Chapter 40: The Prince’s Smile

Astrid bowed low, her armor clinking softly as she went down on one knee. The morning light caught the polished edge of her black pauldrons.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” she said, voice steady but cautious.

Prince Magnus ignored her completely. His gaze was fixed on the cloaked figure standing near the carriage. The faint breeze teased the hem of Sylvara’s blue gown, making it ripple like water in sunlight. Beneath her hood, her violet eyes flickered nervously, half-hidden by the long shadow that shielded her from the world.

Magnus took a slow step forward, his boots pressing softly against the gravel. The scent of his cologne, something sharp and clean, laced with pine, drifted through the air.

Astrid straightened quickly, her hand instinctively hovering near the hilt of her sword. He of all people must not know who she is. “Your Highness…” she began.

Magnus raised a hand lazily, not looking at her. His attention stayed on Sylvara. His tone was smooth, charming, and carried the kind of confidence that could silence a room.

“You’ve been hiding someone interesting, it seems,” he murmured.

Sylvara stiffened, but she didn’t back away. Her bruised cheek ached when she turned to face him fully. The purple mark still faintly bloomed against her pale skin, visible even beneath the hood’s shade.

Magnus’s eyes caught on it. His smile faltered slightly. “You’re hurt,” he said, his voice softening. “What happened?”

The question hit her like a knife to the ribs. Sylvara’s mind spun. She swallowed, her lips trembling.

“I was kidnapped,” she said finally, her tone calm but heavy.

The words hung in the air like thunder.

Astrid nearly choked. She coughed so loudly it startled one of the horses. Sylvara blinked at her, confused. Why is she acting that way? Am I not supposed to tell anyone?

Astrid’s throat felt dry. Saints above… she said that out loud.

“It was… an accident, Your Highness,” Astrid said quickly, her voice raised a little too loud.

Magnus turned his head slowly, one brow lifting. His expression was half amusement, half suspicion. “An accident?” His tone dipped lower, sharp like a blade’s edge. “What kind of accident leaves a mark like that?”

Sylvara froze. She could feel Astrid’s gaze begging her not to speak again.

“I…I fell from a tree,” she blurted. Her hand flew up, clutching her hood tighter so no strand of her white hair escaped.

Astrid’s eyes widened. A tree? Oh gods, she’s serious.

She could almost feel herself fainting from secondhand embarrassment. I’ll have to lecture her later, she thought grimly, rubbing her forehead.

Magnus’s lips curved into a smirk, though there was warmth behind it now, the kind that made his words dangerous. “Oh my… I hope you didn’t break a bone,” he said, taking another step closer. “That small body of yours doesn’t look built for climbing.”

Sylvara’s brows snapped together instantly. Her voice came sharp, unexpected.

“Who are you calling small?”

The air went silent. Even the horses stopped moving.

Astrid’s breath caught. The guards stared in disbelief. The audacity, it was reckless, fearless, and so utterly unlike anyone who had ever stood before a prince.

Magnus blinked, caught off guard, then let out a quiet laugh that slid between charm and curiosity. Did she not know who I am… or does she simply not care? Or has the Duke’s heartless nature rubbed off on her too?

He tilted his head, his golden hair catching the sunlight. “Are you related to the Duke in some way I haven’t heard of?” His tone dropped, teasing.

Sylvara met his gaze, unflinching. “No,” she said quietly. “I was taken.”

Astrid nearly groaned out loud. Taken?! Woman, are you trying to get us all executed? She pressed a gloved hand to her temple, whispering something under her breath.

“What” Magnus said.

“My apologies your highness, the lady isn't feeling too well” Astrid quickly said.

Magnus’s eyes narrowed slightly, his curiosity deepening. He leaned forward just enough for the shadow of his face to fall over her. Beneath the hood, all he could see was the curve of her jaw and the soft line of her throat, smooth, fragile, untouched by sunlight. Her beauty was quiet but arresting. He couldn’t see her hair, and her eyes were so rare.

Astrid moved sharply, her sword sliding halfway from its sheath with a chilling scrape. “Step back, Your Highness,” she warned, her tone even but filled with restrained anger. “Now.”

The prince’s lips curved. “Relax, Lady Knight,” he said, voice silky. “I’m merely admiring beauty. Surely that isn’t a crime in Ebonvale?”

The tension cracked. At once, the prince’s guards stepped forward, their armor glinting silver in the sun. One drew his sword halfway, the sound slicing through the morning quiet.

“Any reckless act will cost you your life, Black Hawk,” the man said coldly.

Astrid’s eyes flicked toward him, expression unreadable. “Which is?” she asked, voice as sharp as steel.

“Drawing your sword to the crown prince,” the guard said, his tone rigid, unshaken. “Know your place.”

