A very long time ago, in a kingdom that no longer exists…

Vorondil stood with arms crossed, watching as two younger knights sparred in the courtyard.

Disgraceful.

His green eyes narrowed in disappointment. These amateurs were bringing shame upon the Order of Thorns.

To any commoner, their swordplay would have seemed masterful. But in the few seconds since the match had begun, Vorondil had already spotted dozens of mistakes.

His lip curled into a sneer.

"This is all the progress you've made?"

He turned sharply on his heel, his long cloak billowing behind him.

"Don't waste my time with this nonsense again."

His words carried absolute finality.

The two men lowered their swords, their faces tight with frustration, but neither dared to protest as they watched him walk away.

Vorondil left the training grounds behind, striding through the streets of his homeland.

The great trees of the elven kingdom stretched high above, their golden leaves filtering soft rays of sunlight onto the cobblestone paths. Songbirds flitted through the branches, their melodies filling the air with a peaceful hum.

He scoffed.

A minstrel strummed his lute in the town square, struggling through a tune he had no doubt spent weeks perfecting—all for a girl who barely noticed his existence.

What a waste of time.

As Vorondil passed, the minstrel faltered, his fingers slipping on the strings.

"Isn’t that…"

The words faded behind him as his stride quickened. He had no time for distractions.

The towering silhouette of the royal palace loomed ahead.

The castle guards spotted him immediately, snapping into rigid salutes. He didn’t even glance at them as he passed.

The moment he disappeared from sight, they exhaled in relief, shoulders sagging.

Inside, the castle halls stretched in intricate elegance—walls lined with breathtaking murals of history and legend, painstakingly painted over centuries.

Vorondil had never spared them a second glance.

And he never would.

He moved with an intensity few could match. Servants scattered at the sound of his boots against the marble floor, vanishing behind doors or pressing themselves into the shadows to escape his gaze.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He was heading for one place.

And no one—not a single soul—would dare to stand in his way.

He stopped before a grand door, its surface adorned with intricate carvings of twisting vines and celestial symbols.

For the first time since entering the castle, he hesitated.

Straightening his clothes and smoothing his hair, he inhaled slowly, steadying himself. Then, with a measured hand, he rapped softly against the wood.

A brief silence followed before a voice—soft, musical, and undeniably familiar—called out.

“Come in.”

He opened the door and stepped inside, carefully schooling his expression into one of neutrality.

The princess sat before a grand mirror, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders as a handmaiden brushed through its silken strands.

The floral scent of her favorite oils filled the air—delicate yet overwhelming. Vorondil inhaled deeply, allowing the fragrance to flood his senses.

He did not react.

Instead, he took his position near the door, standing at quiet attention.

"That didn't take long at all," the princess mused, a teasing lilt in her voice. "I don’t know why you put up such a fuss." A soft giggle escapes her lips.

She glanced at him through the mirror, her silver eyes locking onto his.

His muscles tensed before he could stop himself.

Noticing, she turned, pouting slightly. "Oh, did it not go well? You look frustrated. I’m sorry for laughing at you."

She bit at her thumbnail, scanning his face as though searching for an answer he refused to give.

Vorondil quickly shook his head, forcing the ghost of a smile onto his lips. "Do not apologize, Princess. I am your loyal servant."

He bowed, his movements crisp and precise, his voice unwavering.

When he straightened, he saw it.

Concern—genuine concern—etched across her delicate features.

His heart lurched in his chest, but he refused to let it show.

Instead, he chuckled lightly. "I assure you, Princess, everything went as expected."

It wasn’t a lie.

Her silver eyes lingered on his, and for a moment, he felt his heartbeat hammer against his ribs.

Then she smiled—soft and knowing.

Turning back to the mirror, she broke the moment, and he exhaled slowly, regaining his composure.

"Come here, please."

She didn’t command it. She asked.

His feet moved before he even registered her words.

He came to stand beside her, unable to ignore the warmth of her presence.

"How can I be of service, Princess?" he asked, leaning in slightly.

She lifted two delicate hairpins into the light. "Which of these looks prettiest?"

One was a cluster of small golden flowers, delicate and regal.

The other—a single vibrant purple bloom.

She alternated them against her hair, switching between the two with a look of intense concentration.

Vorondil found himself staring.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she weighed the decision, her lips pursing in thought. It was such a simple thing, yet she treated it with the utmost seriousness.

His mind blanked.

"What do you think?" She turned to him, pouting slightly.

Panic.

Without thinking, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"The purple one."

His tone came out sharper than he intended, and he cursed himself inwardly. Fool.

But she only beamed up at him.

For a moment, he forgot everything.

"That's the one I was thinking too!" Her voice was bright, triumphant.

Behind her, the handmaiden smiled in quiet amusement, nodding in agreement.

"It's almost time." She sighed, her voice carrying a softness that made his chest tighten.

With reluctant grace, she stood. "Wait here—you absolutely have to see the dress Lorain picked."

She reached out, taking the handmaid’s hand with effortless familiarity before leading her into the other room to change.

As the door clicked shut, Vorondil exhaled.

His gaze drifted to the mirror.

A smile rested on his face—an unfamiliar sight.

He studied it for a moment longer before forcing himself to turn away.

----

Many years later.

The cloth dragged over his blade, slow and methodical.

Vorondil wiped at the stains—stains that weren’t there.

He knew it was pristine.

A flawless edge, crafted from the finest elven steel.

Yet no matter how many times he cleaned it… the stains never faded.

His fingers tensed around the hilt.

A flicker of movement caught his attention in the dim light.

His eyes shifted—cold, hollow.

And then they softened.

Narmo sat near the door, his silver eyes shining with quiet joy as he pored over the book.

The same book that had cost Vorondil more favors than he could count.

The boy’s expression was untouched by the weight of this world.

Vorondil’s chest ached.

Yet still… he smiled.