How it started

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.”

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