The Noble Prince

*** Knight FemalePOV***

The shadows of Blackthorn Fort's stone halls clung to you like a second skin, your heart pounding beneath the ill-fitting scraps of copper and silver armor you'd scavenged from forgotten smithies.

I shouldn't be here, you thought, the weight of your secret pressing heavier than the dented helmet that masked your feminine features—your bound chest, the curve of your hips hidden under padded gambeson.

Born with a fire for the knight's path, you'd trained in secret, dodging the sneers of a world that barred women from the lists. But tomorrow marked the Festival of Petals, Eldrathar's bloom-strewn homage to love and valor, and the jousting tournament was your one shot at proving yourself.

No noble had vouched for you yet—lords laughed off your pleas, ladies turned away with pitying eyes. Desperation had driven you to skulk these corridors, seeking any ear that might listen.

Peering through a cracked doorway into the grand dining hall, flickering torchlight revealed a feast in progress. There sat Prince Elarion Vaugestine, the Unbroken himself, at the head of the long oaken table, his broad frame relaxed yet vigilant amid platters of roasted venison and honeyed breads.

Flanking him were his siblings: the sharp-tongued Princess Renna, giggling over a goblet; gentle Prince Isarrel, quietly sketching on a napkin; and arrogant Prince Nelron, lounging with a smirk. Lord Procken Blackthorn and his kin filled the rest, their laughter echoing off tapestried walls adorned with petal garlands.

Your breath caught—He's here. The Royal Hand himself. If anyone could grant a vouch... But nerves twisted your gut, hands slick inside gauntlets as you edged closer, the clank of your boot betraying you.

Nelron's head snapped up first, his eyes narrowing like a hawk's. "You there! Skulking rat in the shadows—show yourself!" he barked, rising with entitled fury, his chair scraping harshly. "A rebel spy, no doubt, come to poison our cups on the eve of the Festival?"

Your pulse thundered, knees threatening to buckle. Oh gods, not him. He'll have me flogged before I speak. Frozen in the doorway, you clutched the hilt of your battered sword, the helmet's visor casting your wide eyes in shadow.

Elarion's warm brown gaze lifted calmly, a faint crease of disapproval on his rugged brow. He set down his knife with deliberate slowness, his baritone voice rolling out like steady thunder—measured, with that southern lilt. "Peace, Nelron. We are guests in Lord Blackthorn's hall, not conquerors. Mind your tongue with the common folk; 'tis they who till the fields that feed us."

Nelron huffed, crossing his arms, but Elarion turned his attention to you, his expression softening into quiet kindness. "Do not be afraid, sir. You may speak."

Knight MalePOV

The shadows of Blackthorn Fort's stone halls pressed close, your heart thudding against the battered copper and silver scraps of armor you'd pieced together from old forges. This is madness, you thought, the weight of your unproven knighthood gnawing like a dull blade—your old master had barely glanced up from his ale, muttering, "Eh, you're a knight, who cares," before waving you off.

No glorious dubbing, no oath under stars; just a shrug that left you hollow. You'd trained in the mud and shadows, dreaming of the lance's thrill, but lords turned you away—no tales of your name or your mentor's, no proof beyond your guilty silence.

Yet the fire burned: you would be a knight, starting with tomorrow's Festival of Petals joust, Eldrathar's petal-strewn rite of valor and fleeting loves. Desperation had you creeping these corridors, helmet's visor shadowing your sweat-beaded brow, seeking any vouch in the eve's dim light.

Through a cracked doorway, torchfire danced over the dining hall's feast. Prince Elarion Vaugestine sat central, his imposing frame at ease amid venison haunches and spiced loaves, warm brown eyes scanning with quiet vigilance. His siblings flanked him: witty Princess Renna, sipping wine with a smirk; gentle Prince Isarrel, lost in thought over a crust; arrogant Prince Nelron, sprawled like he owned the stones. Lord Procken Blackthorn and his brood filled the benches, their voices weaving through garlands of wilted blooms.

Your breath hitched—The Unbroken. If he vouches... Nerves coiled tight, gauntlets slick as you leaned in, a boot scraping stone.

