Keegan Russ

The carriage slowly rolled up to the familiar gate, its creaking wheels disturbed the night silence, and the sound echoed from the red-brick walls of the estate. The streets of the capital have already plunged into sleep - even eternal revelers and drunks have gone to their corners, leaving the square in front of the palace deserted and silent. The horses snorted, tired after a long road, and the coachman, hurrying to finish the night flight, from time to time clicked the whip, driving them up. You sat by the window, with your hand up your chin, and indifferently looked at the familiar outlines of the tower spires emerging against the background of the starry sky. Returning home did not bring joy, especially now, especially after the news of my father's death came.

The messenger broke into your rooms in a foreign city the night before, out of a spire, with his hands shaking. "His Majesty is dead," he exhaled, and these words hung in the air like a heavy curtain falling on the last act of tragedy.

Father was kind to servants, generous to peasants, respected by soldiers, but never to you.

He dreamed of a son - an heir, a warrior, a worthy successor of the dynasty, but he received only you, and resigned himself to it as an inevitable disappointment. After his mother's death, he finally withdrew, going headlong into endless wars and state reforms, and you were prepared for the role of a bargaining chip in a political game, planning to marry an inconspicuous prince from a neighboring kingdom.

The carriage finally stopped at the main staircase. The door opened, and they held out their hand to you - cold fingers in a white glove, a faceless gesture of a servant doing his job. You stepped on familiar steps and looked at the facade. Nothing has changed, only now weeping servants wandered around the palace, and in the throne room hung a huge, half-wall portrait of the father - proud, arrogant, dead.

You took a deep breath before entering his rooms. The stepmother leaned over her body, sobbing as if he loved her, as if he had not rejected her all these years, as if he had shown tenderness to her at least once. Your steps sounded loudly in the ringing silence, and every sound seemed inappropriate in this universal grief.

The morning came too fast, as if hurrying to turn this dark page. Breakfast was held in oppressive silence, and the seat at the head of the table was empty, reminding of an irreparable loss. The day dragged on slowly and drearyly, everyone was whispering, everyone was grieving, everyone pretending to have lost someone dear. But you didn't want to pretend. You couldn't make yourself grieve, and even the thought that his death was almost happy caused only a bitter smile.

The whole kingdom was plunged into a gray veil of mourning. People on the streets cried, broke their hands, and this ostentatious grief caused only irritation. You had to leave, and you got out to the garden - the only place where you could take a breath. It was empty there: neither fussy servants, nor working gardeners. Only somewhere in the distance, behind a high hedge, metal was ringing on the training ground.

You went to the sound, not realizing why, but feeling that you should. The training ground greeted you with a desert. Only one person was standing in the middle of the playground - tall, broad-shouldered, in a simple training shirt, already wet with sweat. He didn't notice you right away, completely immersed in honed movements: a blow, a turn-up, a block, a new blow. The sword in his hands seemed to be an extension of the body, alive and deadly.

You stood in the shade of garden trees, watching a stranger who was training with a sword. When he noticed your gaze, his movements froze. With a slight ringing, the blade plunged into the ground, and the young man came to you.

His gait was relaxed, full of natural grace, not at all like the constrained movements of the courtiers. When he approached, a warm, sincere smile appeared on his lips - not the kind grimace you are used to, but a real, living expression of joy.

— It's amazing to see you here, princess, — he said, and a light, almost friendly intonation sounded in his voice.

Before you could answer, he carefully took your hand. His fingers were warm and slightly rough from constant training. With a slight bow, he brought your hand to his lips, and his touch was so gentle that goosebumps ran down your skin.

— I'm Keegan, — he introduced himself, raising his eyes. There was no shadow of benevolence in them - only calm dignity and some inner confidence, which was so rare among the courtiers.

You kept the look on his face. Unlike others, he didn't try to flatter or flatter. There was no fear or desire to make an impression in his behavior - only natural simplicity, which seemed so unusual in these walls.

The quiet rustle of leaves broke the silence when Keegan leaned a little closer. His voice sounded quietly, almost trustingly

— What brought you here, princess? — In his words there was no usual "Your Highness" or "my lady". He addressed you simply, in a human way, as if all these conventions and ceremonies did not exist between you.

At that moment, under the shade of old trees, it suddenly seemed to you that he saw not the heiress to the throne, not the daughter of the late king, but just you - the way you are. And there was something incredibly valuable in this realization.