And I will make sure this never happens again.”

Ben sighed, long and weary. He had expected this. “I doubt the measures you’re planning will prevent it.”

“I simply don’t want her seeing him anymore,” she said flatly. “He could have killed her. Am I supposed to encourage that? Accept that one day she might not come home?”

Ben shook his head. “From what I was told, a deer crossed the road—it could have happened to anyone. And it was the boy who took the blow. He swerved the car in a way that Bloom walked away almost unharmed. That’s not recklessness, Farah. That’s instinct. That’s care.”

Farah scoffed lightly. “I don’t think dumb luck qualifies him as noble or dependable. He encouraged her to skip classes, to disobey. What kind of boy does that?”

They both knew she was exaggerating now.

Ben’s voice dropped, quiet but steady. “I think you’re not judging him for what he’s done—but for who he is.”

Farah’s head turned sharply. Her eyes widened—then stilled. Silence fell between them, heavy with recognition.

Ben hesitated before speaking again, his voice low. “Bloom told me she barely got to introduce herself to Mr Silva before you rushed her out of the hospital. She’s worried she made a bad impression.”

Farah said nothing, but her stillness changed. It wasn’t resistance anymore—it was acknowledgement. Ben had never confronted her directly, but he’d known the truth for years. He’d watched Saul Silva step into her life, seen the quiet closeness between them, their regular visits to the mountains, he witnessed the miracle birth of a royal heir after so many years of waiting—and then, Saul’s sudden disappearance shortly after Bloom’s birth. Moreover, he was also Farah’s confidant, comforting her when she learnt about Andreas’ illegitimate child. The pieces had fit too neatly for him not to see the whole picture.

“I just wish,” he said softly, “that you were punishing your daughter for her mistakes… not yours.”

Farah turned her head slowly. For a heartbeat, her expression was icy, the full authority of her crown behind her. But then the frost cracked.

“I could have your head for that,” she said coolly—though the flicker of humour in her tone betrayed her.

“We both know my head’s more useful where it is,” Ben replied dryly.

That drew the faintest smile from her.

“I never thought I’d see him again,” she murmured, sinking back into her seat. “Andreas made sure of it. He sealed every record that tied Saul to the palace. Erased his service, altered the archives so no one could ever trace him. What were the odds that Bloom and that boy would meet?”

Ben sat beside her, resting a steady hand on her shoulder.

“She can never know, Ben,” Farah said quietly, almost pleading now. “It would destroy her. She adored Andreas—and if she ever found out…” Her voice broke. “What if they questioned her legitimacy? The right to her crown?”

Ben shook his head firmly. “No one will question it, Farah. Andreas adored that girl beyond measure, and the people adore her too. She is their future queen. Nothing changes that. But forbidding her from seeing that boy—it won’t protect her from the truth, not if it ever comes out.”

Farah rubbed at her temples, the lines of exhaustion etched deep. “You’re probably right,” she murmured at last.

Silence lingered, long and fragile.

“I miss him,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Especially in moments like this.”

“I know,” Ben said, squeezing her hand. “I know.”

And as the last of the sunlight died against the horizon, Farah allowed her thoughts to drift, if only for a moment, to the memory of a night long ago...

It had been eight months after Saul’s departure from her life.

The palace corridors were hushed at this hour, bathed in low golden light. Farah moved softly, heels clicking against the marble. Her long robe whispered around her ankles as she stepped into the family wing. As soon as she opened the door to Bloom’s playroom, the gentle amber glow from the corner lamp caught her eye.

It was still on.

Odd. She had assumed her daughter was asleep in her bed by now. Curious, Farah stepped carefully into the room. The soft hush of silence wrapped around her, save for the gentle clicking of the clock on the wall and—

A snore. Soft, deep, unmistakable. A smile tugged at her lips.

She moved closer, and as she rounded the corner of the plush reading chair nestled beneath the tall window, the sight met her fully.

There they were.

Andreas, the king of Eraklyon, proud, stoic, - sat slumped in the chair, sound asleep. Curled atop his chest, nestled in the crook of one strong arm, lay Bloom. His daughter, his heir, his miracle.

With every breath he took, her tiny form rose and fell, her little hand curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt. Andreas’ free hand held an open picture book, the pages slightly bent where they’d drooped under the weight of his slumber.

