Since Belle Devonshire's arrival, the days at the imperial palace had transformed.
The heavy stillness that once hung over the marble halls now seemed to shimmer with an unexpected lightness, as if the very air had been infused with something warm and vibrant.
Belle glided through the palace corridors, her every movement an effortless dance. The cold, imposing stone beneath her feet seemed to soften in her presence. She curtsied with the flawless precision expected of royalty, yet there was always a playful spark in her hazel eyes—an irreverent glint that suggested she was not merely performing the rituals of court, but delighting in them.
The tutors spoke of her as though she were a rare treasure, an uncut gem whose brilliance was only just beginning to show.
"She's quick to learn, and even quicker to listen," the head etiquette tutor remarked one day to the Empress, bowing with a pride that bordered on paternal.
"She memorized the entire list of imperial lineages in a single night," one steward murmured in reverent disbelief, as if the feat was some impossible magic.
"She even thanked the historian after a lecture on tax reforms," the palace librarian chuckled, shaking his head in wonder. "Who does that?"
With every passing day, Belle earned more than just the palace's approval.
She earned affection—gentle smiles from the servants, a soft laugh from the court.
She was gracious, but never in a way that felt forced; sharp-witted, yet never condescending. She knew when to step back, when to speak, and when to simply listen with a depth that few could rival. Most remarkably, she treated everyone—the lowliest footman to the highest ambassador—with the same careful respect, never showing the slightest hint of condescension.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and the palace halls were bathed in the golden glow of dusk, the Empress, draped in the silken layers of her regal attire, watched Belle from behind the veil of courtly decorum. Turning to her husband, she spoke softly, her words carrying a quiet certainty. "She will carry the crown with grace… and with heart."
**
Early spring morning, when the last remnants of frost had finally surrendered to the warmth of the sun, Killian sat in his study, surrounded by the scent of parchment and ink.
The light, soft and golden, streamed through the high stained-glass windows, spilling a kaleidoscope of ruby reds, warm golds, and deep emeralds across the floor, casting intricate patterns on the thick carpet beneath his boots. The room, quiet and serene, seemed suspended in time, save for the rustle of documents as he carefully reviewed the state matters laid before him.
His concentration was broken by a soft knock at the door.
"Your Highness," came the steward's voice, breaking through the stillness as he entered with a small, folded envelope. "A letter. From Kroux Empire."
Killian blinked, his brow furrowing slightly in surprise. His gaze lingered on the envelope for a moment, the familiar emblem of the Devonshire gleaming in gold against the wax seal.
His fingers paused mid-air, hovering over the seal. That handwriting… clean, precise, almost painfully perfect.
Vivica.
A flutter stirred in his chest, but his expression remained as impassive as ever, his movements deliberate and controlled.
With a quiet breath, he broke the seal, the soft crack of wax almost too loud in the silence of the room. Yet even as he opened the letter, his heart quickened in a way he could not entirely mask.
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶
Crown Prince Killian,
I was informed of your engagement to my stepsister, Lady Belle Devonshire. I offer you both my sincere congratulations. May your union bring strength to the Empire and peace to your reign.
– Vivica Devonshire.
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶
He stared at the words.
Brief. Polished. Formal. Distant.
Not a single personal remark. Not a question. Not even a "how have you been?" or "I'm sorry I was busy".
He folded the letter slowly and set it on the desk, resting his fingertips atop it.
Then he let out a quiet, bitter laugh.
So that was it.
That was all she had to say after years of silence…
After my countless letters. After the nights I stood beneath the same moon, hoping—naïvely, childishly—that perhaps she had held on to those moments, too.
Killian leaned back in the chair, eyes on the ceiling.
I was thirteen when I saw her for the first time...
Ten years old, sharp tongue, forest eyes.
I thought she was strange. Then brilliant. Then… everything.
She never asked for my admiration. Never courted it. And that made it worse. Because I gave it willingly. Blindly.
I held on. To her eyes. Her voice. Her stillness beneath the stars. Like a boy clutching a dream that was never meant to grow.
He exhaled sharply.
But I am not a boy anymore.
I'm eighteen. Crown Prince. I've stood before war councils. Balanced budgets that could starve or save regions. I know the weight of an empire. And yet… I let a girl with silence for a sword linger in the corners of my heart.
Haaaa…!
He glanced toward the gardens—toward the spot beneath the trees.
Vivica was my first love. Or maybe not even that. Puppy love. Childhood crush. Obsession born of admiration. I saw in her what I wished I could be—unbothered. Free.
But she let me go without a single word. And I—
His jaw clenched.
—I must do the same.
He stood and crossed the room, tossing the folded letter into the fire. The parchment curled at the edges, swallowed by flame, until even her name was ash.
Killian watched it burn.
He thought of Belle. Of her calm voice and steady gaze. Of her belief that love could be nurtured—not just stumbled upon.
And for the first time… the idea didn't seem impossible.
Not romantic. Not dramatic. But something steadier. Something real.
Killian turned away from the fire and walked back to his desk.
The empire waited. And he would no longer be haunted by the silence of a girl who had already forgotten him.
He was ready to let go.
And perhaps, begin again.