Chapter 10: Meeting Him or…?

The corridor was quiet, save for the soft patter of the princess’ shoes and the heavy steps of the two guards shadowing her on either side. The Obsidian Guards were the Black Dragon’s most elite knights. They are men chosen not for their birth but for their strength, discipline, and loyalty. Clad in blackened steel that caught no light, they stood like sentinels carved from shadow itself.

Their visors revealed nothing but the faintest gleam of eyes, and their silence was as heavy as the armour they wore. They were said to move as one, bound by an oath sharper than any sword, feared across the realm as the unyielding wall between the royal family and the world.

To the courtiers and anyone else, they looked like grim statues clad in black steel and stern faces beneath their helms. To Ilaria, they were simply…her companions.

“Sir Rocky, would you like my macarons?” Ilaria beamed, holding up the delicate pastry like an offering as she looked up at the taller knight to her left, her eyes shimmering with delight.

The man stiffened mid-step, momentarily thrown off. The princess had stopped by the kitchen earlier because she said she has something important to offer the crown prince. He did not pry, they simply took her wherever she wants. But…did she went there solely to get macarons?

“…Rocky?” he echoed, voice rough with confusion.

“Yep!” she chirped, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Because you’re as steady as a rock. Always serious and always watching. It suits you, doesn’t it?”

He blinked, taken aback. No one had ever dared compare the dread of the Obsidian Guard to…a pebble. He darted a look at his comrade on the princess’ right. Sir Alaric gave him two deliberate blinks and a slow, resigned nod. As if to say: Don’t fight it. Just let her win.

Roderic cleared his throat, as if intending to soften his rough voice while deliberately slowing his stride to match her smaller steps. “…Ah. Your Highness, you bake?”

“Of course~” she chimed, bright as spring, before pointing proudly at the guard on her other side. “Sir Ricky already ate six!”

Roderic’s head whipped back toward his comrade, and Alaric did not even flinch. He simply shifted his helm a little, the faintest of sighs leaving him as though this were old news. His eyes flicked back to him, as if silently saying: Yes, I did. Yes, she will keep calling you Rocky. Accept it.

Roderic is a newly assigned knight to attend to the princess. Alaric told him that the former guard was reassigned after injuring his back for bowing too low every time the princess tried to hand him pastries. He had thought it was ridiculous and scoffed, but looking at the princess from this perspective now…it might be true.

Alaric had been by the princess’ side since the day she was first welcomed into the royal family, so it was only natural that she shared a closer bond with him. For Roderic, however, this was his very first day stationed at her side, and yet the princess was already treating him with the same easy warmth.

Roderic accepted the pink macaron with the lopsided face as though it were an imperial decree. His massive, aromour-clad hand looked comically delicate holding the tiny sweet. A short huff of laughter escaped him, which was quickly strangled back into his usual stern composure.

He bowed deeply. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Ilaria beamed. “Aria.”

His brows furrowed. “…Pardon?”

“My name is Aria,” she repeated cheerfully, pointing at herself with both thumbs. “That’s what my friends call me. Since you’re my new guard, you should too.”

Roderic blinked. Then, almost desperately, his gaze slid sideways to his fellow Obsidian. Again. Alaric was impassive, though his eyes carried the weight of a man who had already walked through this fire before. Slowly, he gave the barest nod, as if to say: Just resist it.

“I…cannot, Your Highness,” Roderic said at last, stiff as a fortress wall.

Ilaria puffed her cheeks, mumbling something under her breath, “You’re both as stubborn as Melyn…”

At that, Alaric’s mouth twitched, which was the closest he had come to laughter in weeks, while Roderic looked genuinely troubled, as though he had done something as blasphemous as offending the princess consort.

“Sir Rocky looks like he swallowed a lemon,” Ilaria muttered under her breath, crossing her arms with a pout. “And Sir Ricky looks like he’s judging me for offering sweets again.”

Alaric finally spoke, his tone cool but with a hint of amusement threading through it. “Your Highness, if Sir Roderic is truly guilty of anything, it is that he dared to resist you. Few survive that sort of folly.”

Ilaria’s eyes shot up to him, her pout immediately softening. “Resist me?”

He inclined his head solemnly, as though delivering a knight’s grave report. “I have seen hardened generals and statesmen bend to your charm, yet my comrade here thought it was wise to hold firm,” his lips curved ever so slightly, a ghost of a smirk. “Give him another day and he will crumble. They always do.”

Roderic sputtered. “Sir Alaric—!”

But Ilaria was already beaming, her sulk forgotten as she clasped her hands together. “See, Rocky? Even Sir Ricky believes in me! I’ll win you over in no time.”

She leaned toward him, eyes sparkling like a child making a vow. “Just you wait. You both will be calling me Aria before the week ends.”

Roderic, cornered between her sunshine and Alaric’s straight-faced betrayal, could only mutter, “That…is improper.”

Alaric’s voice was low, but his words cut like the edge of a jesting blade. “Improper would be refusing her macarons, Sir Roderic.”

Before Roderic could argue further, the trio halted. The towering doors of the crown prince’s chamber loomed before them, their dragon-etched surface gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Ilaria has passed this door many times before, who knew that she will finally be able to enter?

Both knights straightened, bowing low in perfect synchrony. Sir Alaric announced respectfully, “Her Highness, the Crown Princess.”

