The morning sun spilled gold across the castle courtyard, catching the delicate embroidery of Flora’s wedding gown. Her white hair shimmered like silk under the sunlight, and her red eyes glimmered—not with fear, but with quiet joy. Slim and graceful, her presence seemed almost otherworldly, like a saint walking among mortals.

Across from her, the groom named Marcus waited. His eyes—one black, one green—watched her with a mix of awe and unspoken promises. His skin was pale with just a hint of brown, and his hands, rough from years of command, flexed instinctively at his sides. His frame, strong and muscular, radiated both authority and protection.

The court had gathered, noble families lining the hall, yet all eyes seemed to rest on them alone. This marriage was no political arrangement—it was born from the purest love, a bond nurtured by care, respect, and understanding. Both families had approved wholeheartedly, for they saw in their children a rare and sacred devotion.

The priest’s voice carried across the hall, solemn and steady. “Do you, Flora, take Marcus to be your husband?”

Flora’s hand found his, warm and steady. “I do,” she whispered, though her heart raced so wildly it could have drowned out her voice.

“And you, Marcus?”

“I do,” he said, eyes locking onto hers, letting every ounce of love and promise shine through.

The bells rang, voices rose in celebration, and for that moment, nothing existed beyond the love that bloomed between the bride and her groom—the Queen who would soon face a world aflame, and the King who would fight to protect her at any cost.

Flora squeezed his hand. “Forever, then?” she murmured, leaning slightly closer.

“Forever,” Marcus replied softly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Their lips met, soft and lingering, a promise sealed in the quiet intimacy of the crowded hall. Time seemed to stretch as they moved together, hearts beating in harmony, forgetting the world beyond the golden walls.

The day flowed in a golden blur—feet sweeping across polished floors, laughter drifting in the air. They danced not just with nobles draped in velvet and silk, but with commoners whose hands bore the calluses of labor. Every smile returned, every bow and curtsy exchanged, carried warmth.

“I never imagined it could feel like this,” Flora whispered as they twirled.

Marcus chuckled, brushing a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “It’s because it’s real. Us. Nothing else matters today.”

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the courtyard, and still they moved together, lost in each other, lost in the perfection of the day.

Night draped the castle in soft shadows. Flora stood on the balcony, the cool breeze brushing her white hair across her face. Clutched in her hand, the ring glimmered faintly in the moonlight, a tether to the love that filled her heart.

Marcus approached silently, placing a hand on her waist. “You’re thinking about the moon again,” he said gently.

“I am,” she replied. “It’s so beautiful tonight… I wish it could always feel like this.”

He bent slightly, pressing a brief kiss against her cheek. “Then we’ll make our world feel like this, wherever we go.”

Flora’s arms tightened around him. “I hope so,” she whispered, feeling the warmth of his body ground her like nothing else in the world.

Time slowed, stretching the intimacy of the moment. Even as the world slept, their hearts spoke, echoing promises of shared life, whispered only in glances, gentle touches, and the quiet beating of two souls bound together.

The light of dawn cut through the curtains, waking Flora from her slumber. She slowly opened her eyes, stretching with a soft yawn. Memories of their wedding day and night washed over her like a dream. Her most cherished wish had been fulfilled—she had married the man she deeply, truly loved. Everything felt too perfect to be real.

Turning to her side, she reached out. “Marcus?” she murmured, expecting him to be there.

The sheets were empty, still faintly warm, but he was gone. A flicker of worry crossed her face. She rang the small bell at her bedside.

Lauren, her loyal maid, appeared swiftly. “He’s already gone to his duties,” the maid explained, bowing respectfully.

Flora exhaled slowly, a mixture of longing and pride swelling in her chest. “Always working,” she murmured softly. “Even on the first morning we share.”

Lauren smiled faintly. “He does care, Your Majesty. Always.”

The maid guided Flora through her morning duties, and soon the empress arrived at her private office. Pushing open the carved wooden door, she was greeted by two towering stacks of parchment resting on the desk.

