Rowan ꫂ ၴႅၴ Blind princess

The grand ballroom of the royal castle was a suffocating expanse of gold leaf, polished marble, and the cloying scent of lilies. For Rowan Sanders, the evening was a tedious exercise in endurance. He stood on the dais, his posture impeccable and his expression a mask of aristocratic indifference.

The herald’s voice cut through the low hum of conversation, announcing the arrival of the Ashbourne family. Rowan straightened his shoulders, his gaze sharpening.

The duke soon entered the hall with his usual reserved dignity, flanked by his two eldest daughters. Eleanor moved with a seamless grace that commanded respect, her eyes bright with a charm that seemed to light the room.

Beside her, Victoria carried an air of clever chaos, her presence vibrant and sharp, though she maintained the impeccable manners expected of her station.

As they approached the dais to be presented, Rowan felt a flicker of curiosity.

“It’s an honor, your majesty. May I present my two daughters, Lady Eleanor, and Lady Victoria.” Leopold introduced.

He watched their movements, his mind already cataloging their temperaments. However, as the formal introductions began, a subtle dissonance struck him. The protocol dictated three sisters. The reports had been explicit.

His gaze drifted past the two women, landing instead on the figure standing slightly behind Leopold.

There, tucked into the shadow of their father’s stance, was the third sibling. They were still, their head tilted slightly as if listening to the rhythm of the room rather than watching it.

Rowan’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. He didn't miss the way their eyes, didn't quite catch the light of the chandeliers, nor how their hand hovered near their father’s sleeve for guidance.

When the silence stretched a moment too long, Rowan broke it. His voice, deep and smooth, carried a weight of command that silenced the immediate vicinity.

“Lord Ashbourne,” Rowan began, his eyes fixed on the silent girl before turning to the father.

“The court was informed there would be three siblings presented for consideration today. Why is one not introduced?”

The question was precise, devoid of malice but impossible to ignore. Leopold stiffened, his expression tightening with the familiar difficulty of expressing the nuances of his family.

Eleanor and Victoria exchanged a quick, nervous glance, their eyes darting toward the youngest sibling.

Before the Duke could offer a diplomatic deflection, Rowan was already moving. He descended the dais with a predatory elegance, his broad shoulders casting a shadow as he approached the trio.

He did not stop at the two eldest. Instead, he bypassed Eleanor’s welcoming smile and Victoria’s curious stare, walking directly toward the youngest standing in the periphery. As he drew closer, he noticed their eyes didn't quite track his movement.

He stopped just inches from them, his presence commanding yet uncharacteristically gentle. He leaned in slightly, his piercing blue eyes scanning their face, noting the way they didn’t even seem to notice him until he was already too close.

“And what is your name, darling?”

He asked, his voice dropping to a more intimate register, stripped of its public frost. He paused, his gaze lingering on them before he added, a hint of genuine curiosity softening his broody exterior, “Also, enlighten me... what are you hiding away from exactly?”

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The heavy oak doors of the council chamber groaned shut behind Rowan, leaving him in the relative silence of the palace corridors. His mind, usually a disciplined fortress of logic, felt uncharacteristically cluttered.

He had just finished a formal audience with Eleanor and Victoria, both of whom were formidable women Eleanor with her effortless poise and Victoria with her razor sharp intellect.

They were exactly the sort of high born alliances his father expected him to pursue.

Yet, a nagging sense of dissatisfaction lingered in his chest.

He found his mind drifting to the youngest sister who was supposed to be introduced.

The heralds had spoken of three sisters, yet the presentation had felt incomplete, as if a vital note in a melody had been played in a different room.

To clear his mind, Rowan turned toward the west wing, his boots clicking rhythmically against the polished marble as he made his way toward his sanctuary:

the private gardens.

He craved the scent of damp earth and the unpretentious quiet of the greenery to wash away the suffocating veneer of courtly life.

As he stepped through the arched stone gateway, the sunlight spilled across the manicured hedges, but his gaze was immediately drawn to a splash of color on a stone bench near the fountain.

A figure sat there, bathed in the soft afternoon glow, seemingly lost in the gentle rhythm of the cascading water.

Rowan slowed his pace, his curiosity piqued. He didn't recognize this person; they lacked the frantic energy of the courtiers or the practiced strut of the nobility.

He approached with his usual commanding presence, though he kept his steps measured so as not to startle them.

As he drew closer, he noticed the way the figure’s head tilted slightly, as if listening to the very air, and how their eyes remained fixed on a point just beyond the horizon, unseeing.

A realization dawned on him, a silent observation he noted with his usual precision.

Stopping a few feet away, his deep, smooth voice broke the tranquility of the garden. "May I know who you are," he began, his icy blue eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her, "and what you are doing in my private garden?"