Ilaria only grinned at them as the guards stationed at the prince’s chamber opened the door, fluttering her fingers in a cheery little wave. “Bye bye Ricky and Rocky.”

And with that, she pushed the door open, stepping inside with all the lightness of a woman carrying unshaken hope in her heart.

Roderic looked back at his comrade the moment the door was closed, still clasping the pink macaron in his hand as though it were some priceless relic rather than a sweet. He did not even have a heart to eat it. With ease, he reclined himself beside the double door, his brows drew together.

“She’s not what I expected, the princess,” he muttered. “I thought the Crown Prince’s consort would be colder. More like…” He trailed off, catching himself, but the name hung unspoken in the air between them.

“More like the one who came before?” Alaric adjusted his gauntlet, his face unreadable as he stand on the other side of the door.

Roderic cleared his throat. “What I meant is…she’s a White Dragon royalty. I’ve seen the Queen of Caelwyn before, always carrying herself like marble, untouchable, like she’s carved from the same stone as her crown. I thought the princess would be the same, not the kind to hand her guards sweets and give them names like children’s pets.”

Alaric simply shrugged. “You’ll see soon enough. For better or worse, guarding this princess won’t be the dull duty you imagined.”

Ilaria entered the antechamber and was greeted by the chamberlain, whose face she had never seen before. The chamberlain is a tall, angular man draped in a robe of deep onyx trimmed with silver thread that shimmered faintly under the torchlight. His attire bore no ostentation, yet every stitch spoke of discipline and order.

The sleeves pressed sharp, the high collar clasped with a brooch shaped like a coiled dragon wrought in black steel. At his waist, hung a narrow ledger case, and upon his gloved hand glinted a signet ring etched with the crest of Noctharis. He bowed with exactness — deep enough to honour her station, but never too indulgent.

“Your Highness,” he intoned, voice gravelly yet clear, the kind that carried authority without ever needing to be raised. “His Highness awaits you within.”

Ilaria tilted her head as she regarded him, uncertain if he was old or simply weathered by duty. She dipped her head lightly in return. “Thank you, Chamberlain.”

He stepped aside with precise dignity, one hand gesturing toward the carved doors of the crown prince’s chamber as Ilaria took a step inside. Her heart roared the moment the door was finally shut close. Anticipation tingled through her veins as she stood there, rehearsing everything she had promised herself on the way.

Smile, don’t ramble! Ask if he has eaten. Offer the macarons you made and don’t look too eager, but don’t be cold either.

Composing herself, her lips curled; her fingers smoothed the silk of her gown as if every movement might make the first impression softer, gentler and lovelier. She thought of the words Kathryn had said. About how he summoned her because he has probably missed her.

She swore the nervousness and excitement was a particle away to combust her being — until her gaze froze, and her movement halted.

There, by the low, luxurious sofa, was her husband. He sat upright with the stillness of a mountain, reviewing some papers and documents in his hands. But she did not see the papers. She saw her.

A woman, lovely and refined, leaning casually against him as though the space beside the crown prince of Noctharis belonged to her by right. Ilaria’s eyes caught the cascade of deep wine-red hair, sleek and gleaming under the chamber’s lamplight, tumbling over the woman’s shoulders in perfect waves.

The fabric of her dark emerald gown shimmered faintly, cut close to her frame, regal without being ostentatious. Even from behind, she radiated an ease Ilaria could never mimic, standing too near; too belonging. One hand was rested on his shoulder, fingers brushing the edge of his collar in a way that was too familiar and intimate.

Ilaria’s breath caught. The rehearsed greetings scattered like frightened birds. The macarons fell on the floor as she quickly picked it up. Her voice shrank to nothing in her throat as she scrambled to find a way to leave, as if she was the one interrupting the private moment.

“Oh?” A lilting, silken voice broke through the air. “Oh my…”

Ilaria halted.

The woman rose gracefully from the arm of the chair where she had been perched beside Levan, her wine-red hair spilling over one shoulder like liquid fire. She dipped into a flawless curtsy, her voice warm, elegant.

“Your Highness,” she greeted, every syllable dipped in honey. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

Ilaria blinked, heat rushing to her cheeks. She scrambled for words, forcing a smile that trembled just slightly at the edges. “I— Sorry—”

“Nonsense.” The woman’s smile widened, mirth glinting in her deep blue eyes. “This is your husband’s chamber, after all. You are always welcome here.” Her tone held not a shred of malice, yet somehow the words cut deeper than open scorn.

“I see…” Ilaria murmured, her hands tightening in her skirts.

Turning back to Levan, the woman’s voice softened to a fond murmur, so natural it made Ilaria’s stomach twist. “Levan,” she said, as though the name belonged only to her. She leaned down, brushing an unhurried kiss against his cheek with a familiarity that left Ilaria rooted in place.

Levan didn not stir, like he did not acknowledge it in the slightest. Instead, his eyes remained on the parchment in his hands.

The woman straightened, glancing at Ilaria again with that same poised sweetness. “Do forgive me, Your Highness,” she said, dipping her head lightly. “I didn’t mean to steal too much of his time. I trust he’ll be in good hands now.”

Her skirts swirled as she made for the door, pausing just long enough to cast Ilaria a smile over her shoulder. “It was an honour to finally meet you.”

And then she was gone, the echo of her perfume lingering in the silence she left behind.

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