A thousand candles burned in golden sconces along the towering columns, their flames unwavering in the still air. The high dome above shimmered with mosaics of gods and stars, their eyes painted to follow those below. Stone tiles of deep blue and white sprawled across the floor like the sea itself, polished so finely they reflected torchlight like rippling waves. Every noble house banner hung from the ceiling’s rim, their silks unmoving in reverent silence.
At the heart of it all stood the throne—carved from a single piece of obsidian, inlaid with veins of silver that pulsed faintly with magic, as if the seat of the king remembered its power.
Everyone had come. Knight Commander Ealden stood at the king’s right, his armor newly burnished, his sword untouched. The Archmagis, seven in total, robed in the resplendent colors of their Orders, stood in a crescent behind the throne. Lords, highborn sons, senators and sages filled the marble benches in silence, expectant and watchful.
And in one quiet corner, away from the silver pomp, sat Isolde. Draped in black and midnight blue, she was still and watchful, legs crossed, arms loosely folded. She said nothing. But her gaze missed nothing.
Then, the great gates groaned open.
Zafran stepped in alone.
No trumpet. No herald.
Only the steady echo of boots upon stone.
He was dressed in mourning black—sharp, tailored, restrained. No sword at his side. No armor to boast. Only a silver clasp at his shoulder, shaped like a hawk in flight—the crest of a fallen house.
He walked down the hall’s center.
Every head turned.
Then—without cue, without word—the King rose to his feet.
And all followed.
The hall stood.
Zafran halted at the base of the dais. A breath passed. And then another.
And the King descended.
Each step echoed louder than the last.
The nobles murmured. The Archmagis stiffened.
Then King Edwin—Lord of Ocean Tide, Bearer of the Southern Crown—bowed.
He bowed low.
Gasps broke the silence like shattered glass.
Even Ealden, long aware of this moment, stood stone-faced as the shock rippled through the crowd.
Zafran stepped forward, his voice low. “Your Majesty—this is not necessary—”
But Edwin raised a hand.
“I banished this young man ten years ago,” he said. His voice rang clear across the chamber. “For a crime we believed his father committed. But we were wrong.”
He paused. Grief edged every word.
“Balin did not betray us. He saved my daughter’s life. He died protecting Seren—and the kingdom—from Fyonar’s plot. And for that deed… I rewarded him by exiling his only son.”
The King lowered his gaze to the floor.
“I am no longer fit to bestow the honor you deserve. I cannot knight you, Zafran. All I can do… is ask your forgiveness.”
Zafran gently reached forward and helped raise him back to his feet. “Please, my Lord… you should not be doing this.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any voice.
Then slowly, King Edwin turned toward the western doors.
“They say history is shaped by kings. But today, let it be shaped by a daughter.”
A signal was given.
The western gate opened once more—this time with full ceremony.
Silver horns blew a rising chord. Guards drew their blades in salute. And the crowd turned.
She stepped forward.
Princess Seren.
Her stride was measured, slow, regal. Her armor gleamed white and silver with oceanic filigree, forged not for war, but for tradition. A long, silk-lined cape trailed behind her like moonlight on water. At her brow rested a thin silver circlet, delicate yet absolute. In her left hand, she bore the ancestral blade of the royal line—long, tempered, wrapped in azure cloth. A sword passed from ruler to heir, wielded only in the rite of naming knights.
All murmurs broke loose:
“She’s doing it herself?”
“A knight sworn to the princess?”
“No command chain?”
“I only read that in bardic epics—”
Seren passed them without a glance.
The crowd parted like tide before moon.
She ascended the dais with quiet purpose. King Edwin stepped aside with a nod—this was hers now.
She turned to Zafran, eyes firm.
And in the stillness of the chamber, she raised the blade upright before her chest, its tip pointed to the ceiling.
Then, she spoke:
“Zafran, son of Balin. Former Knight-Commander of Ocean Tide. A man wronged, yet unshaken. The savior of my life—and of the throne.”
She paused.
“By my right as Princess of Ocean Tide, I ask you now: will you kneel?”
Zafran’s eyes met hers—their green eyes met, steady, unreadable.
But slowly, he sank to one knee.
The hall held its breath.
Seren raised the blade before her chest, the flat of its tempered steel catching the chamber’s firelight. She held it steady, the tip angled toward the dome above, where gods and kings watched from ancient mosaic.
Her eyes look straight like she’s speaking to them.
Her voice rang clear—not loud, but sovereign.
“Zafran, son of Balin. You stand before this court not as exile, but as witness to your father’s truth. His honor restored, his legacy known.”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Then she lowered the sword, looking back at Zafran
“You were cast out unjustly. And yet, you returned. Not to reclaim vengeance—”
“Tell this hall—do you come seeking title, or justice?”