If his snoring had made her smile, the sight of them like this—entwined, peaceful, utterly trusting—nearly undid her.

Nine months ago, everything had changed. Bloom had arrived—a gift they had believed impossible. An heir. A fairy child. A symbol of hope for a realm. The princess who ensures the magic stays in Eraklyon.

Farah had always known Andreas would be dutiful. Honourable father. But she had not expected such unyielding tenderness, nor the way he had so easily accepted the child as his own, after he learned the truth.

She would never forget the fury in his eyes when she’d walked into his office and found him striking Saul, fists clenched in betrayal. She had feared the rage would turn cold, would fester and poison everything. That Andreas would come to see Bloom not as a daughter, but as a living reminder of a lie, betrayal. 

But he hadn’t. Not once.

It was as if he had decided—chosen—to ignore the bloodlines. To see Bloom as his, utterly and irrevocably.

Despite everything that had broken between them—silent meals, separate bedrooms, the absence of touch—he had remained constant. Loyal. Respectful. A husband in name, but a partner, a protector. A father.

And for that, she loved him.

Not the same way as at the beginning of their marriage. It was a quieter kind of love—warmed by gratitude, shaped by shared burdens. But it still was some kind of love..

She let herself stand in the soft light, watching them a moment longer. A part of her wanted to let them stay like this forever, safe in this moment of peace.

But Andreas was stiff in that chair, he needed proper rest.

With great care, she leaned down and gently slid her arms beneath the sleeping child, lifting her from Andreas’ chest. He stirred instantly, his body tensing as instinct kicked in.

“It’s alright,” she murmured. “I’m just putting her to bed. And you should go to yours, you can’t sleep like this.”

He relaxed, nodding faintly, his eyes already slipping shut again. She carried Bloom into the adjoining nursery and settled her beneath the soft quilt. A kiss to her forehead, a quiet whisper of goodnight.

When she returned, she expected him to be gone—either retreating to his own chambers or vanishing into the halls as he often did on these long, quiet nights.

But he wasn’t.

He stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, watching her. His gaze was unreadable, but it held something soft—something waiting.

She opened her mouth to say goodnight, but he moved before she could speak.

Reaching for her hand, he brought it to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles. The gesture was gentle. Reverent.

“She’s perfect, Farah,” he said, voice low and rough with emotion. “She couldn’t be more perfect.”

Her throat tightened.

“Thank you,” he continued, his grip firming slightly. “For giving me such an incredible treasure.”

A rush of guilt surged in her chest. The heaviness of it nearly made her step back. And before she could stop herself, she whispered, “I’m sorry…”

But he shook his head, silencing her with a look.

“Don’t,” he said firmly. “I have what I wanted. An heir. A fairy. The first fairy child in the Eraklyon royal family in generations.”

Tears stung behind her eyes, blurring his face.

And then he said the words she hadn’t expected.

“And I want my wife back, too.”

She stared at him, confused.

Then his hands found her face—rough palms cupping her gently, reverently. He leaned forward, brushing his lips against hers. Soft. Tentative. Testing.

It had been so long.

Since that day, he hadn’t touched her like this. Not once. Not beyond the staged photo taken two months after Bloom’s birth, when duty had demanded a smiling family portrait for the realm.

This kiss was different.

It held no expectation—only possibility.

When he pulled back, he studied her expression. Searching. Waiting.

Did she want this, did she want him?

“I want you,” he murmured, his voice like gravel, vibrating through her.

She didn’t speak.

Instead, she answered the only way that mattered—by leaning in again, her lips meeting his with new intention.

That was all he needed.

His arms wrapped around her, drawing her close as if afraid she’d vanish again. He led her gently back through the adjoining door, into what used to be their shared bedchamber.

Touch gave way to need. Need gave way to longing. Months of silence unravelled in breathless gasps and whispered names.

By the time he was inside her, it was no longer about the past—it was about the promise of something new. Something rebuilt.

“You’re mine,” he breathed into her neck, his voice cracked with need, with love, with ownership that wasn’t cruel, but desperate.

And as she clung to him—breathless, trembling, full—Farah knew, with aching certainty, that he was right.

Chapter Text

A soft knock at the door pulled Bloom from her book.

She was sprawled across her bed, legs tangled in the blanket, trying and failing to focus on the same paragraph she’d been staring at for ten minutes. A familiar wave of nervous anticipation swept through her chest.