The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint sound of distant bells. The world seemed to hold its breath again. Sylvara’s pulse thundered in her ears. The courtyard was alive with the creak of armor and the soft snorts of restless horses.

Astrid stood tall, one arm sliding protectively in front of Sylvara. Her voice was quiet, low, like the calm before a storm. “I only serve one master,” she said. “The Duke will not tolerate your presence here, Your Highness.”

The guard’s hand twitched, ready to strike, but Magnus raised his hand in command. His men stopped instantly.

“It’s fine,” he said smoothly, still smiling. “The lady knight is only doing her duty.”

His eyes flicked back to Sylvara, and his smile softened again. He was no longer teasing. There was something else in his gaze now, interest, deep and strange. He looked at her not like a woman, but like a mystery he couldn’t quite solve.

Most women trembled in front of him. Or put on their best act to win him over. Yet this one didn’t even blink.

The silence stretched so long it became heavy. Then Magnus broke it with a quiet laugh. “Now that everything’s calmed… why not tell me your name?”

Sylvara hesitated. Her throat went dry. Her instincts screamed at her to stay silent. Men like this, men wrapped in gold and power, were poison. Beautiful, sweet-tongued poison.

“Why does it matter?” she asked softly, her voice steady but distant, her eyes fixed on the ground.

Astrid winced. “Oh, Saints…” she muttered under her breath.

Magnus’s grin widened, sharp with amusement. “Because I like to know who I’m talking to.”

She hesitated again. She knew the truth—people in high places hated her kind. The higher their rank, the greater their hatred. The Duke had already trapped her; she wouldn’t stumble into another man’s snare.

Still, refusing a prince could draw suspicion. Slowly, she bowed her head.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” she said quietly. “I am Sylvara Nyx.”

Magnus froze mid-breath. The name rolled off her tongue like silk, but it hit him like a spark. Sylvara Nyx. The way she said it, it sounded honest yet detached, a name spoken through habit rather than pride. Is she a lost and found Noble child?.

He studied her again, eyes narrowing slightly. Her speech was too plain, too soft for a noble. Her gown, though fine, wasn’t worn with the air of a courtly woman. Why would Orion von Hawthorne, the most guarded man in the kingdom, keep someone like her under the protection of his most elite knights?

She was no ordinary guest.

He smiled again, hiding the storm behind his calm expression. “Sylvara Nyx,” he repeated. “A lovely name.”

Astrid quietly exhaled, though her shoulders stayed tense. Her hand never left the hilt of her sword.

Magnus glanced between them, his mind racing. She was young, maybe in her early twenties. Her voice held intelligence but lacked the arrogance of nobility. Her eyes, when he caught the faint gleam beneath her hood, were strange. Violet. Too rare to be natural.

He felt something shift in his chest. Interest became fascination.

“Which family are you from?” he asked finally.

Sylvara opened her mouth, but Astrid stepped forward before she could say anything reckless again. “Your Highness…my apologies,” she said quickly, her voice urgent, “perhaps it’s best we leave this conversation for another day.”

Magnus’s gaze lingered on Sylvara, unwilling to let her go. “Perhaps,” he said, voice low. “But I’d prefer to hear it from her.”

Astrid’s hand tightened around her sword. “You will not.”

The air between them grew taut, stretched thin. Even the sunlight seemed dimmer.

Then, somewhere far down the road, a low rumble broke through the silence. Hooves. Heavy and fast.

Sylvara turned toward the sound, her heartbeat quickening with every thunderous beat of the approaching horses. The wind picked up again, whipping the edge of her cloak around her legs. Astrid’s eyes narrowed, instinct pulling her sword fully free.

From the northern gate, a black carriage burst into view, its wheels spinning over the cobblestones, pulled by four massive stallions draped in iron armor. The banner of the Hawthorne crest, a black hawk over crimson, snapped violently in the wind.

Magnus’s smirk didn’t fade. He turned slightly, his golden hair gleaming under the sun. “Ah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The Duke arrives.”

The sound grew louder, closer. The knights dropped to one knee, heads bowed. Dust rose around the carriage wheels, swirling through the air like smoke.

Sylvara’s pulse raced. Her hands trembled inside her cloak. The last time she’d seen Orion angry, his voice alone had silenced a hall full of lords. What would he do now, seeing a prince standing this close to her?

She didn’t know which frightened her more: the Duke’s wrath, or the look in Prince Magnus’s eyes as he turned toward the oncoming carriage.

The horses reared, the ground shaking beneath their hooves. The black carriage came to a halt, the crest glinting like blood under sunlight.

The world held its breath.

And Sylvara whispered to herself, voice trembling..

“He’s here.”