Zafran’s reply was steady. “Neither, Your Highness. I come to rescue those in needed—not for banners.”
The Archmagis stirred. Even Ealden, at the edge of the dais, glanced briefly toward Seren with a flicker of approval.
She continued, the ritual words now formal:
“Do you vow your sword, your breath, and your life to the heir of the throne?”
“I do,” Zafran answered.
“To guard not only my person, but the people—above pride, above blood, above law?”
“I do.”
Seren slowly lowered the sword, laying the flat of the blade upon his right shoulder.
“Then in the name of the House of Ocean Tide, I name you knight—not to the throne, but to its future.”
The blade passed to his left.
“Not bound by rank, but by truth.”
She withdrew the sword, held it vertical once more.
“Rise, Zafran—Knight of the Azure Rose, sworn to the Princess of Ocean Tide.”
As he rose, a surge of ancient magic shimmered across the hall, faint and blue, wrapping the air with the force of unspoken history.
Silence followed.
Not cold.
But reverent.
And for a brief moment, the realm itself seemed to acknowledge him.
Then—softly, a single pair of hands clapped once.
Isolde.
And then another. Ealden.
And like a tide breaking on stone, the applause swelled.
But it did not last long.
The King raised a hand, and the hall stilled once more. No feast was announced. No fanfare followed. The kingdom had little appetite for celebration. Not yet—not while Fyonar’s shadow lingered beyond the eastern border.
Soon after, the court was dismissed.
The nobles filed out in pairs, their silks brushing the stone like whispers. The Archmagis vanished in silence, already folding into the next debate. And when Zafran turned to look for her—Isolde was gone.
That evening, the manor was quiet. No guards. No attendants. Just the hush of wind pressing softly against the windows, and the faint crackle of a dying hearth.
Zafran stepped inside, boots brushing against the stone floor. He paused when he saw her.
Isolde was already there, curled in the high-backed chair by the fire like she’d always belonged there. One leg tucked under her, hair loose, her cloak draped over the armrest like it had been dropped without a thought. A glass of wine dangled from her fingers, catching the firelight in deep red glimmers. She didn’t turn to look at him.
“You certainly kneel quickly,” she said, voice smooth as silk. “Do you bow before every beautiful woman like that?”
Zafran closed the door behind him, letting the silence settle between them. “Is that jealousy I hear?”
She sipped slowly, her eyes still on the flames. “Jealousy? Me?” A faint scoff. “Please. I’m just wondering if I should have worn a tiara and drawn a sword when we first met—might’ve made things easier.”
She barely finished before his arms were around her.
Zafran had crossed the space in silence—no warning, no words. Just pulled her gently but firmly into his chest, pressing his face into her hair, holding her like something fragile might break loose inside him if he let go.
She stiffened. “Ocean Tide! What are you—?!”
But he didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just stood there behind her, arms wrapped tight, like everything in him needed to be held still.
And she could feel it. The weight in his shoulders. The quiet ache he wasn’t saying. The ceremony, the stares, the memories of his father.
Then of Azure Wind. Kivas, who gave him a place to stay, a purpose. Elsha, who was like his sister. Ysar. Karin. All of it.
Her hand slowly lifted. She rested it behind his head, fingers weaving into his hair, soft and steady.
“Are you planning to bow before me too?” she whispered.
His voice was rough. “Should I bring a ring with me, then?”
She scoffed under her breath. “You’re impossible.”
A beat.
“You’re such a bad man, Zafran. Did you plan this from the start?”
His cheek brushed against her temple. “Maybe even before that.”
And this time, she didn’t laugh.
She turned her head, slowly—until their faces met, breath to breath, close enough to feel every hesitation. Her eyes searched his, quiet and steady.
“I’m not afraid of you, you know,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“I know.”
And then she kissed him.
Not sudden. Not wild. Just quiet. Certain. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything except to be there.
When they parted, she didn’t pull away.
Neither did he.
He leaned in again, slower this time—less restraint, more need. And she met him halfway.
The second kiss was deeper.
A little more certain.
A little less guarded.
His hand slid to her waist, hers to the nape of his neck, pulling each other closer like the space between them no longer made sense.
When they parted again, breathless and close, their foreheads touched.
“You’re shaking,” she murmured.
“I’m not,” he whispered.
She smiled. “Liar.”
He gave a soft laugh. “Not every day I get kissed by the scariest woman in Ocean Tide.”
“Scariest?”
“Sharpest. Deadliest. Most beautiful. I’ll let you choose.”
“You’re trying too hard.”
“I’m terrified.”
She tilted her head just slightly. “Terrified… it should be me, not you”
“Don’t expect me to be experience at this,” he lean in again for another kiss.
“I wouldn’t beli—” but she got cut away by another kiss. Slower. Deeper. Her hand slipped to his chest, his arms wrapped tighter.