She didn’t need to ask who it was.

Shifting into a cross-legged position, she looked up just as her mother’s head appeared in the gap between door and frame.

“May I?” Farah asked gently.

Bloom gave a small nod — though they both knew permission was only a courtesy. Her mother was queen. She could do anything she wished.

But as Farah stepped inside, the crown slipped from her shoulders. She kicked off her heels near the carpet’s edge, the soft thud strangely humanising, then reached up to remove the discreet silver pin holding back her caramel hair. Silky waves fell around her shoulders — effortless, elegant, infuriatingly perfect.

Bloom had always envied that hair. She’d tried everything from curling charms to sleep braids to get hers to behave — anything to counter the stubborn red that hung flat. But Farah called it a gift. A reminder of the Dragon Flame. A part of her Domino ancestry.

A gift Bloom still struggled to control.

Unlike her mother, who commanded multiple elements with effortless control, Bloom’s magic burned brightest with fire—and with it came a volatility that demanded constant discipline. They had learned that lesson the hard way when she was only four, furious at being denied ice cream before dinner, and had promptly set the vendor’s entire cart ablaze. Her governess had thrown a blanket over the poor man before he could catch fire, but the story had followed Bloom for years.

“Studying to make up for missed school?” Farah asked, a hint of irony threading her voice.

Bloom rolled her eyes, bracing for the argument she’d heard too many times over the last few days. But before she could speak, Farah raised both hands in a small gesture of peace.

“I didn’t come to fight.” A pause. “Ben just left.”

Bloom’s heart tripped. She tried — and utterly failed — to school the hope in her expression. Her godfather always tried to mediate. He was the one grown-up who understood that Bloom was more than a princess in a gilded cage.

Farah crossed the room slowly, lowered herself to the bed, and mirrored her daughter’s posture. Bloom waited, tense, as though awaiting a sentence.

"I’ve always told you," Farah began, drawing in a slow breath, "that you should be with someone who loves you—not your title, not your power." She paused, and her voice softened. "But it’s also about safety, Bloom. You need someone who will protect you, not risk your life… someone who understands that your responsibilities go beyond yourself—to your people, to the crown."

Bloom lowered her eyes. "I know. And I’m sorry, mum…"

Instead of another lecture and argument they had many times over past days, Farah surprised her by leaning forward and pulling her into a tight embrace.

Bloom froze—then melted.

“I was terrified, firefly,” Farah whispered into her hair, voice trembling. “I couldn’t lose you… not like your father.”

Bloom’s fingers clutched the soft fabric of her mother’s blouse, grounding herself. “I know, mum. I’m sorry. I understand.”

And she did. Safe had a very specific meaning in their family.

The day her father died was draped in the kind of heavy, low-hanging clouds so common over Eraklyon—a sky the colour of tarnished steel, promising rain but delivering only a damp, bone-deep chill.

It was the morning of the annual royal hunt, a centuries-old tradition steeped in pomp and ceremony. Her mother had always detested it—calling it, in private, a pointless spectacle of killing in the name of entertainment—but she respected the weight of tradition enough to attend. The hunters rode out at first light, those who did not hunt remained in a sprawling wooden chalet at the forest’s edge, warmed by firelight and heavy with the scent of spiced tea and burning cedar.

That morning had been no different. Bloom, thirteen and restless, had been hunched over a board game with a few other children, though her ears were half-tuned to her mother’s conversation nearby. Farah was speaking with the wife of a senior minister—an air fairy from one of Eraklyon’s smaller communities. Bloom could hear the lilting cadence of her mother’s voice, the subtle precision in her choice of words, every phrase a polite blade. She was making her distaste for the hunt perfectly clear without ever saying it outright, and Bloom—on the brink of understanding adult subtleties—found it fascinating. It was the first time she realised language could be as sharp as any sword.

Then the door burst open.

A man stumbled inside, his voice cracking like a whip through the warm air.
"Doctors, call the doctors! What a tragedy! Disaster!"

The room froze.

Bloom’s head snapped to her mother. Farah’s face had drained of colour in an instant; without a word, she was already moving, hear leather boots rushing the wooden floor as she ran for the door.

Bloom followed, shoving through the sudden wall of bodies in the doorway until the cold air slapped her cheeks. She stopped dead.

