The days after my breakdown blur together in fragments—moments of clarity followed by waves of despair that crash over me without warning.
I take two steps forward, managing to dress myself and join the Duke’s family for dinner. Then one step back when I find myself frozen in the corridor, unable to breathe as panic claws at my throat.
Maren stays close during these episodes, her presence steady and undemanding.
She doesn't try to fix me or tell me everything will be fine. She just sits with me until the storm passes, talking about inconsequential things or maintaining comfortable silence.
One afternoon, restless energy drives me from my chambers.
I can't sit still anymore, can't bear another moment trapped inside my own spiraling thoughts, and I wander through the estate grounds without destination.
My feet carried me past manicured gardens and through a grove of ancient oaks. The fresh air should help, should clear my head. But instead I'm lost in a maze of worries about my sons, about kingdoms and thrones and impossible futures.
Then I hear it—excited barking cutting through my anxiety like a knife.
I freeze, turning toward the sound. Three enormous hunting hounds bound toward me across the lawn, their powerful bodies moving with surprising grace. For a moment, instinct takes over and I tense, preparing to run or defend myself.
But they don't attack. They circle me with enthusiasm, tails wagging so hard their entire back ends shake. The largest one, a massive beast with a dark coat and intelligent eyes, presses his head insistently under my palm, demanding attention.
"Hello there," I whisper, tentatively stroking his head. "Please don’t eat me."
He barks as if confirming his peaceful intentions and the dog's fur is soft, warm beneath my fingers. He leans into my touch with a contented rumble that vibrates through my palm and up my arm.
"They remember you." Kyrell's voice comes from the direction of the kennels, warm with amusement.
I look up to find him walking toward me, wiping his hands on a cloth. He's dressed simply today—no formal attire, just practical clothing that speaks of physical work rather than noble leisure.
"This is Saxon," he says, nodding toward the dog currently monopolizing my attention. "The other two are Bran and Luna. They found you in the ravine."
"I think I remember their barking," I say softly, running my hand along Saxon's enormous head. "Thought I was dreaming at first."
"They consider you a pack now." Kyrell stops a few feet away, watching Saxon lean against my legs with obvious approval. "Having found you first, they've claimed you as theirs to protect."
"Is that how it works?"
"With these three, yes. They're possessive about the people they've saved."
He makes a soft clicking sound with his tongue, and immediately the other two dogs abandon me to bound toward him with equal enthusiasm. But Saxon stays near me anyway.
"Traitor," he says fondly with a smile, dropping to one knee to greet Bran and Luna properly.
I watch him with the dogs, seeing a different side of the serious, intense man who's watched over me these past weeks.
His hands move confidently over their heads and backs, checking them with practiced efficiency even as he accepts their enthusiastic greeting. There's genuine affection in his eyes, a softness that transforms his usually stern features.
"Walk with me?" he asks, rising. "They need exercise, and you look like you could use some distance from the house."
I nod, grateful for the company and the excuse to keep moving.
We walk together through the grounds, the dogs ranging ahead and circling back periodically to check on us. Kyrell talks about training them, about the bond between handler and hound that goes beyond simple obedience.
"It's about trust," he explains as we watch Saxon flush a bird from the underbrush. "They need to know I'll never ask them to do something that will harm them. And I need to trust they'll come back, even when every instinct tells them to chase."
"Like now?" I observe as Bran tears after a squirrel, only to wheel around at Kyrell's sharp whistle.
"Exactly like now." He smiles slightly. "It takes years to build that kind of trust, but once you have it, it's unbreakable."
Something about the dogs' simple, uncomplicated affection soothes my raw nerves in ways human comfort hasn't managed. They don't pity me or tiptoe around my pain. They just exist, demanding nothing but occasional pets and offering unconditional acceptance in return.
"You seem to be always somewhere near me," I say after a while, letting curious amusement color my voice. "Wherever I go… you're there in a moment. Why?"
Kyrell doesn't deny it. He's quiet for a moment, watching Luna investigate a hollow log with intense concentration. When he speaks, his expression has grown serious.
"Preparing for your return has been my entire life, Princess," he says quietly. "Not just these weeks since I found you. From the moment I was old enough to understand what happened to my mother, what she died protecting."
I stop walking, turning to face him fully.
"My father raised me knowing that someday you would return," he continues. "That someday the hidden princess would come home. And when she did, we needed to be ready. I've spent twenty years training to protect you. Learning strategy, warfare, politics… Everything I'd need to help you reclaim your throne."
The weight of his confession settles between us like a physical presence and I can’t look away from his hazel eyes that study my face as if memorizing.
"Protecting you isn't just a duty," he says, his voice dropping lower. "It's my purpose. I was raised knowing that when you came back, I would be ready."
"That's a heavy burden one might say," I whisper, something tightening in my chest. "A whole life spent preparing for someone you'd never met..."
"It never felt like a burden." His eyes burn with conviction. "It felt like destiny."
The air feels thick, heavy with words neither of us knows how to say. His gaze drops to my mouth for just a heartbeat before returning to my eyes, and I see something there that makes my breath catch.
Then Luna barks sharply, and Bran tears after a rabbit that foolishly showed itself at the edge of the tree line. The spell breaks as Kyrell calls them back with practiced authority.
But something has shifted. I understand now—this isn't just a political alliance or noble obligation for him. This is deeply personal. As personal as my stolen sons are for me.
We continue walking, the conversation shifting to lighter topics, but that moment lingers between us like smoke.
As the sun begins to set and we turn back toward the house, I ask about Maren. Something's been nagging at me since meeting her—the way Kyrell watches her with such fierce protectiveness mixed with exasperated affection.
"She's very different from you," I observe. "How did that happen? Growing up in the same house with the same father?"
Kyrell's expression softens immediately at the mention of his sister. "Our mother's death shaped us differently. Maren is your age, she was still an infant when it happened—she has no memory of her at all."
"And you?"
"I was six, old enough to remember everything." His jaw tightens slightly. "Old enough to watch my mother bleed out while my father held her. To understand why she did what she did."
"That's a lot for a six-year-old to carry."
"It made me who I am." He shrugs, though there's weight behind the gesture. "I became the protector. I had to, because someone needed to carry the weight of my mother's sacrifice, to make sure it meant something."
"Does Maren know that?"
"Maren grew up with stories of a mother she never knew," he says, and genuine affection warms his voice. "A brave woman who died saving a princess. I think... I think she decided early on that if our mother gave up her life for duty, then Maren would live freely in ways our mother never could."
"That's why she fights the marriage arrangements?"
"That's why she fights everything." He chuckles softly. "She drives me mad sometimes with her complete disregard for propriety and her stubborn refusal to do anything simply because she's expected to. But I wouldn't change her. Not for anything."
"Why not?"
He's quiet for a moment, considering.
"Because I don't want to pressure her. I admire her courage—going against the rules, against her own destiny even a little." His voice softens. "When her time comes, I just want to make sure she doesn't fall into someone's evil hands. That whatever path she chooses, she's protected."
The love in his voice when he talks about his sister makes something ache in my chest. This is what family should be—not the cold formality of Reaton's court, not the calculated alliances and political marriages.
This is real affection, real care, the kind that survives loss and grows stronger through shared grief.
Saxon presses against my leg as we reach the house, and I run my hand over his head one more time. "Thank you," I say to Kyrell. "For the walk and… for everything."
"Always," he says simply. And somehow, it’s more than enough.
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