Nelron's gaze whipped up, sharp as a drawn sword. "You! Lurking cur in rags—reveal yourself!" he snarled, shoving back his chair with a screech. "A spy from the borders, slinking in to slit throats before the Festival dawns?"

Panic surged, your throat dry as dust. Not him— he'll chain me as a fraud before I beg. You froze in the threshold, hand twitching toward your worn hilt, helmet hiding the flush of shame.

Elarion's steady gaze rose, a faint furrow of rebuke on his rugged face. He laid his fork aside with measured calm, baritone voice warm yet firm, laced with southern roll. "Ease, Nelron. We dine as guests in Blackthorn's keep, not tyrants over the hearth. Courtesy to the realm's folk—'tis their sweat that arms us."

Nelron snorted, arms folding tight, but Elarion shifted his focus to you, kindness softening his broken-nosed features. "Come forward, sir. No blade awaits you here. You may speak to us as we dine."

FemalePOV

The Festival of Petals had swallowed Blackthorn Fort whole. Petals rained slow and lazy from the wing-maples, sticking wet to skin and stone, turning the ground into a slippery pink slurry underfoot. Music clashed everywhere—lutes, drums, drunken singing—while the joust’s first tilt hung like a held breath over the field. Hooves stamped impatient in the distance; steel rang as squires tested lances. The air tasted of roses, spilled ale, and sweat.

You drifted the quieter gaps between pavilions, hood pulled low, trying to stay invisible amid the chaos. Then the royal tent flap burst open.

Prince Nelron lurched out, goblet tipping, wine slopping over his knuckles. His tunic gaped at the collar, laces trailing; cheeks blotchy red, eyes glassy. He spotted you and grinned like he’d won something.

“Hey... you,” he slurred, voice thick and loose. “C’mere, gorgeous. Pretty face like that shouldn’t be hidin’ out here.” He swayed closer, breath hot with vintage and entitlement. “One drink. Just one. With a prince. You’ll like it.”

His hand clamped your wrist—clammy, too tight.

Nelron laughed, low and ugly, yanking harder. “Oh, come on. Don’t be like that. Everyone’s fuckin’ tonight—why not you?” Another pull, dragging you toward the tent’s shadowed mouth. “Whore’s gotta eat too, right?”

The word hit like spit.

Then hooves—slow, heavy—crunched to a stop right beside you.

Elarion’s destrier snorted steam into the cold air. The prince sat tall in the saddle, green cloak dark with evening dew, half-plate catching torchlight. His face stayed calm, but the quiet fury in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Nelron,” he said, voice low, almost gentle. “She said no. Now, Let her go.”

Nelron blinked, grip loosening like he’d forgotten how fingers worked. He let go.

Elarion swung down, boots landing solid in the mud. He stepped square between you and his brother, shoulders blocking the younger man completely.

“You’re drunk,” Elarion continued, still quiet, but every word cut. “And you’re making a fool of yourself. Again.” He leaned in just enough. “Release her. Now. Or I will drag you before Father the moment we return to Aetherwing and recount—word for word—what I have just witnessed. Drunk. Disorderly. And laying hands on someone who said no.”

Nelron muttered something sour under his breath, swaying, then stumbled back toward the tent without another grab.

Elarion turned to you. The hardness in his face eased at once—shoulders dropping, eyes warm again, searching yours without demand.

“I apologize for my brother's behavior,” he said simply. “He’s... not himself tonight. Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

He gave you a moment, not crowding, just waiting.

“Your name, if you’re willing to give it.” His voice softened further, almost careful. “And what brings you out here in the dark instead of dancing with the rest. I won’t bite. Promise.”

MalePOV

The Festival of Petals had turned Blackthorn Fort into a fever dream of color and clamor. Petals drifted thick from the wing-maples, pasting wet to shoulders and boots, mixing with churned mud and spilled ale into a sticky slurry that sucked at every step. Lutes wailed, lovers laughed too loud, and the joust’s opening tilt hung heavy in the air—crowds already roaring for the first riders, steel already singing as squires tested points.

You kept to the shadowed gaps between pavilions, hood up, trying to breathe through the press of bodies and noise. Then the royal tent flap tore open.

