The Moon’s Alluring Journey

The Gardens

I pushed the door open slowly.

It creaked just enough to betray me.

Ashvin turned at the sound. He sat on an old bench nestled between a lemon tree and an arch of flowering moonvine, a single oil lamp on the stone shelf behind him. The light danced across his face, throwing his copper-brown hair into deeper shadow and catching the quiet surprise in his hazel eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

I shook my head, stepping inside and closing the door behind me. “You?”

“Same.” He looked down at the book in his hand but closed it, setting it aside. “Figured this was the only place that wouldn’t feel… loaded.”

I sat beside him, the bench still warm. “It’s beautiful in here.”

“They’ve kept it the same,” he said, glancing up at the flowering ceiling. “My mother says that’s the point. Seasons change, but the roots stay.”

A pause. The scent of earth and citrus filled the air between us.

“I think they’re afraid of me,” I said quietly.

Ashvin didn’t deny it. “You are a walking upheaval. In gold-threaded boots.”

I let out a laugh. “You’ve been saving that one, haven’t you?”

“Maybe,” he said with a grin. “But… you’re not wrong. They are cautious. It’s not just your title. It’s what it means for me. For them.”

“I’d never use my station against you,” I said. “Against them.”

“I know that. But they don’t know that.” His voice was gentle, not accusing. “Not the way I do.”

I looked at him then, really looked. The moonlight painted a soft glow on his face, but his eyes held something deeper. Tiredness, yes—but also something like… resolve.

“Ash,” I said. “Do you ever regret it?”

He frowned. “Regret what?”

“Choosing the sword. The duty. Me.”

He was quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing the seam of his trousers. Then he leaned back, gaze turning skyward through the glass canopy.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve only ever regretted not speaking when I should’ve. When it mattered most.”

My breath caught, just a little.

He turned his head, looked at me—not as a knight, not as a friend or even a subject. Just Ashvin.

“I chose this path, Dania. You didn’t make me. The gods didn’t twist my arm. I followed you because I believed in you. And I still do.”

Something fragile fluttered in my chest.

“I had a vision,” I confessed before I could stop myself. “From the gods. The orb was shattered. The Moon and Sun were… they were at odds. There was a question, a terrible question.”

He waited. Patient. Steady.

“‘Who do you truly love?’” I whispered.

His brow furrowed. “And you think they meant me?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But the question won’t leave me.”

Ashvin leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Maybe it isn’t about who you love,” he said. “Maybe it’s about how much you’re willing to fight for it. Or them.”

The lamp flickered.

I looked at him, truly looked, and for a heartbeat, nothing else existed. Not the gods, not the crown, not the weight of our journey.

Just us. And the roots we didn’t realize we’d already put down.

The greenhouse was quiet except for the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional creak of old glass shifting with the night breeze. Moonlight filtered in through the high panes, bathing the rows of herbs and flowering vines in a silver glow.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, brushing my fingers gently over a pale blossom. “Peaceful. I understand why you’d come here.”

He nodded. “It’s one of the few places I always felt like myself.”

That surprised me. I turned to him. “You don’t feel like yourself anymore?”

Ashvin hesitated. “Serving the Empire… being near you… it changes how others see me. Even here, in Paceum. I’ve been your guard for nearly six years. Most forget that I was ever a farmer’s son.”

His gaze didn’t waver from mine, though there was no bitterness in it—only quiet resignation.

“I haven’t forgotten,” I said. “You’re the only one I trust without question. You’ve always been more than a title or a role to me.”

Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. “That means more than you know, Your Highness.”

We stood in silence for a while, surrounded by the living hush of the garden.

“I wonder sometimes,” I admitted, “if there’s a version of this life where I could be just Dania. Not a princess. Not an heir. Just… someone ordinary.”

Ashvin lowered his gaze respectfully. “I think you would still be extraordinary. Title or not.”

I didn’t respond to that. Not because I was flattered—but because I wasn’t sure I believed him.

Before I could say more, the door creaked open.

“Ashvin?”

His mother’s voice came from the entrance, her tone polite but alert. She stepped inside, wearing a pale shawl and night robe, her gaze immediately finding us in the moonlight.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, pausing in the doorway.

Ashvin straightened, bowing slightly. “Apologies, Mother. Her Highness couldn’t sleep. I was only ensuring she was safe.”

Her eyes moved to me—measured, respectful, but still carrying the cautious weight of a mother protecting her son. “Of course. Your Highness, I trust you’re comfortable?”

“I am,” I said, offering a gentle nod. “Thank you. Your home is… lovely.”

She inclined her head, then looked to Ashvin. “Don’t stay out too long. The air turns damp before dawn.”

Ashvin gave a quiet “Yes, Mother,” and she left without another word.

The silence that followed felt different—more formal, more distant.

Ashvin stepped back, folding his hands behind his back. “I should escort you to your chambers now, Your Highness.”

I nodded. “Yes… thank you, Ashvin.”

As we walked back through the garden path, I glanced at him—his sharp profile, the way he carried the weight of duty like a second skin.

He wasn’t just my guard or my childhood companion anymore. He had a family, a place here… and a loyalty that ran deeper than I sometimes realized.

I didn’t say anything else. Neither did he.

But the silence between us no longer needed filling.