Outside, the forest clearing felt wrong—too still, too quiet, the hunt’s pageantry replaced by a heavy, suffocating dread.

A circle of men stood around a figure lying motionless on the ground. Her mother knelt beside him, palms hovering above his chest as magic radiated from her in blinding golden waves. Light so bright it hurt to look at. Light desperate to save.

“No, no… Andreas, please…” Farah’s voice cracked on his name, splintering something deep inside Bloom.

Bloom didn’t know how long she stood there, numb, or how long her mother kept repeating those words. The world narrowed to that single point—her father’s still form, the desperate light of her mother’s magic, and the echo of that pleading voice.

Then another man knelt beside Andreas, his expression grim as he reached out, resting a hand gently on Farah’s shoulder. The gesture was small, but final.

Farah’s light faltered. Her hands dropped onto Andreas’s chest as she leaned to him. She made no sound, just a sniff but her silent grief was deafening. It rippled through the crowd like a shockwave. And in that moment, Bloom understood—her father was gone.

She moved forward slowly, emerging from the wall of onlookers. Emotions she had no name for swirled inside her—raw grief, hollow disbelief, and something else, something burning. Heat flushed under her skin, prickling at her arms, crawling into her fingertips as if the fire in her veins was ready to explode.

Almost in a whisper, she said, "Mum?"

Farah’s head lifted. Her eyes — red-rimmed, wild, breaking — met Bloom’s. She rose, wiping her blood-streaked hands on her pale grey trousers without seeming to notice, and crossed the distance between them.

She gathered Bloom into a crushing embrace. Magic flowed from her like warm sunlight, wrapping her daughter in an unspoken promise of safety even as her own heart was breaking.

"I’m so sorry, Bloom," she murmured, her voice shaking. "So, so sorry."

And then Bloom began to cry—at first in ragged gasps, then in great, heaving sobs she could not stop. She cried until her throat hurt, until the forest blurred and the world was nothing but her mother’s arms and the hollow space her father had left behind.

When Farah eventually drew away, Bloom searched her mother’s face, trying to decipher the swirl of emotions there. Then, gathering a thread of courage, she asked quietly:

“So… do you think I can keep seeing Sky?”

Farah tilted her head, her expression unreadable — the neutral mask of a queen.

“Do you have his photo?”

The question caught Bloom completely off-guard. She blinked once, twice, then reached for her phone on the nightstand. After scrolling a few swipes, she handed it over.

Farah took the phone — and on the very first glance, something in her breath hitched. 

"You don’t like him?" Bloom asked cautiously.

Farah’s lips curved faintly. "On the contrary. He’s… very handsome." 

Bloom’s face lit up. "He is… he looks a bit like father when he was young, don’t you think?" She reached for a framed photograph beside her bed—a candid moment from an official family photoshoot. Her mother rested her cheek against fathers’s shoulder in it, both of them mid-laughter, their foreheads nearly touching. His arm was wrapped snugly around her waist, while his other hand gave eleven-year-old Bloom a playful thumbs-up as she conjured tiny flames that blurred in the shot — disastrous lighting control but excellent enthusiasm.

It was Bloom’s favourite photo of them, which was why it had pride of place on her nightstand.

She cradled it in her hands, still smiling—unaware of the storm brewing behind Farah’s composed facade. After a moment a sudden spark of curiosity lit her expression.

“How did you fall in love with dad?”

Farah blinked, visibly startled. Of all questions, that was one she hadn’t braced herself for. Her mouth opened, but no answer immediately came.

Bloom leaned closer, eyes bright with earnest curiosity.
“I know you two were betrothed as children, but when did you realise you loved him? Your engagement? The wedding? What was it like?”

Her voice was eager, breathless — a heart seeking reassurance that love ran the same course for everyone.

Farah exhaled, shoulders sinking a little, but a smile followed.

“Well, it certainly wasn’t when he pulled my braids at my twelfth birthday celebration.”

Bloom burst into laughter — the bright sound loosening something inside Farah.

“It’s difficult to choose the exact moment. When we grew up, your father was charming, kind. Always.” Her gaze drifted, glassy with old pain. “After my parents died… he became my anchor. He steadied me, made me feel safe… and less alone.”

Then her expression softened into the glow of memory.