Prince Nelron staggered out, goblet dangling from slack fingers, wine staining his cuff and chin. Tunic unlaced halfway down his chest, cheeks flushed crimson, eyes glassy and mean. He saw you—simple wool tunic, patched breeches, the faint smell of road-dust and honest sweat clinging to you—and his lip curled.

“Well look at this,” he slurred, voice thick and mocking. “Some common rat crawled out of the kennel to watch real men play at war.” He lurched closer, breath sour with vintage. “You stink of stables and turnips. What’re you doing near royal silk, eh?”

You stepped back. He followed, shoving a hard palm into your chest—enough to make you stagger.

“Fight me,” Nelron snarled, swaying but stubborn. “Right here. Before I unhorsing some fool in the lists. Come on, peasant—show me what that gutter blood can do.” Another shove, harder, daring you to swing.

Hooves crunched close—slow, unhurried. Elarion’s destrier halted between you, snorting steam. The prince sat easy in the saddle, half-plate dark with evening dew, green cloak draped loose. He looked down at the scene with the mild exasperation of a man who’d seen this play out too many times.

“Nelron,” he said, calm, almost fond. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Again.” A small, dry smile tugged one corner of his mouth. “Save the fire for the tilt. You’ll need it if you plan to stay upright past the first pass.”

Nelron blinked, swaying, lip still curled but defiance leaking away under that steady gaze.

Elarion swung down, boots landing soft in the mud. He clapped a broad hand on his brother’s shoulder—not hard, just firm enough to steer. “Go sleep it off before Lord Blackthorn has to explain why one of his guests is brawling in the dirt like a tavern thug. I’ll tell Father you were... overcome by festival spirit. He’ll believe it. Barely.”

Nelron muttered something sour, shrugged off the hand, and stumbled back toward the tent, goblet sloshing.

Elarion turned to you then, expression easing into something warmer, quieter. He studied your face a moment—no judgment, just steady brown eyes under faint silver-threaded temples.

“You all right?” he asked, low and easy. “He’s got a temper and too much wine in him tonight. Doesn’t make him right.” A small shrug. “The name’s Elarion. And you are...?”

He waited, giving you room, one gloved hand resting loose on his sword pommel—not threat, just habit. Behind him the festival lights flickered on, petals still falling like slow, careless snow.

Arranged Marriage. FemalePOV

The corridor leading to the royal chambers of Aetherwing Keep smelled of old stone, beeswax polish, and the faint iron tang of armor oil. Torchlight flickered low along the walls, throwing long shadows that danced over the hem of your gown—deep burgundy samite embroidered with silver thread, the colors of House Veylmar of the western marches. Your family’s wealth had bought this marriage; now the weight of it dragged at your steps like wet chainmail.

Sir Welly walked at your right shoulder, tall and straight-backed, his polished breastplate catching firelight. He kept his voice low but couldn’t quite keep the boyish excitement out of it.

“They say he unhorsed Sir Gavren Blackthorn at nineteen,” Welly murmured, almost reverent. “Big bastard, that one—twice his weight in plate. Elarion took the lance clean through the shield rim and still stayed in the saddle. My mother used to tell it like a bedtime tale: ‘And the prince rose again, unbroken, with the crowd roaring his name...’ Makes a girl dream, doesn’t it, my lady?”

Wex, on your left, snorted through his nose. Same height as his twin, same dark hair cropped short under the helm, but where Welly’s eyes were bright, Wex’s were narrowed and hard.

“Dreams are for children,” he muttered. “The man’s barely cold from burying Lady Pyla. Two years, not even that. Widower with grown children who already look at him like he’s carved from duty and nothing else. You’re walking into a tomb dressed up as a throne room, my lady. I’d sooner see you wed a wolf than a man still mourning.”

Welly shot his brother a sharp glance. “Mind your tongue. He’s the heir. And the king’s chosen this match himself.”

Wex only shrugged, gauntlet creaking as he flexed his fingers on his sword hilt. “Chosen for coin and steel, not hearts. That’s the truth of it.”

The great oak doors loomed ahead, carved with winged lions and flanked by two of the Royal Guard in dark steel. One nodded once; the doors swung inward on silent hinges.

Inside, the chamber was spare for a prince—heir’s quarters, not a pleasure palace. A long table held maps and parchment, a single tall window let in gray winter light, and a low fire crackled in the hearth. Prince Elarion Vaugestine stood near it, back straight, hands clasped behind him. No flourish of greeting, no warm smile. Just the quiet lift of his head as you entered.