When she broke away from him.
“You’re telling me none of them, ever tried to drag you to their bed?”
“I didn’t say they didn’t try” he said, teasingly, “I just never said yes.”
She scoffed, “You’re either a liar… or the most annoying man alive.”
“I may be both”
This time, the kiss is even more deep and needy, he slowly lift her up they kiss and move until she’s pinned against the wall behind.
Neither of them noticed the faint creak of the door.
A young maid stood frozen in the entryway—tray in hand, eyes wide.
She saw.
And without a sound, she turned, cheeks burning, quietly backing out of the room. One hand rose to shield her eyes, the other barely balancing the tray as she slipped through the door and pulled it shut behind her with the softest click.
Not a single word escaped her lips.
But later, when she returned to the servants’ wing, pale and silent, she simply whispered:
“They were… still dressed. Mostly.”
And refused to elaborate ever again.
Inside, the fire kept crackling. The wind pressed gently against the windows.
Zafran pulled Isolde even closer, resting his forehead against hers.
“Stay,” he murmured.
Her fingers slid up to his collar, then higher, brushing his cheek. “I already am.”
Their next kiss held no teasing. Just warmth. Trust. A kind of trembling courage.
He touched her like she might vanish if he moved too quickly—fingertips trailing down her arms, hesitant, reverent. She leaned into him slowly, not to guide, but to say I’m here, without needing the words.
They found themselves moving together, like music neither of them remembered learning—half a step, a breath, the soft rustle of fabric shifting, falling away piece by piece. Not in urgency, but in invitation.
Isolde let out a sound—barely audible, barely meant to be—and stilled, her breath catching as skin met skin.
Zafran froze, pulling back just enough to look at her.
Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but with something deeper. Vulnerability. That quiet question only a first touch ever asks: Is this real? Are we ready?
He brushed a hand over her cheek. “We don’t have to.”
She laughed—just once, soft and embarrassed—and shook her head. “I know. I just… don’t know how to do this without shaking.”
“Then shake,” he whispered. “I will too.”
And they did.
Not perfectly. Not smoothly.
Hands trembled. Movements stumbled. She kissed his jaw instead of his mouth. He forgot what to do with one hand and accidentally bumped the chair. But they laughed—quietly, breathlessly—between the touch and the learning.
They didn’t chase passion. They followed it. Step by uncertain step.
It was clumsy, and sweet, and full of pauses—pauses to breathe, to laugh, to hold, to kiss again.
And when the final space between them was finally gone, it didn’t crash like fire.
It bloomed.
Like something tender unfolding after a long, quiet winter.
The world outside waited. But inside, beneath the hush of the fire and the weight of everything they weren’t saying, two people finally let themselves be seen.
And the night stretched on.
Not in heat.
But in honesty.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, soft and golden, casting slow-moving patterns across the floor. The fire had long gone to embers, but the room was still warm—held by body heat, memory, and the weight of what had passed between them.
Zafran stirred first.
He lay on the sofa, barely covered by a crumpled blanket. Isolde was curled against him, her arm draped across his chest, their legs tangled beneath the mess of discarded fabric. The quiet rise and fall of her breath matched the rhythm of the morning light.
He didn’t move—just watched her sleep for a moment, her hair a wild halo of dark strands over his shoulder.
Then she shifted.
A groan slipped from her lips. “My back… gods.”
Zafran smiled. “I warned you about the sofa.”
Her fingers curled into his chest. “You didn’t object.”
“I was distracted.”
She sat up slowly, pulling the blanket with her. The air touched her bare skin, and she blinked against the light.
Then she looked down—at the faint smear of red on the floor between them.
She stilled.
Zafran followed her gaze.
Neither of them spoke for a breath.
Then she sighed, rubbing a hand across her face. “Well… that’s not something we can unsee.”
“It’s not something I want to,” he said quietly.
Her mouth twitched. “Poetic.”
She reached for her shirt, draped over the back of a chair, but paused halfway—eyes flicking again to the blood on the floor.
“That’s…” she muttered. “When someone comes to clean, that’s going to be…”
Zafran sat up beside her, the sheet pooling at his waist. “It’s not going to be a big fuss.”
“It is! come on!”
She looked almost horrified. “They’ll talk. They’ll say you defiled a noblewoman in your parlor like some—”
“Like some man madly in love with her?” he offered.
She gave him a look.
Then snorted. “You are so good at making this worse.”
He leaned in, kissed her bare shoulder. “I try.”
A long silence passed between them—her fingers brushing over his hand, his forehead resting lightly against hers.
Then, dryly: “You know you’re cleaning that up, right? not the maid.”
He nodded solemnly. “I’ll get a towel. And possibly a bribe.”
She laughed into his chest, muffled and warm.