"I'm the Princess's knight"

  The duke tried to take his hand off.

  "I'm higher ranking—" the Duke gasped.

  "Are you?" Alec's tone was conversational. Pleasant, even. "And how would the King feel, hearing his precious princess was attacked by a Duke? Do you think you could withstand that?"

  The duke winced.

  Alec released the Duke's wrist.

  The Duke scrambled backward, clutching his broken arm, then fled from the greenhouse. Alec straightened. His golden eyes swept to the far end of the room, where two figures lurked behind the glass panels.

  "And you two in the back." His voice remained calm. Cold. "Don't let a word slip out."

  Two maids paled and fled.

  ***

  Outside, the Duke stumbled down the garden path, cradling his injured wrist, face twisted with pain and fury. Once certain no one could hear, he muttered under his breath, "That damn Princess Francesca—she lied to me."

  ***

  Inside the greenhouse, Alec turned to Estelle.

  She froze, unsure what to expect. The cold violence melted from his expression, replaced by something quieter. Something that looked almost like concern.

  "Are you hurt, Princess?"

  "No. I'm fine." Her voice was steady. Her hands were not.

  His gaze dropped to her wrist. A dark bruise was already forming where the Duke had gripped her.

  "May I?"

  She hesitated, then extended her arm. He took it with surprising delicacy, his calloused fingers barely grazing her skin as he examined the bruise. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

  "What a nasty bruise." His voice had gone soft. "Men like that should be eliminated, don't you think?"

  Estelle pulled her arm back.

  "I don't expect you to warm up to me immediately, Princess." His golden eyes met hers. "But if you ever need help, please don't leave me in the dark." A smile touched the corner of his mouth. "I am yours, after all."

  Heat flooded her face. She looked away quickly.

  A maid burst through the greenhouse door, breathless. "Your Highness! The Second Princess has returned!"

  Estelle's head snapped up. "Elizabeth?"

  She turned to Alec and bowed quickly. "I'll be off. Thank you." Then she ran.

  Alec watched her go, that controlled smile still in place.

  "Ha." A quiet chuckle. "This will be fun."

  ***

  Elizabeth—the first sister.

  Blonde hair that caught sunlight like spun gold. Bright blue eyes that sparkled with genuine warmth. A cheerful, magnetic presence that drew people to her effortlessly.

  She was also one of the only people who had ever been genuinely kind to Estelle.

  The etiquette classroom. Estelle, twelve years old, stood stiffly beside her desk while the instructor circled her like a predator.

  "Straighten your posture, Princess Estelle. Smile. Why can't you be more like Princess Elizabeth?"

  Across the room, Elizabeth had been laughing with the other noble girls—her voice like bells, her movements graceful and easy. Natural.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "Princess Elizabeth is welcoming. Warm. People want to be near her." The instructor's voice was sharp. Cutting. "You stand there like a statue. Cold. Unwelcoming. Is it any wonder people avoid you?"

  Estelle had said nothing. Just stood there, hands clenched at her sides.

  "If you're going to be here, at least try to be likable."

  Estelle blinked the memory away.

  "Sister?"

  "Estelle!" Elizabeth threw her arms around her in a crushing hug the moment they reached the entrance. "I've missed you so much!"

  "Me as well." Estelle's voice was muffled against her shoulder. A real smile touched her lips. "Please—there's much to talk about."

  ***

  They settled in one of the smaller sitting rooms with tea and pastries. Elizabeth immediately launched into stories, her hands moving as she spoke.

  "Have you seen the others yet?" Estelle asked.

  "Yes, I greeted them already. Mother and Francesca seemed—well, you know how they are." Elizabeth waved a hand. "But my trip was wonderful, even if I was starting to get homesick."

  "Where did you go?"

  "Oh, everywhere! The glaciers in the far north—Estelle, they're so blue, like frozen sapphires. And the mountain palace, and the marketplace..." Her eyes sparkled. "The marketplace was my favorite."

  "I'm glad you're back," Estelle said softly.

  Elizabeth reached into her traveling pouch and produced a delicate silver hairpin—a crescent moon with a single sapphire set into its curve. "I found this at the harbor. It reminded me of you."

  Estelle took it carefully, turning it in her fingers. The craftsmanship was exquisite.

  "Thank you," she said quietly. "It's beautiful."

