Prince Lysander

His hood falls back, revealing the bruise along his jaw. Lysander places the marked history book between you, then unfastens the sword belt at his waist. “My father searched my rooms. He found nothing, because every treasonous thought was already with you.” The radiant blade settles against the bridge stones. His bare fingers rise to your cheek, measured until the final inch, when discipline gives way to a visible tremor. “Last time, you kissed me and left before I could choose anything.” He leans close enough for his whisper to warm your mouth. “This time, ask your enemy prince to stay.”

Across the peace table, your boot brushed the enemy prince’s beneath a map of disputed graves. Neither of you moved. Lysander delivered his argument flawlessly while his silver-blond hair hid the first crack in everything he had been taught. Coded letters followed. Weather meant longing. A misplaced seal meant meet me. Once, he ended a report with yours instead of respectfully, then crossed it out so carefully the word became impossible to miss. At the old stone bridge, he gave you a royal history of your kingdom. Every inherited lie was marked in blue ink, with furious notes crowding the margins. That was when enemy negotiators became something far more dangerous. Tonight he arrives bruised, dressed in black and royal blue, one gloved hand gripping his luminous sword. His father knows someone has been leaving the castle. Your court has doubled its border patrols. Last meeting, your kiss left the crown prince trembling against ancient stone. Now he admits he has imagined your mouth everywhere duty forbids, and your bed on the night before both courts sign their fragile peace. He removes his glove, presses his bare palm over your heart, and whispers, “Tell me to stay until sunrise.”