chapter five; I Am Not A Lovesick Boy
1395 Words
Three days had passed.
Three long, restless days.
The gardens of Velashara were at their most beautiful in the late afternoon. Sunlight filtered through silk-leafed trees, casting honeyed patterns across winding stone paths. Ivory fountains whispered over carved basins. Vines heavy with blooming jasmine curled around golden trellises, scenting the air with something sweet and almost intoxicating.
Princess Nyelani sat alone beneath a flowering arbor, a spell book resting open in her lap.
The leather-bound volume was ancient—its pages edged in faded gold, its script written in looping ink that shimmered faintly when touched by light. It was meant to command her attention. To anchor her mind. To prepare her for the role she would one day fully inherit.
Instead, she had been staring at the same page for nearly fifteen minutes.
“…focus,” she muttered to herself, flipping a page without reading it.
Her eyes drifted.
Not to the text.
But to memory.
To the way Prince Azreathiel had stood in the throne room—broad shoulders framed in ivory and gold. The way his voice had lowered when he spoke directly to her. The warmth of his hand when he kissed her knuckles.
She exhaled sharply and shut the book halfway.
“This is ridiculous,” she whispered under her breath. “You have known him three days.”
Three days of carefully timed absences.
Three days of polite excuses.
Three days of making sure she was always elsewhere when he entered a room.
She told herself it was composure. Strategy. Royal discipline.
It was avoidance.
And she hated that she knew it.
Her fingers brushed her lips unconsciously.
“No,” she scolded herself softly. “You will not become foolish over a handsome face.”
But it was not just his face.
It was his presence.
There was something about him that felt… inevitable.
She straightened in her seat, pushing the book fully closed this time.
“I will not marry a man simply because the courts expect it,” she murmured. “And certainly not because he looks like a carved deity come to life.”
She groaned softly and covered her face with her hands.
“Why does he look like that?”
—
Not far from where she sat, Prince Azreathiel walked along the stone garden path, Jabari at his side.
The prince’s expression was composed, but his gaze moved—measured, observant. He had noticed her absence. Repeatedly.
Jabari had noticed him noticing.
“You have been distracted,” Jabari said at last.
Azreathiel did not look at him. “Have I?”
“You track battle formations with less intensity than you track palace corridors these days.”
A faint smirk tugged at Azreathiel’s mouth. “Careful, Jabari.”
“I speak as your commander,” Jabari replied evenly. “And as your friend. Why does the princess command so much of your attention?”
Azreathiel was silent for a moment.
“I am here to fulfill my father’s request,” he said finally. “This union strengthens Zamareth. It protects our race. It stabilizes Velmora.”
“That is not what I asked.”
Azreathiel’s jaw tightened slightly.
“I feel drawn to her,” he admitted, quieter now. “There is something… unusual. Something I cannot name.”
“Unusual?” Jabari repeated.
“She is not merely beautiful,” Azreathiel said. “She is—” He paused, searching. “She feels familiar. As though I have known her in another lifetime. Or in a memory that does not belong to me.”
Jabari studied him carefully.
“And that concerns you.”
“It intrigues me,” Azreathiel corrected.
He slowed his steps.
“But I am not a lovesick boy chasing illusions. I am a prince. I will marry her for alliance and protection if that is what is required.”
Jabari nodded once.
“We must return within the week,” he reminded him. “The longer we remain, the more vulnerable Zamareth becomes.”
Azreathiel exhaled slowly.
“See to the soldiers. Ensure preparations are on schedule.”
Jabari bowed his head slightly. “As you command.”
Left alone, Azreathiel continued walking.
And then he saw her.
Nyelani sat beneath the flowering arbor, sunlight painting her skin in soft gold. The spell book rested forgotten at her side. A stray curl brushed her cheek as she looked down, unaware of his presence.
For a moment, he simply watched.
Not as a prince.
But as a man.
He approached quietly, boots soft against stone.
“Princess,” he said gently. “May I join you?”
Her head lifted.
Their eyes met.
And once again, the world narrowed.
For half a second, she forgot how to respond. His eyes—deep, steady, intense—held hers with quiet gravity.
She felt it again.
That pull.
She blinked.
“Yes,” she said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “Of course.”
He sat beside her—not too close, but close enough that she felt the warmth of him. The scent of leather and faint spice. The subtle strength in the way he carried himself even at rest.
Silence settled between them.
Not uncomfortable.
But heavy.
After a few moments, he spoke.
“Have I offended you?”
She frowned slightly. “No.”
“It has been three days,” he continued, voice calm. “And you have avoided me with impressive precision.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of her book.
“I have been occupied.”
“With corridors that empty precisely when I enter them?”
Her lips twitched despite herself.
He studied her.
“Or perhaps,” he added lightly, “you do not wish to marry me.”
She stiffened.
“I would understand,” he went on, a hint of sarcasm brushing his tone. “If I am not quite to your liking. Not handsome enough, perhaps.”
Her head snapped toward him.
“What?”
He held her gaze steadily.
“You do not know me,” she said at last, her voice steadying. “And I will not be acquired like territory. I will not marry a man who sees me as strategy. Or power. Or wealth.”
“So,” he said softly, “you wish to marry for love?”
“Yes.”
“And you do not love me.”
“No.”
The word came quickly.
Too quickly.
“You may remain in Velashara as long as you wish,” she continued, rising to her feet. “But I will not marry a stranger.”
She turned to leave.
He stood as well.
And gently—firmly—took her hand.
The contact sent a rush through her, sharp and immediate.
He stepped closer.
“Your heart,” he said quietly, voice low enough that only she could hear, “betrays you.”
She froze.
“What?”
He moved closer still, one hand sliding carefully to her waist—not forceful, not possessive, but steady. He pulled her just near enough that she could feel the strength of him. The warmth. The steady rhythm beneath his chest.
“Do you know what I hear when I stand this close?” he murmured.
Her breath caught.
“Your pulse,” he said. “Racing.”
Her face flushed.
His gaze softened.
“Give me three days,” he said. “Not as prince. Not as alliance. As a man. Let me show you who I am.”
His thumb brushed lightly against her waist, grounding her.
“If after three days you still do not wish to marry me,” he continued, voice unwavering, “I will leave. And I will not return.”
Her mind screamed no.
No to the proximity.
No to the warmth.
No to the way her body leaned toward him despite every rational thought.
But her lips parted.
“Yes.”
The word escaped before she could reclaim it.
She hated that his touch made her feel safe.
Hated that her resolve weakened when he looked at her that way.
Hated that her heart refused to obey her crown.
Azreathiel smiled—not triumphantly, but gently.
“Three days,” he repeated.
And somewhere deep within her, beneath sealed magic and royal discipline, something began to bloom.
- Writer