Flora lowered herself into the chair. “So much to do…” she whispered under her breath, though her eyes sparkled with determination. Picking up her ink pen, she began to write, her strokes firm, graceful, and deliberate. Each mark was a promise to the empire, and to Marcus, that she would be both a queen of heart and mind.

Each mark on the parchment reminded Flora of the role she now held—not only as a wife, but as a queen. Beneath the silence of the office, her thoughts drifted back—to the first time she had seen Marcus, to the tangled threads of their families’ hearts becoming entwined.

Little Marcus stood at the center of the grand throne hall, his small frame dwarfed by the immense figures of his parents, the Emperor and Empress, seated in regal splendor. Sunlight spilled through the tall stained windows, scattering red and gold across the marble floors.

The Emperor’s voice rang out, commanding the attention of the room. “Today we celebrate my son’s tenth year!” The crowd erupted into applause, voices filling the hall with a thunderous cheer. Yet Marcus remained still, expression unreadable, posture composed far beyond his age.

Above the hall, on the first-floor gallery, Flora leaned over the railing, heart pounding. “He’s… so quiet,” she whispered to herself. Her eyes traced the black strands of his hair, the green-black shimmer of his gaze. “But there’s something… something there. I feel it.”

Her parents’ faces were lined with concern. “Flora,” her mother murmured, “a prince is not easily reached. Remember that.”

“I… I will,” she said softly, determination threading her voice. “I will stand by him. No matter what.”

The hall began to empty, and Flora’s small hands clenched. Without thinking, she ran, weaving through the scattering nobles, until she stood before Marcus.

“Hello,” she said, voice quivering slightly. “I… I want to be your friend.”

Marcus blinked, his dull, detached gaze holding her for a heartbeat longer than expected. Then—just slightly—his lips curved. “Friend?” His voice was low, cautious, yet warm.

“Yes,” she said, smiling, fingers brushing against his. “A friend. Please.”

His eyes flickered, and for the first time, a hint of stars shimmered in them. “Alright,” he murmured, almost a whisper. “Friend.”

The bond was fragile yet undeniable, formed in that instant. Becoming friends with a crown prince had seemed impossible—but somehow, it felt as natural as breathing.

Their families met not long after. Saints and rulers, centuries of history pressing down on their shoulders, yet softened in this generation.

Her mother, graceful and measured, spoke quietly, “Let us find common ground. Winter comes soon. Our children must be prepared.”

The Emperor nodded, voice echoing with cautious approval. “Agreed. The challenges ahead will test them all.”

Flora tugged Marcus’ hand toward the garden. “Come with me,” she said. “Let’s not think about winter yet. Just… us.”

He looked down at her, green-black eyes softening. “Alright,” he said with a faint smile.

Out in the garden, the crisp air carried the scent of early blooms. Flora’s heart swelled. “I promise,” she whispered, her pinky brushing against his, “I will marry you. Even if… even if I die.”

Marcus blinked, taken aback, but then laughter spilled from him—soft, fragile, and utterly captivating. “Then I’ll marry you too,” he said, intertwining his pinky with hers. “Even after death.”

From that day on, Flora worked not only to love him but to become a queen of mind as well as heart. “I will not be weak,” she vowed silently, practicing sword swings in the courtyard, learning each movement with fierce determination.

She faced bullies and critics alike. One sneered at her, “You think you can stand against us?”

Flora’s eyes narrowed, voice steady: “I think you should find a purpose beyond mocking others. Strength is earned, not stolen.”

The group faltered under her gaze, shock evident on their faces. She turned, chest rising with quiet pride. She had claimed her space, sharp and unyielding.

She confided in her mother, who nodded, approving and calm. “You’re learning, my child. Courage will guide you.”

Her father, though seldom home, offered a rare smile. “Swordsmanship will protect you. Remember that strength comes in many forms.”

By sixteen, Marcus had mastered every strategy, every method to infiltrate enemy lines, and all tactics to turn the tide in battle. He had studied the empire’s economy, its trade, and the balance of resources. Exhaustion weighed on him, yet the thought of Flora gave him focus, a constant reminder that power alone was meaningless without someone to share it.