Their wedding had been cloaked in mourning, the joy subdued beneath the heavy veil of her parents’ absence. That night, Andreas had asked nothing of her. He had simply held her, kissing her tears away as she finally let herself weep after a day of keeping her facade intact before the court. She had been a happy bride, future queen in public; with him she was only a grieving daughter. A year later, their coronation had come. 

She was standing before a great mirror, dressed in Eraklyon robe for the first time. The fabric was heavy, alien against her skin, her hair bound in an unfamiliar updo designed to bear the crown. The chamber was lit with lights and she was playing with candle flames shivering as she made them rise and fall with her mind, clinging to the small distraction.

Then the door eased open.

Andreas stepped in — tall, composed, resplendent in ceremonial uniform, perfect. For a heartbeat he simply stared…

“You look stunning,” he breathed. “Burgundy was always beautiful on you, but these colours…” His smile softened her fears. “They’re perfect.”

He crossed the room, taking her hands into his. “Are you ready?”

“I… I don’t know.” The confession spilled out before she could restrain it. His brow furrowed, and she rushed on. “They still fear me, Andreas. I can feel it. What if they hate me? What if I fail them? What if I’m not enough?”

“Farah,” he said firmly, grounding her with a single word. “You have already proven yourself. The people will see it. And you won’t face any of this alone. I’m with you — always.”

He kissed her fingers, reverent and sure. “You are the best queen they could ever wish for.”

Her breath steadied, her heart slowing into something calmer. She nodded, managing a tentative smile.

“So,” he repeated, the mischievous glint she remembered from childhood in his eyes, “are you ready?”

This time she smiled with more conviction. “Yes.”

“Then let’s go.” He turned as if to lead the way, but she stopped him.

“Andreas?”

He glanced back. “Yes?”

“I love you,” she said, the words soft but certain, her lips curving into a true smile.

His face lit with quiet joy. “I love you too.” He bent to kiss her. They had spoken those words before, since their wedding, but now—on the threshold of becoming rulers—they felt different. Truer.

She broke the kiss before it deepened too far, laughing softly. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” he grinned, and they went out together to meet their people to take over their kingdom.

“Coronation,” Farah echoed, a soft breath behind the word. “I realised I loved your father on the day of our coronation.” Her voice gentled, wrapped in memory. “He believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. That’s when I knew.”

Bloom smiled — dreamy, hopeful — her heart blooming with the warmth of it.

“And what about you?” Farah asked, her tone turning light again. “How did you fall for Sky?”

Bloom’s cheeks flushed instantly. She sat up straighter, caught between embarrassment and delight.

“I liked him since we were paired in training. But once — after I lost control of my magic and freaked out — he came to find me, to cheer me up and… just stayed. We talked for hours.” She hugged a pillow to her chest. “With him, I feel like I don’t need to pretend anything. And when I finally kissed him, it just… felt right. Like it had always been meant.”

She fell back onto the bed with a hopelessly besotted sigh.

“He’s the love of my life,” she murmured, voice barely above a breath. “Just like dad was yours…”

Farah swallowed hard, but she quickly smoothed it away beneath a wry smile.

“I’ll remind you of that in a few years.”

“Muuum,” Bloom groaned, swatting her shoulder. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I am happy for you,” Farah assured, sincerity soft beneath her teasing. “Just… don’t let your grades fall because of a handsome boy.”

Bloom opened her mouth to argue — but Farah struck first, tickling her sides with wicked precision.

“Mum—!” Bloom shrieked, dissolving into laughter as she tried to squirm away.

Farah laughed with her, the sound rich and rare.

And for a heartbeat — a precious, delicate heartbeat — the world was simple. There was no court. No crown. Just a mother and daughter, tangled in giggles and love.

Chapter Text

The young assistant reappeared from the adjoining office, her clipboard held neatly against her dress and her expression arranged into a practised, professional smile.

“Headmistress and Headmaster are awaiting you, Mr Silva,” she announced, her voice light with the polite deference expected within Alfea’s majestic halls.

Saul nodded once, offering a stiff attempt at a smile in return. His hand briefly brushed the front of his jacket, smoothing fabric as though that small act could steady the storm inside him. He drew a breath, deep and quiet, before stepping forward. His boots clicked sharply on the stone floor, each step carrying the weight of everything he had rehearsed to say.