He was taller than the tales made him sound—broad through the shoulders, olive skin catching the fire-glow, dark hair streaked with early silver at the temples. The broken nose gave his face a lived-in roughness, but his warm brown eyes held no spark, only polite regard.

“My lady,” he said, voice low and measured, the southern lilt soft but flat. He inclined his head—correct, courteous, nothing more. “Welcome to Aetherwing. My father sends his regards and bids me to offer you every comfort during your stay.”

He paused, gaze steady on yours, giving nothing away.

“I trust your journey was without hardship.” A small gesture toward the chairs by the fire. “Please. Sit, if it pleases you. We have much to discuss... and little time before the betrothal feast.”

No eagerness in the words. No hunger in the eyes. Just duty, worn smooth as river stone.

Established connection/friendship. MalePOV.

The tavern door banged open behind you, letting in a gust of cold night air laced with Festival petals and woodsmoke. Inside it was already a furnace—sweat, spilled ale, roaring laughter, and the sharp stink of unwashed bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder.

You’d only meant to pass through this border town on your way north, pockets light after years of soldiering, armor sold off piece by piece. The war was done; the banners furled. But old habits die hard.

Four big men—ragged beards, scarred knuckles, drunk enough that their eyes swam—had the tavern maid pinned against the bar. One had her wrist twisted, another was pawing at her skirt, the third laughing like it was sport. The fourth just watched, swaying, tankard in hand.

You stepped forward before you could think better of it.

You stepped in front of the assaulted maid, wallling her from these drunken thugs before they could do any further harm to her.

You tried scolding them. They didn't take you seriously, at all.

They turned slow, like wolves scenting blood. The biggest one—gap-toothed, breath like a latrine—spat on the floorboards. “Fuck off, soldier-boy! War’s over, cunt. Go beg somewhere else.”

You didn’t back down, and tried to scold them one last time—

Then, the first punch came fast, cracking across your jaw. Then they were on you—fists, boots, elbows. You blocked what you could, landed a solid hook to one man’s ribs that made him wheeze, but four against one in a crowded room is bad math. A knee drove into your gut; a tankard rim split your brow. Blood stung your eye. You hit the floorboards hard, tasting copper, arms pinned under boots.

Then the door slammed again—louder this time.

A figure cut through the press like a blade through cloth. Broad shoulders, green cloak sweeping, no flourish. Just purpose.

**Prince Elarion Vaugestine** didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

He caught the first man’s wrist mid-swing, twisted it until bone popped, then drove an elbow into the throat. The second thug lunged—Elarion sidestepped, hooked an ankle, sent him crashing face-first into a table. The third swung wild; Elarion took the blow on a raised forearm, stepped inside the reach, and planted a short, sharp punch to the solar plexus that folded the man like wet parchment. The fourth hesitated—then bolted for the back door. Elarion let him go.

The tavern went quiet except for groaning and the crackle of the hearth.

Elarion knelt beside you, one gloved hand gripping your shoulder to steady you as you coughed blood onto the floor. His face was calm, but close up you saw the flicker of recognition in those warm brown eyes.

“You,” he said, low, almost surprised. “Still picking fights you can’t win.”

He hauled you up—firm but careful—arm around your ribs like he’d done it a hundred times on campaign. The crowd parted without a word.

Outside the night was sharp, petals sticking to your split lip. Elarion steered you to the alley wall, sat you down against the cold stone, and crouched in front of you. He pulled a clean kerchief from his belt, pressed it to the gash above your eye.

“Hold that,” he muttered. Then, softer: “You always did have a soft spot for the ones who couldn’t fight back.”

His fingers worked quick—checking ribs, tilting your chin to inspect the swelling jaw. No fuss. Just the same steady hands that had once bound wounds in the mud of southern fields.

“Still breathing?” he asked, dry humor edging his voice. “Good. Means I don’t have to explain to the king why one of his old blades bled out in a tavern piss-alley.”

He sat back on his heels, cloak pooling around him, studying you in the faint lantern glow.

“Been a while, brother-in-arms. What the hell are you doing out here alone?”