The princess’s love

The ghost of the north wing

The North Wing of Aethelgard Palace was where the shadows went to die. It was a labyrinth of drafty corridors, moth-eaten tapestries depicting battles no one remembered, and the heavy, suffocating scent of beeswax and neglect. For Princess Elara, it was the only world she truly knew. While the rest of the palace shimmered with the heat of a thousand chandeliers and the hum of a kingdom in motion, her world was measured in the slow creep of sunlight across her bedroom floor and the ticking of a grandfather clock that hadn't been wound since she was twelve.

Elara stood before the tall, arched window of her sitting room, her breath fogging the glass. At twenty-one, her beauty had become a source of quiet terror for the royal household. She possessed the high, regal cheekbones of the Aethelgard line, but the rest of her was a haunting echo of her mother, Queen Isadora. She had the same thick, moon-white hair that tumbled down her back like a silk waterfall, and eyes the color of a winter storm—a deep, bruised violet that seemed to hold too many secrets for a girl who was never allowed to speak.

Below her, the Great Courtyard was a hive of activity. It was the eve of the Summer Solstice, the most important social event of the year. Servants in the royal livery of navy and gold scurried about, laying down crimson carpets and hauling crates of vintage champagne. From this distance, she could see her older sister, Princess Beatrice, standing on the dais, gesturing imperiously at a floral arrangement. Beatrice was the "Golden Child," the one who would likely marry a foreign king and secure the dynasty. Elara, meanwhile, was the "Stain."

A sharp, rhythmic clicking sound echoed down the hallway. Elara didn't need to turn around to know what it was. It was the sound of the Steward, Lord Varick, a man who treated her with the same detached clinicality one might afford a mold growing on a palace wall.

The door creaked open. "You are standing by the window again, Highness," Varick said, his voice as dry as parchment. "How many times must I remind you? The paparazzi have long-range lenses. If they catch a glimpse of that face, the tabloids will spend a week comparing you to the woman who disgraced this crown. Is that what you want? To humiliate your father further?"

Elara didn't move. She kept her eyes on the courtyard. "My father hasn't looked at my face in fifteen years, Varick. I doubt a grainy photo in The Daily Scribe will change his schedule."

"Do not be precocious," Varick snapped. He stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the space for any sign of rebellion. "The King has issued a new directive. Given the recent unrest in the border provinces, security is being tightened. You are no longer permitted to walk the gardens alone after dusk. In fact, you are no longer permitted to be unattended at all."

Elara finally turned, her violet eyes flashing. "Unattended? I haven't had a conversation with anyone other than you and the kitchen maid in months. Who exactly am I supposed to be 'attended' by? Another locked door?"

"By me," a new voice intervened.

The voice was a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate the very floorboards. Elara’s breath hitched as a man stepped out from behind the Steward. He was tall—impossibly so—and built with the lean, lethal grace of a predator. He wore the midnight-blue uniform of the Royal Elite Guard, but unlike the ceremonial guards who stood like statues at the palace gates, this man looked like he had seen the dark side of the moon. A jagged scar cut through his left eyebrow, and his eyes were a piercing, obsidian black.

"Captain Silas Vane," Varick introduced him with a sneer. "He is the new Head of your personal security detail. Though, 'detail' is a generous word. He is your shadow, Elara. He will be outside your door at night and two paces behind you during the day."

Elara felt a wave of indignation wash over her. It wasn't protection; it was a leash. "I don’t need a guard. I’m a ghost, remember? No one wants to kidnap the daughter of a banished Queen. There’s no ransom for a girl the King wishes didn't exist."

Captain Silas Vane took a step forward. He didn't bow. He didn't offer the customary royal salute. He simply looked at her—not through her, like everyone else did, but at her. His gaze was intense, tracing the line of her jaw and the defiant tilt of her chin.

"My orders aren't to protect your reputation, Highness," Silas said, his voice like gravel over silk. "My orders are to ensure you remain within the palace walls until the Council decides what to do with you. There are whispers of a marriage alliance with the Southern Isles. You are being prepared for a purpose."

"A purpose?" Elara laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "You mean I'm being cleaned up for auction. Tell me, Captain, does the King know you look at his 'merchandise' with such little respect?"

Varick gasped, but Silas didn't flinch. Instead, a ghost of a smirk touched the corner of his mouth. "I respect results, Princess. And right now, the result I’m looking for is you staying in this room while I conduct a sweep of your quarters."

"A sweep? For what?"

"Contraband," Silas replied. He began to move through her room with terrifying efficiency. He checked the underside of her vanity, the hollows of her bedposts, and finally, he stopped at the heavy mahogany bookshelf.

Elara’s heart stopped. Behind the third row of books—the boring treatises on 18th-century law—was a loose stone. Behind that stone was her life. Her ink, her parchment, and the drafts of her articles written under the pseudonym 'The Nightshade.' If those were found, she wouldn't just be unloved; she would be a traitor.

Silas’s hand moved toward the third shelf. His fingers lingered on a leather-bound volume of The History of Aethelgard.

"Captain, surely that isn't necessary," Elara said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. She moved toward him, reaching out to grab his arm, but she tripped on the hem of her outdated dress.

She braced for the impact of the floor, but it never came. Instead, she felt a pair of strong, gloved hands catch her by the waist. The contact was electric. For a girl who hadn't been touched with anything but cold indifference for a decade, the warmth of his body was overwhelming. He held her firmly, his chest a solid wall against her shoulder.

For a long moment, the room was silent. Elara looked up, her face inches from his. She could see the faint stubble on his jaw and the scent of rain and cold steel that clung to him. His eyes searched hers, and for a fleeting second, the cold professionalism dropped. He looked... surprised.

"You're trembling," he whispered, so low Varick couldn't hear.

"It’s a drafty wing," she lied, her pulse hammering in her throat.

Silas slowly set her back on her feet, but he didn't move away. He turned back to the bookshelf, his hand hovering over the very spot where her secrets lay hidden. He looked at the books, then back at her pale, panicked face.

He reached out and pulled a book from the shelf. Not the one covering the stone, but the one next to it.

"This one," Silas said, turning the book over in his hands. It was a collection of poetry. "Is this yours?"

"It belonged to my mother," Elara whispered.

Silas nodded slowly. He slid the book back into place, but as he did, his finger tapped the loose stone—just once. A silent signal. He knew.

"The room is clear, Steward," Silas announced, turning away. "I’ll take my post in the hallway now."

Varick nodded, satisfied. "See that you do. And Princess? Try to look less like a victim. It’s unsightly."

The two men exited, the heavy door thudding shut. Elara collapsed against the bookshelf, her legs shaking. He knew. The Captain knew she was hiding something, and for some reason, he hadn't turned her in.

But her relief was short-lived. She hurried to the window to close the latch, but as she reached for the handle, she noticed something she had missed before.

Tucked into the crevice of the windowsill was a small, black envelope. It wasn't palace stationery. It was marked with a seal she hadn't seen in fifteen years—the personal crest of her banished mother.

With trembling hands, Elara broke the seal and pulled out a single scrap of parchment. It contained only five words, written in a frantic, elegant hand:

They are coming for you.

Outside, the first boom of the Solstice fireworks exploded over the palace, turning the sky a violent shade of blood-red. Elara looked at the door, where she knew Silas Vane was standing guard, and then back at the letter.

Was the Captain there to protect her from the people coming... or was he the one leading them to her?