He had met the Headmistress only once before—at the opening ceremony, when Sky had first arrived at Alfea. Since then, all correspondence had gone through the Headmaster who oversaw the Specialists’ programme. Not that there had ever been much reason for contact. Sky’s record had been flawless. His instructors had spoken only in praise. 

Until last Thursday.

Three moments from that day were carved too deeply to ever fade.

The first was the hospital call. Those words - accident…surgery - had sliced through him like a blade. Sky might not have been his by blood, but that had never mattered. The boy was his son. The drive to the hospital blurred into a feverish rush of dread, each minute stretching unbearably long.

The second came when he arrived and saw her. The woman he had never expected to face again. The woman whose image he had avoided for years—skipping over news bulletins, closing magazines, turning away from conversations about politics and royals. Yet there she was, standing in his son’s hospital room. Queen Farah of Eraklyon.

And the third, the cruelest of all, had come after the immediate panic had eased. Sitting by Sky’s side, reassured that the boy is fine, Saul had been struck by the truth creeping in like a cold tide: Sky was dating the princess of Eraklyon. Of all the girls in the Otherworld… his son in name was in love with his daughter in blood.

That was why he was here now. Not for Sky’s recklessness, nor the shattered car, but because of the truth. The one truth that could never be revealed.

“Mr Silva!”

The headmistress’s voice pulled him back to the present. She and the man beside her rose from their seats as he entered.

“Headmistress. Headmaster,” he greeted, formal and composed.

Then he saw her.

Another figure sat before the desk, her back straight, posture poised and still. Even without seeing her face, he knew. He would have recognised the elegant curve of her neck, the delicate arrangement of her hair, the quiet authority that surrounded her like a living thing. His steps faltered.

She turned, and the air seemed to vanish.

“Your Majesty,” he said quietly, bowing his head. His voice was hoarse, unsteady in a way that betrayed him.

“Mr Silva.” Farah inclined her head in return, her tone calm but edged with something sharp beneath the surface. For a heartbeat, their eyes met. The air thickened—weighted with memory, the ghost of something that once had been—until the Headmistress' careful voice broke the tension.

“Headmaster and I felt it best to address the situation together—before any hasty decisions are made.”

Farah did not look away. “The Headmistress has informed me you intend to withdraw your son from Alfea.”

“I see no other option after what he’s done and—” Saul began, his voice steady but forced, his gaze flicking to the educators rather than the queen whose presence seemed to draw all air from the room.

“She has also told me,” Farah cut in smoothly, “that he is an exemplary student. With no previous record of misconduct.”

“That is correct, Your Majesty,” the Headmaster confirmed quickly. “Sky Silva is gifted—among the most promising specialists of his year. We had intended to recommend him for Eraklyon’s academy next year.”

Saul’s jaw tightened. “With respect, Headmaster—if he truly cared about the academy, he wouldn’t have lied. He wouldn’t have stolen a car. The academy stands for discipline, integrity—not recklessness. And certainly not endangering the heir to the throne.”

The words came out harsher than he intended, tasting of bitterness and hypocrisy.

Farah’s voice met his like a blade meeting its match—sharp, cold, precise. “With respect, Mr Silva, my daughter is that heir. And if anyone must set an example of honour and restraint, it is her. I expect her to be punished—but fairly.”

Her eyes held his, unwavering. A thousand unspoken thoughts flickered there, none of which could ever be said aloud.

Silence filled the room, heavy and taut, before the Headmistress delicately cleared her throat.

“And that is precisely why we wished to consult you both before any decisions are made,” she said smoothly. “We’ve prepared a disciplinary plan—additional assignments, extra training, and assistance with the library refurbishment. It’s demanding but constructive. A consequence that enforces accountability without endangering their futures.”

*

When the meeting finally concluded and the door closed behind them, Saul and Farah moved side by side through the assistant’s office and into the corridor beyond. Neither spoke at first. Only their footsteps broke the silence, echoing softly beneath the vaulted ceilings. Along the walls, portraits of long-dead fairies and scholars watched over them—eyes painted in knowing patience, as though silently judging the living who passed below. The air carried the chill of old stone and the faint, dry scent of parchment and ink.

“I apologise for intruding on your discussion with the headteachers,” Farah said at last. Her tone was courteous and measured—too formal for what they once were.

“There is nothing to apologise for,” Saul replied in kind. “I’m grateful for your… generous approach regarding my son, Your Majesty.”

