The palace was quiet in the early morning, with only the gentle rustling of leaves and the soft cooing of doves to break the silence. Rays of golden sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting a warm glow across the royal gardens. Among the blooming roses, tulips, and lilies, a girl moved gracefully, her pale blue gown brushing lightly against the grass.

Princess Elenora was not like the other royals. While her elder siblings studied politics, swordsmanship, or court etiquette, she preferred the company of flowers. To her, a single budding rose carried more beauty than the jeweled crown she was expected to wear one day. With fair skin, long golden hair tied with ribbons, and eyes filled with innocent wonder, she looked as though she had stepped out of a fairytale.

Her hands, delicate and uncalloused, carefully plucked a newly blossomed lily. She smiled as though the flower itself had whispered a secret only she could hear.

“Good morning, little one,” she murmured to the bloom, her voice soft and tender.

The royal gardeners often chuckled, calling her “The Garden Princess” for the way she treated flowers as if they were living friends. But Elenora never minded their laughter. To her, kindness was not a weakness, and innocence was not ignorance—it was simply the way her heart had always been.

Yet the world beyond the palace walls did not care for innocence.

“Your Highness,” a stern voice broke her daydreams. Lady Agnes, her governess, stood at the edge of the path, hands clasped in front of her. “His Majesty requests your presence in the audience hall.”

Elenora blinked, startled. “Father? At this hour?”

“Yes, Princess. It seems… urgent.”

The lily in her hands trembled slightly as her heart grew uneasy. She gave it one last gentle look before placing it into her basket and following Lady Agnes back inside.

The grand audience hall was filled with silence when Elenora entered. Her father, King Aldric, sat upon the throne with a grave expression. The queen stood beside him, her eyes filled with quiet sorrow.

“My daughter,” the king began, his deep voice echoing across the chamber, “you have reached an age where duty must guide your path.”

Elenora’s lips parted, her innocent eyes wide. “Duty…?”

The queen stepped forward, brushing a strand of golden hair from Elenora’s face. “There are troubles in the kingdom. To secure peace, you must marry.”

The words struck her like a cold wind. Marriage. Though raised as a princess, Elenora had never imagined herself standing beside a man she barely knew. She dreamed of gardens, of quiet days filled with laughter, not of political alliances.

“Marry…?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The king’s gaze hardened, though not unkindly. “The Duke of Ravenwall has agreed to the proposal. He is a man of great power and influence. With him by your side, our kingdom will remain safe.”

Elenora’s heart pounded. She had heard the name before. The duke was a man known for his icy demeanor and ruthless discipline. Soldiers feared his presence; nobles respected him out of necessity, not affection. How could such a man ever look at her, a timid girl who spoke more to flowers than to people?

Her hands clutched the fabric of her gown, but her soft voice finally spoke. “If this is what Father wishes… I shall obey.”

The queen embraced her gently, whispering words of comfort. “Do not be afraid, my child. Even the coldest winter can be softened by the warmth of spring.”

Elenora closed her eyes, letting her mother’s words sink in, though fear still lingered in her heart. She had always believed in the language of flowers—that roses could mean love, lilies purity, and violets faithfulness. Perhaps, she thought with trembling hope, her heart might one day reach the duke’s, like sunlight coaxing a bud to bloom.

But for now, she remained the Garden Princess—innocent, soft, and unprepared for the storm her destiny would bring.

The day passed in a blur after the king’s announcement. Servants whispered as they hurried to prepare letters and gifts to send to Ravenwall, while the queen quietly instructed the maids to begin fitting gowns suitable for a duchess-to-be. Elenora, however, sat in the garden once more, her hands folded on her lap. The lily she had plucked earlier rested in a vase beside her, its white petals bright under the fading sunlight.

Her heart was heavy, yet she tried to steady it. “Marry… the Duke of Ravenwall,” she murmured to herself, the words still strange and foreign on her tongue. The image of a cold, distant man haunted her mind. Could someone like that ever understand her, a girl who found joy in flowers and sunshine?

A maid approached, bowing respectfully. “Your Highness, the duke has arrived at the palace. His Majesty requests your presence in the main hall.”

So soon? Elenora’s fingers curled around her skirt. She thought she would have at least a few more days to prepare, but fate seemed impatient. With a soft breath, she rose and followed the maid inside.

The main hall felt different that evening. Guards stood taller, their expressions tense, as though the very air had grown heavier. At the far end of the hall stood a tall man dressed in a dark military uniform, his black cape falling behind him. His posture was straight and commanding, his presence sharp enough to silence a room.

Elenora’s steps slowed. Her breath caught the moment her eyes met his.

The Duke of Ravenwall was nothing like she had imagined. His features were sharp and cold, his eyes a deep steel gray that seemed to pierce through her very soul. He bowed briefly to the king, then turned his gaze to her. There was no warmth in his expression, no gentle smile, only an unreadable sternness that made her heart flutter with unease.

