Chapter 11
Roland’s indulgence of Cecily had long become the talk of Crownspire–half astonished, half outraged.
As her sworn protector, Roland shadowed Eleanor through bustling markets and verdant fields, holding her cloak against the spring breeze and fetching honeyed comfits from Westgate’s finest confectioners at dawn, all because she once sighed for their taste. When her feet blistered from long walks, he offered his arm for support, heedless of the townsfolk’s whispers, and eased her to rest beneath an oak’s shade.
But he was not merely her guard. He was Prince Roland Thorne, heir to a kingdom. When Cecily praised the delicate linens of the southern wealds, he quietly ensured a merchant’s entire stock reached her chambers. When she admired a reliquary of polished ivory, said to hold a saint’s relic, he sent trusted envoys to scour the realm for its match. And if she spoke ill of a courtier, by dawn, that soul would find themselves discreetly summoned to a distant estate, far from Crownspire’s halls.
Those close to the prince whispered the same thing.
“The mighty Roland has fallen–and he’s fallen hard for the second daughter of House Viremont.”
And they were not wrong.
That day, Cecily had pouted and begged to go flower–watching on the hills beyond Blossomvale. Roland, ever obliging, agreed. What neither expected was
an ambush.
CRACK!
Their carriage was struck with brutal force, flipping twice before crashing onto its side. Roland’s back slammed into the wooden wall, a jagged splinter tearing through his tunic and deep into flesh. Blood soaked the fabric, staining the crest of House Thorne.
But his arms never moved from around Cecily. She was untouched.
“Roland!” she cried, pale as parchment, her trembling fingers brushing his bloodied cheek. “You’re bleeding…”
He tried to reassure her, but instead coughed a mouthful of blood.
Her sobs followed him into the darkness as he slipped into unconsciousness.
When he next awoke, it was to find her curled at his bedside, dozing lightly. At the faintest rustle, she flung herself at him with a cry of relief. “You frightened me to death! How could you be so foolish?”
Her arms pressed against his wound, making him grunt in pain–but he still reached up and gently patted her back. “It’s nothing… doesn’t hurt.”
Tears streamed down her face. “The healer said that shard missed your heart by less than an inch! One more, and you—”
“It was worth it,” he said softly. “Protecting you always will be.”
“You’ve always been too good to me…” Cecily’s voice shook. “Even though you were my sister’s sworn guard, you still looked after me all these years.”
“I remember that time I had a fever. You scoured the entire city in the middle of a storm just to find me honey cakes…”
The memory was vivid. He had searched for five hours in pouring rain. When he returned, soaked and shivering, he placed the warm pastries in her hands.
“And last year, on my birthday–when someone mocked me at the banquet, you broke three ribs in a duel defending me…”
Her eyes shimmered. “And that flower on Starfall Crag… That place is perilous, but you still climbed it just to fetch it for me…”
She looked up at him, radiant with expectation. “Roland… why? Why are you always so kind to me?”
“Because…” He opened his mouth. But the words ‘I love you‘ lodged in his throat like thorns.
It didn’t make sense. He had shielded her with his body, risked his life for a single blossom, even carved her name into his own chest. Yet at this moment —when all he needed to do was say it–his chest clenched painfully, and no words came.
So instead, he asked, “Are you free in three days?”
Cecily blinked “Why?”
“There’s something I need to tell you.” He forced a smile
She was about to press further, but a maid rushed in, whispered something in her ear. Her face changed.
“Roland, I’m sorry–I have to gol” she blurted, darting out before he could answer.
As the door swung shut, Roland’s smile faded
Chapter 11
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His gaze drifted to the bed’s canopy–and a memory rose, unbidden.
Half a year ago. He had still been Eleanor’s sworn guard. They were on a diplomatic journey when an ambush caught them by surprise. A blade slashed deep across his shoulder as he stepped between her and death.
“Have you lost your bloody mind?!” Eleanor had shouted, voice cracking, eyes rimmed with red.
She had cursed him roundly as she pressed cloth to his wound, the fine silk of her gown drenched in his blood. She hadn’t cared. For the next few days, the famously proud Lady Eleanor insisted on tending him herself–though her gruel was half–burnt, and her fruit peeled down to the core.
“You may serve me, yes,” she had whispered once, “but your life matters just as much as mine.”
That memory tugged at the corners of his lips.
Then, as if stung, he stiffened.
What was he doing?
Eleanor was married now. She had gone to Westmarch. He had loved Cecily all along–hadn’t he?
Almost angrily, he summoned his shadowguard.
“My lord,” the masked warrior said warily, “I thought you forbade us from intervening. Even when your life hung by a thread, you ordered us to stay hidden for Lady Cecily’s sake. And now you call upon us?”
Roland’s voice was firm. “Prepare everything. I want to declare my feelings for Cecily to the world.”
“…What?”
“I’m done hiding. This time, I’ll say it clearly,”
The shadowguard’s jaw practically dropped. “You’re confessing? Truly? No riddles? No quiet glances?”
Roland nodded, then rattled off a long list of preparations.
The guard shook his head in disbelief. “A love confession this extravagant? Honestly, I don’t get it. What is it about Lady Cecily that you find so…”
He trailed off. Roland didn’t answer immediately.
His mind drifted back to a Spring Hunt, three years ago.
He had first seen her then–a slip of a girl in a white gown, scrambling up a tree to rescue a fallen nest. The sunlight dappled through the leaves, casting her in golden hues. Her face had been hidden, but the image had stayed with him, like a painted dream.
He had asked who she was.
“Lady Viremont,” the servant had said.
And just like that, his heart had been stolen.
To stay close to her, he had hidden his true title and sworn himself to her elder sister instead
“She’s kind,” he said aloud. “Innocent…”
But as he listed her virtues, something in them felt… distant.
Still, he waved the thought away. “Just make sure everything’s ready. This time, I will win her heart.”
With that, he dismissed the guard and sat, eyes fixed on the fading light, the question still echoing in his mind, ‘Why does saying it feel so wrong?”
Chapter 11