“It would be a considerable loss for Eraklyon’s academy to forfeit such promise,” she returned, her chin lifting slightly, the queenly poise slipping back into place as easily as a crown.

A group of students turned a corner and immediately bowed. Farah acknowledged them with a brief nod, and they hurried on, whispering softly once they thought they were out of earshot.

“He would be flattered by your words,” Saul said stiffly—his posture rigid, every line of him caught between duty and discomfort.

“I hope he’s well,” Farah asked, and for the first time there was something unguarded in her voice—a quiet thread of genuine concern.

“A few weeks of recovery still lie ahead,” Saul replied, softening a fraction. “But the doctors are confident he’ll regain full use of his arm. He should be able to resume training before the mid-term break.”

“That is good to hear,” she murmured, relief colouring her tone, fleeting but sincere.

“He was lucky,” Saul added, as though the words could ward off memory. “But I’ve made sure he understands the seriousness of his actions—and the importance of the princess’s safety. I—”

“Thank you, Mr Silva,” she interrupted gently. “I have also reminded my daughter what safety truly means.” Her words carried that familiar pride he remembered—tempered now by a quiet weariness, a shadow of loss. She slowed at the bottom of the majestic staircase, light from the tall windows spilling across her shoulders like pale gold.

“Of course,” Saul said softly. He hesitated, then lowered his voice further. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, Your Majesty. It was a great loss to Eraklyon… but I cannot imagine what it must have been for you—or for your daughter.”

The silence that followed was fragile, holding more than words could bear. Then the grand doors ahead opened, a gust of cool air breaking the moment. They stepped out into the courtyard.

Sunlight glittered on the gravel, bright against the polished black SUV waiting near the gates. The guards straightened instantly as they approached.

Farah paused before the car, turning slightly towards him. Her eyes were softer now, the mask of royalty thinning just enough for something warmer to show through. “Thank you for your kind words,” she said quietly. “Andreas was… an extraordinary father. And I’m glad Sky has such a father in you, Mr Silva.”

A faint smile touched her lips—light, fleeting. He returned it with a nod, his voice low. “Thank you.”

Her bodyguard stepped forward to open the door, and the fragile moment broke.

“It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr Silva. I wish you well,” she said, the formality returning like a curtain being drawn. Without waiting for a reply, she stepped gracefully into the car.

The door closed with a solid thud, sealing the silence between them.

Saul stood for a moment, watching as the vehicle rolled away, tyres crunching softly over the gravel. He exhaled slowly, hands curling briefly into fists at his sides—wishing he had found different words. Better words. Feeling a sudden ache in his chest, so familiar he was wondering why - why did he care? So much time had passed. He had moved on. Life had moved on. Hadn’t it?

Inside the car, Farah leaned back against the cool leather seat, her gaze lingering on Alfea’s towers as they receded into the distance. The forest soon swallowed the road, and only then did she let her composure slip.

She felt hollow. The exchange with Saul replayed in her mind—polite, deliberate, stripped of anything true. Surrounded by teachers, students, guards… there had been no space for honesty. No risk. No room for familiarity.

She had spoken the truth. Andreas had been an extraordinary father—a man who would have given her daughter the stars themselves if only it made her smile. At times, Farah had even feared he might spoil Bloom beyond saving.

What she had not said—what she could not say to Saul—was that Andreas had been more than a devoted father. He had been her partner, the man she had learned to love again. The man she got a second chance with — a chance she owed, in part, to Saul himself.

Outside, the countryside blurred past—rolling green hills giving way to forest and fleeting glimpses of quiet villages. Farah closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the road carry her thoughts to the man who had once stood beside her, steady and strong, making the weight of the crown feel lighter.

She was just reaching for the door of Bloom’s room when it opened from within. Andreas stood there, broad-shouldered in the soft light of the corridor, one finger pressed to his lips.

“She’s just fallen asleep,” he whispered, easing the door shut with the quiet reverence of a man closing a sacred space.

Farah hesitated, hand lingering on the handle as though she might still peek inside. Andreas caught the flicker of worry in her eyes, and without a word he took her hand, tugging gently towards their own chambers only a few paces down the hall.

“She’s fine, Farah. Leave her to her dreams.”

She allowed herself to be led, nodding, though her heart still clung to the thought of her daughter.

