Falling for her highness

 °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°

 The sound of paintbrushes, laughter, and soft voices drifted through the open balcony windows.

Rowen sat alone on the cold marble steps just outside the armory, his fingers idly tracing the edge of a worn leather glove that no longer quite fit his growing hands. his boots were dusty from the early morning ride, but he hadn't even bothered changing. He didn't have the energy.

The ache in his chest had become a familiar companion.

A dull, throbbing silence where her voice used to live.

Evelynne hadn't spoken to him in days. Not really. A nod here. A fleeting glance. Nothing more. And even those felt strained—like she was being careful. Like she didn't know how to look at him anymore.

But Rowen knew how to look at her.

He saw her just this morning, sitting with Rye beneath the sun-drenched portico. The easel was tilted toward the light, a wide canvas stretched across it. Evelynne's sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, her cheeks smudged with flecks of paint as she laughed at something Rye said. She always looked happiest when she painted.

Rowen used to be the one beside her.

They had a box tucked away in her studio—full of half-finished portraits and messy brushstrokes from when they were kids. Paint on their noses. Ink stains on their fingers. That was theirs.

Now Rye sat in that space.

Now he was the one laughing with her. Mixing her colors. Holding her hand to guide a stroke.

Rowen watched from the shadowed corridor, unseen, his heart sinking with every smile she gave Rye.

He didn't even know if she remembered what painting meant to them.

He'd tried to stay away. He thought it would be easier. But each time he tried to convince himself it didn't matter—each time he tried to bury it beneath the thought of leaving—he saw her again.

And it did matter.

He had already begun clearing out his shelf in the west tower.

Packed a few things. Hidden his training uniform under his mattress.

He hadn't told her yet.

Maybe he wouldn't.

Rowen stood from the steps, brushing the dirt from his palms. His shoulders felt heavier with every passing day.

He heard her laugh again—so warm, so familiar—and it felt like someone had pressed a hand straight through his ribs.

He didn't belong here anymore. Not with her.

Not when she didn't even seem to notice he was slipping away.

******

The courtyard was quieter than usual, though a small cluster of guards and noblemen stood near the gates, murmuring softly as they spoke with the King. The golden light of evening bathed the palace walls, casting long shadows that danced across the marble floor. The air smelled of fresh leather, iron, and something final.

Rowen stood beside the royal carriage, his uniform dark and perfectly pressed, his eyes distant. A sword hung by his side—not ornamental, but real. Heavy. Ready.

His heart thundered in his chest, though his face remained still.

The moment he had been preparing for in silence was finally here.

He could still feel the weight of her in his memory—Evelynne, with paint on her fingers and laughter in her voice. But she wasn't here now. She didn't come.

She probably wouldn't.

The King stood off to the side, speaking with two older military commanders, discussing Rowen's safety and the logistics of his journey.

"He'll be stationed along the northern front," one of them was saying. "Training begins immediately. He'll be gone for some time."

The words dug deep.

Gone for some time.

Possibly years.

Rowen's jaw tightened. He looked back once at the palace steps—stone cold and empty. No sign of her. Not even a shadow.

But then—The door flew open.

He turned.

And there she was.

Evelynne.

She burst out of the doorway like the wind had pushed her, still wearing her indoor slippers, her gown wrinkled and clutched in her fists. Her hair had fallen from its pins. Her eyes wide—wet.

"Rowen!!" she shouted.

He froze.

"Rowen, no—please!" Her voice cracked as she ran down the steps, the sound of her feet echoing in the still courtyard. "You can't, no one told me—you didn't tell me!"

Her breath hitched.

"I didn't know you were leaving tonight. I didn't even know you were…" her voice trembled, "leaving at all."

Rowen stood motionless, his throat thick with every word he wanted to say but couldn't.

She reached him, chest heaving, tears streaking down her cheeks. "You were just going to disappear?" she whispered. "Just like that?"

"I didn't want you to stop me," he said quietly.

She shook her head, furious and heartbroken. "You didn't even give me the chance."

He looked away, his voice barely a whisper. "You hadn't spoken to me in days."

"Because I was confused!" she cried. "Because everything was changing and I didn't know what I was feeling and—" her breath hitched, "—and I was scared."

He met her eyes. "So was I."

A silence fell between them, painful and raw.

Evelynne reached out suddenly and grabbed the front of his uniform, her fingers trembling. "You can't leave," she whispered. "Not like this. Not without knowing…"

She stopped herself, unable to finish.

Rowen placed a hand gently over hers. "I already know," he said softly. "I've always known."

Tears streamed down her face now, freely. "Then why are you going?"

"Because I don't belong here anymore," he said, voice low and steady. "And you… you're growing into something beautiful, Evelynne. Something I'm scared to touch. And he—" he swallowed, "—he fits into your world. I never did."

She shook her head, sobbing. "That's not true."

But he was already pulling her into his arms, holding her like he'd never get to again. Her hands clutched the back of his uniform tightly, as if she could hold him here with sheer will.

"I don't know when I'll be back," he murmured into her hair. "But this—us—it's always been the best part of me."

tears poured freely down her face now. Her voice cracked as she stumbled backward, staring at the soldiers, the horse, the waiting carriage. Everything was too real.

Then her eyes snapped toward her father.

"Father!" she screamed, her voice ragged and desperate. "Make him stay!"

Everyone turned. The soldiers. The noblemen. Even the king paused.

"Please!" she sobbed. "Please don't send him away! I don't care if it's selfish—I don't care who hears me—I want him to stay. I want—" her words dissolved into a gasp, her knees buckling slightly as more tears spilled. "I want him here. I want him with me."

She turned back to Rowen, a complete mess of emotion and heartbreak.

But he didn't move.

Not because he didn't want to.

Because if he did—he might not leave at all.

Evelynne kept crying, standing there like the world was falling apart, and maybe for both of them, it already was.

But the carriage door opened.

And Rowen, with a last hollow breath, walked toward it.

Even as she screamed his name again.

Even as her sobs echoed across the stone courtyard and into the darkening sky.

Because sometimes, love wasn't enough to stop goodbye.