“This is my daughter, Princess Elenora,” the king introduced, his voice firm. “She is to be your bride.”

Elenora lowered her gaze, her hands trembling as she curtsied gracefully. “I… am honored to meet you, my lord.”

The duke studied her in silence for a long moment. To others, it might have looked as though he was evaluating her worth, weighing her like a soldier inspects a weapon. But for Elenora, the silence was crushing, and she fought the urge to shrink away.

“You are smaller than I expected,” he finally said, his tone low and steady.

Elenora’s cheeks flushed at the blunt remark. She glanced up timidly, only to find his gaze fixed upon her, unwavering. Her lips parted, but no words came out. She was too soft, too innocent, to know how to respond to such a man.

The queen stepped in quickly, her smile gentle. “Elenora is delicate, yes, but she has a kind heart. That is a gift far rarer than strength of arms, Duke.”

For a brief second, something flickered in the duke’s eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came. He gave a curt nod, saying nothing more.

The king clapped his hands together. “Tomorrow evening, there shall be a feast in honor of this union. May it mark the beginning of peace between our lands.”

Elenora bowed her head, her fingers tightening around her skirt. A feast, a marriage, a life she had never asked for—all decided in a single day.

As the hall emptied, she caught one last glimpse of the duke. He stood tall and silent, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity she could not read. Though his face revealed nothing, her heart whispered a fragile hope: perhaps, beneath that cold armor, there was a man who could still be touched by warmth.

And though fear trembled in her chest, Elenora silently vowed to try.

The palace was filled with light and music the following evening. Golden chandeliers sparkled overhead, their brilliance reflected in the polished marble floors. Long tables were laden with roasted meats, fine wine, and fruits arranged like works of art. Nobles in elaborate gowns and velvet coats filled the grand hall, their voices mingling with the melody of string instruments.

Elenora stood at the entrance, her hands clasped together tightly. The gown chosen for her was of pale lavender silk, embroidered with delicate silver threads that shimmered in the light. Her long hair had been braided and adorned with tiny blossoms from her own garden—a small comfort in the midst of her nervousness.

When her presence was announced, all eyes turned to her. She felt their stares like the weight of chains. Some whispered in awe at her beauty, while others smirked behind jeweled fans, already doubting her worth as a duchess-to-be.

She lowered her gaze and walked gracefully toward the high table where her parents and the Duke of Ravenwall awaited. The duke, as always, stood tall and imposing, dressed in his dark military uniform, his expression unreadable.

“Be at ease,” her mother whispered softly as she guided Elenora to her seat. Yet ease was the last thing Elenora felt.

As the feast began, nobles raised their goblets, offering toasts to peace and prosperity. Laughter and conversation filled the air, but Elenora found little comfort in their words. She sat quietly, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup, her appetite lost to her own nerves.

“Princess Elenora,” a baroness seated nearby said with a thin smile, “you must be thrilled. To wed the hero of Ravenwall is a rare honor indeed.”

Elenora offered a polite smile, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes… I am grateful.”

The baroness’s smile sharpened, and her eyes glinted with mischief. “Though I wonder, can a delicate flower survive beside a man forged of iron?”

A ripple of laughter followed among the surrounding nobles. Elenora’s chest tightened, her throat dry. Words fled her, leaving her silent and small before their mockery.

But before the laughter could spread further, a low, firm voice cut through the air.

“Enough.”

The duke’s steel-gray eyes turned to the baroness, his gaze sharp as a blade. “You forget your place. Do not mistake her gentleness for weakness.”

The hall grew still, whispers silenced at once. The baroness paled, bowing her head quickly. “F-forgive me, Your Grace.”

Elenora’s heart skipped. She dared a glance at the duke, surprised to see his eyes fixed upon her. Though his face remained stern, there was a weight in his gaze that made her chest tighten—not coldness, but something else she could not yet name.

When the musicians began a soft waltz, couples drifted to the center of the hall. Elenora sat quietly, certain no one would ask her to dance. She much preferred watching, her heart calmer among flowers than beneath the gaze of so many. But then, the duke rose from his seat.

He extended his gloved hand toward her.

Gasps filled the hall. The feared Duke of Ravenwall, known for his icy demeanor, was asking the timid princess for a dance.

Elenora’s breath caught. Her hands trembled as she placed her fingers lightly in his. The moment their hands touched, warmth spread through her, fragile but undeniable.

He led her onto the dance floor. Though her steps were hesitant at first, his firm guidance steadied her. Around them, nobles watched in astonishment, whispers rising like rustling leaves. Yet in that moment, Elenora heard none of it.

She only felt the strength of his hand, the intensity of his gaze, and the faint possibility that perhaps, just perhaps, this union was not a prison but the beginning of something unknown… something she dared to hope could one day be called love.