Inside their bedroom, warm lamplight pooled across velvet drapes and the wide bed, casting soft glows on the carved furniture. Farah went immediately to her vanity, sliding off rings, unhooking earrings, unclasping the heavy necklace that pressed at her collarbones. Behind her, Andreas shrugged off his jacket, tugging at his cufflinks with the easy grace of long practice.

“How is the professor?” he asked.

“Fine,” Farah replied, carefully placing each jewel back in its case. “Shaken, of course. But unharmed. I offered to have my tailor make her a new dress—she refused, politely, but I insisted.”

She paused, her fingers lingering on a brooch before continuing. “She still wishes to put herself forward for the Head of the academy next year, if the board approves…”

Andreas appeared beside her then, dropping his cufflinks into his box with a soft clink. He met her eyes in the mirror, his smile lopsided and knowing.

“The first woman to lead the Eraklyon Institute,” he said. “If anyone can convince the board, it’s you.” His smirk widened as he leaned in, brushing her hair aside so he could unclasp the necklace for her, his lips grazing the curve of her neck as he did.

Farah met his eyes in the reflection, her own lips curling with reluctant amusement. “Thank you.” Then, more softly, with a sudden weight in her voice: “And thank you for settling Bloom. It was all my fault…”

Andreas raised a brow. “Your fault? I saw the flames myself—from our little dragon’s hands. She told me the professor’s dress looked like lava, just like in the stories Ben told her. We should be blaming him, not you.”

A smile tugged at Farah’s lips despite herself, recalling Bloom’s endless retelling of those stories. Yet worry crept back, as it always did.

“She’s nine. She should have better control by now. I need to train with her more, make sure—”

“Farah.” Andreas’s voice cut gently across hers. He rested his hands on her shoulders, grounding her. “Don’t be so hard—on her, or on yourself. You grew up in Solaria, surrounded by fairies, by magic. She has only you here, her governess, Ben from time to time and then there is me encouraging her to set fire to half of the palace.” His grin flashed boyish and deliberately foolish, enough to make her laugh. Then his tone softened. “You’ve said it yourself. The fire in her is potent. She’ll learn to master it, in time.”

Farah sighed, leaning back into his touch. His willingness to listen, to understand, always steadied her. “You’re right. I only want her to control it for herself—not as anyone’s weapon.”

At that, Andreas wrapped his arms around her from behind, holding her tight. His reflection in the mirror was solemn now. “There is no Rosalind anymore. We won’t allow anyone to use her. Bloom will choose her own path.”

Farah smiled faintly at his words, at the certainty in his voice, and whispered, “You’re an amazing father.”

His grin returned, cocky and warm. “I know.” His gaze flicked lower in the mirror, mischief sparking. His hands had already found the folds of her gown, tugging them upward.

She arched a brow at him, half-exasperated, half-curious.

“And I intend,” he murmured against her neck, “to remain an amazing husband too… and lover.”

His lips moved lower, trailing fire across her throat. One hand slid beneath the fabric, fingertips tracing her thigh, seeking. Her breath caught, a quiet sound that drew his smile wider before he captured her lips with his own.

He spun her and sat her on the vanity table and kissed her deeply before moving down until his mouth could worship her centre, undoing her with each slow lick, deliberate movement until her fingers tangled hard in his hair, and she broke with a cry muffled against her wrist. 

Andreas lingered a moment, savouring her trembling legs and fast breathing, before standing, his expression smug and tender in equal measure. “Better?” he teased.

Her laugh was shaky, her smile dazed, but her answer was yes enough. She pulled him to her, tasting herself on his lips as she tugged at his shirt, eager and unashamed. In moments his shirt was gone, his trousers loose, and then he was inside her—urgent, desperate, but still achingly attuned to her.

When the gown tangled between them he swore, lifting her easily from the table, turning her against the vanity, driving into her until he found release too.

Afterwards, breathless and flushed, he pressed his forehead to her back, still hidden with the fabric of her semi dishevelled robe, his grin sheepish. “I think I may have torn your dress.”

Farah laughed, cheeks pink, eyes still sparkling. “Then I’ll be calling my tailor as well.”

He chuckled, kissing her shoulder. “Shall I help you out of it?”

“You’re hoping for a second round,” she teased.

“I was thinking of a shower.” His grin turned boyish, familiar. “But the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

He was smug, more than a lot, but still in his smugness, she loved him for that and many things.