One evening, his mother remarked, “Flora is extraordinary. A golden child, worthy of standing beside you.”

His father added, pragmatic as always, “She is intelligent. Poised. A partner capable of shaping the empire with you.”

Marcus looked down at her, a quiet certainty in his heart. “Yes,” he murmured, “she is the one. Only she.”

Flora walked slowly through the palace gardens, finishing half of her paperwork. The light of the late afternoon brushed her hair, and her steps fell softly against the stone paths. She found Marcus standing before the roses, his gaze fixed on a single bloom that seemed to outshine the rest.

“Marcus,” Flora said softly, approaching him, “wasn’t it lavender you loved?”

He didn’t turn immediately, his hand brushing lightly over the petals. “I… I used to think so,” he said, voice low. “But it seems even flowers have secrets. Lavender is too common. This… this one is mine.”

She knelt slightly to inspect the rose. Its petals were crimson, dark and rich, almost like spilled blood, with a black stem lined with sharp thorns. “It’s… beautiful,” she whispered. “And dangerous.”

Marcus finally looked at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Just like… someone I know,” he murmured.

Flora laughed softly. “Are you saying I’m dangerous?”

“Only to anyone who tries to take your place,” he replied.

She blushed, looking away. “So… you’d go anywhere with me?”

He shook his head, his expression suddenly serious. “Not yet. My duties… I must complete half of them before I can leave anything behind.”

Her hand brushed his lightly. “Then tonight?”

Marcus nodded, eyes softening. “Tonight, when the moon rises high. We’ll dress as commoners. No one will know. Just you and me.”

Before he turned away, he leaned close and pressed a brief kiss to her cheek. It was fleeting, almost hidden by the garden’s stillness, yet it carried warmth that lingered long after he disappeared toward the palace gates.

Flora’s gaze returned to the crimson rose. “True love,” she murmured. “It means… unshakable. That’s us, Marcus. Even time itself couldn’t change it.”

After wandering the garden a little longer, she returned to her chambers, finishing the rest of her duties. Marcus had gone to inspect the mining site, leaving her with a shadow of worry. “I hope nothing happens there,” she muttered to herself.

The mines proved safe, and Marcus returned by late afternoon. By five o’clock, he was already preparing for their evening outing. “Tailor!” he called. “Make them commoner’s clothing. Quick.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the tailor replied, bowing deeply.

By five-thirty, the garments were delivered. Marcus emerged from the bath, wrapping a loose robe around his frame. He waited outside Flora’s chambers.

The door swung open, and Flora stumbled into him. “Oh! I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, cheeks burning red.

Marcus chuckled, shaking his head. “No harm done.” He stretched out his hand. “Ready to go?”

Flora smiled, accepting it. Their outfits matched perfectly—him in a French cap, blackish-brown trousers, and a light shirt; her frock in earthy tones layered softly. “We look… ordinary,” she said.

“Just as we should,” Marcus replied with a grin. “No one will know us tonight.”

They left the castle under the butler’s care and slipped into the bustling streets of the Veylarian Empire. The evening air carried the scents of bread, roasted meat, and lantern oil.

Inside a quiet café tucked away between streets, they ordered their meal and sat in a corner. The soft glow of lanterns cast gentle shadows, giving them a rare pocket of peace.

Hours later, as they returned, Flora faltered. “Marcus…” she whispered, color draining from her face. She bent forward, and the moment he realized she was unwell, he caught her in his arms.

“Flora!” he exclaimed. “Hold on, don’t—don’t let go.”

She trembled against him. “I… I don’t know what’s happening…”

Marcus ran as fast as he could, weaving through the palace gates. The guards, wide-eyed, barely held the doors as he entered, his arms tightly around her.

The maids rushed to their side. “Call Dr. Louis!” one shouted, fumbling for the telephone.

Marcus’ voice was tight with panic. “Quick! Make sure he comes immediately!”