  They moved to the window seat. Elizabeth talked easily—about orchards and festivals and a clumsy merchant who stepped on her feet during a dance. Estelle listened, nodding, offering small smiles when they were warranted.

  Elizabeth reached for the teapot to refill their cups. As she did, her gaze snagged on Estelle's wrist.

  She went still.

  "Estelle." Her voice changed—warm still, but different now. Serious. "What happened to your arm?"

  Estelle glanced down. The bruise had darkened: purple and ugly, the finger-shaped marks clearly visible against her pale skin. She'd forgotten to cover it.

  "It's nothing." She pulled her sleeve down quickly. "I just—"

  "That's not nothing." Elizabeth set the teapot down and took Estelle's hand gently but firmly, pushing the sleeve back up. Her eyes widened. "Those are finger marks. Someone grabbed you."

  Estelle tried to pull away. Elizabeth held firm.

  "Who did this?" Her voice was quiet. Dangerous in a way Estelle had rarely heard from her.

  "Tell me who."

  Estelle hesitated. "Duke Verne. He was... confused about something. But it's been handled."

  "Handled how?"

  "Sir Alec intervened."

  Something shifted in Elizabeth's expression—surprise, then understanding, then something else entirely. She released Estelle's hand carefully, as if afraid of causing her further pain.

  "Sir Alec," she repeated softly. Then, after a moment: "I heard Father gave Sir Alec to someone as a personal knight. The Hero of the East." Her eyes met Estelle's. "It was you, wasn't it? He's your knight."

  Estelle nodded slowly.

  "And he stopped the Duke?"

  "Yes."

  Elizabeth was quiet for a long moment, studying her sister's face. "Is he... kind to you?"

  I am yours, after all.

  "He's fine," Estelle answered carefully. "Father chose well." She turned slightly, steering away from the subject.

  Elizabeth waited for more. When nothing came, she laughed lightly—though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "You're always so reserved. I'll meet him tonight at dinner anyway. I want to see the man protecting my sister." The emphasis on protecting was deliberate.

  Estelle only nodded.

  "Oh!" Elizabeth leaned forward. "Do you remember the man I mentioned in my letter? The one who saved me at the marketplace when that cart nearly hit me?"

  "Yes. Are you alright?"

  "Of course! He jumped in to rescue me—it was all very dramatic." A faint blush rose in her cheeks. "But I couldn't find him afterward. I asked around quite a lot, and no one seemed to know who he was."

  "Well, hopefully he hasn't forgotten you," Estelle offered, with a small smile. "Surely he's searching for the beautiful lady he saved."

  "Haha, that's ridiculous, Estelle!" Elizabeth laughed, her blush deepening.

  The tower bell chimed the hour. Elizabeth rose and smoothed her skirts. "I should freshen up before dinner. Are you coming?"

  "I'll stay a little longer," Estelle said. "I'll see you in the hall."

  Elizabeth gave her one last quick hug, then slipped out the door, leaving the faint scent of roses behind.

  ***

  Estelle remained seated, staring at the hairpin in her palm.

  The sapphire caught the light, glinting like a trapped star.

  I am yours, after all.

  Alec's words drifted back to her. That quiet voice. Those golden eyes—so concerned, so gentle. So completely unlike the cold, precise violence she'd witnessed moments before.

  Can I trust you?

  She was five years old, sitting at the edge of her mother's bed. She had been pale that day. Thin in a way that frightened her. But she'd smiled when she saw Estelle, and opened her arms, and Estelle had climbed in beside her without a second thought.

  "My little star," her mother had murmured into her hair. "I'm not gonna be here forever. Don't be afraid of people, Estelle. Let them in."

  She remembered the warmth of her. The scent of her—something soft, like rain on warm stone.

  Three weeks later, she was gone.

  She had been too young to understand it then—only that one day her mother was there, and the next she wasn't, and no one seemed to think that required an explanation. She had learned, eventually, not to expect one.

  Her hand closed around the hairpin, the metal cool against her palm. That old, familiar ache settled quietly in her chest—not sharp anymore. Just permanent. Like a scar that had long finished hurting but never quite disappeared.

  Everyone left. Everyone who mattered.

  Why would Sir Alec Veyron, Hero of the East, be any different?

  End of Chapter 9