The tension in the Banquet Hall did not vanish immediately. It lingered in the air—thick, fragile, electric—like smoke after lightning had struck too close to the ground. Nobles stood frozen in place, uncertain whether to breathe or bow or flee. The chandeliers still trembled faintly, crystals chiming softly as if echoing the clash that never happened.

  Joseph and Selene stepped back from one another at the same time.

  No blood spilled.

  No magic erupted.

  No screams followed.

  But everyone in the hall knew—

  something irreversible had occurred.

  Alistair moved swiftly.

  “Everyone,” he announced, his voice firm but controlled, cutting through the murmurs before they could rise again. “The banquet ends here.”

  A wave of relieved motion followed his words. Nobles exhaled, servants hurried to restore order, guards straightened with renewed purpose.

  Alistair turned toward the throne.

  Queen Valeria rose slowly.

  Her expression was calm. Too calm.

  “It has been an honor,” she said smoothly, her voice carrying across the hall like silk drawn over steel, “to host such distinguished nobles this evening. However, I believe it is time we conclude.”

  Her gaze flicked briefly—almost imperceptibly—toward Joseph.

  “Thank you all for attending.”

  Guards moved in behind her in perfect synchronization as she descended the steps and exited the hall, crimson robes trailing behind her like a shadow that refused to fade.

  Only once she was gone did the hall truly begin to empty.

  Joseph turned immediately toward Amayra.

  Without a word, he gently took both of her hands into his own—careful, deliberate, as if afraid even the air might hurt her. His thumbs brushed lightly over her palms, avoiding the bloodied spots.

  “We need to treat your wounds first,” he said quietly.

  Thomas nodded sharply, already turning away. “Yes. Amayra, go to your room. I'll bring the first aid kit we brought earlier.”

  He disappeared down the corridor at a brisk pace.

  Joseph guided Amayra forward—but after only a few steps, she faltered.

  He stopped instantly.

  His gaze dropped to the hem of her gown, then to the way she shifted her weight unevenly.

  “…Did you hurt your legs too?” he asked.

  Amayra nodded faintly, tears still clinging to her lashes. Her voice came out soft, strained.

  “Yeah… I think so.”

  Joseph didn't hesitate.

  He stepped closer and, in one smooth motion, slipped an arm beneath her knees and another around her back—lifting her effortlessly into his arms.

  Amayra gasped.

  Her eyes widened in pure shock, hands instinctively clutching at his coat. A warm flush spread across her cheeks—embarrassment mixed with something else she couldn't quite name.

  “J-Joseph—?”

  “I got you,” he said simply.

  Behind them—

  David and Lazarus stared.

  Lazarus tilted his head slightly, observing with mild amusement. “Lord William,” he remarked calmly, “also had a tendency to lose all reason in front of beauty.”

  David snapped his head toward him. “He's not losing reason. He's just helping.”

  Lazarus smiled.

  A knowing smile.

  Joseph carried Amayra toward the exit, steps steady, posture unwavering.

  David watched them go, squinting. “…He's just helping. Right?”

  Lazarus didn't answer.

  Amayra's room was nothing short of regal.

  Crimson walls traced with fine golden inlays reflected the soft glow of lantern light. A thick brown carpet covered the floor, muffling sound beneath each step. The bed—beige and wide—rested against the far wall, draped in embroidered silks. A large mirror stood nearby, framed in gold.

  Beyond it all— a tall window opened to the night.

  Moonlight spilled through it, bathing the room in silver, mountains standing silent in the distance beneath a field of stars.

  Joseph carried her inside and gently set her down on the edge of the bed, positioning her so she faced away from the door.

  He knelt in front of her, lowering himself to her level.

  For a moment— they just looked at each other.

  Amayra's gaze lingered on him, searching, uncertain. As if trying to understand what he felt… or what she hoped he felt.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Joseph cleared his throat softly.

  “…Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  Amayra blinked.

  “Yes?”

  Joseph paused. “…I asked if you're hurt anywhere else.”

  “Oh—” She flushed. “No. Just my palms… and my knees.”

  He reached for her hands again, even more carefully this time.

  Placing her palms side by side, he inspected them closely—eyes sharp, movements precise—checking for any remaining shards of glass embedded in the skin.

  His touch was warm.

  Steady.

  Focused.

  Amayra watched him in silence.

  Then—

  “Ahem.”

  Both of them looked up.

  Thomas stood in the doorway, first aid kit in hand.

  His eyes widened.

  Joseph kneeling in front of Amayra.

  Holding her hands.

  Moonlight behind them.

  Thomas froze for a solid second.

  “…I brought the first aid kit,” he announced loudly.

  Joseph didn't stand.

  “I checked,” he said calmly. “No glass pieces left in the wounds.”

  Thomas nodded. “That's good.”

  He stepped closer—then abruptly stopped.

  “Oh—uh—right.” He straightened. “I… remembered something important.”

  Joseph frowned. “Important?”

  “Yes. Very.” Thomas nodded too fast. “David asked me to meet him. Urgently.”

  “David?” Joseph echoed.

  At that exact moment— David appeared outside the doorway.

  Thomas turned instantly. “David! You wanted to talk about something, right?”

  David blinked. “Did I?” He pointed at himself. “Me?”

  Thomas placed a firm hand on David's shoulder and began pushing him away.

  “Yes. You did. Very important things. Let's talk. Outside.”

  “Wait—I don't remember asking—”

  Their voices faded down the corridor.

  Joseph muttered softly to himself, watching them leave.

  “…Maybe it's about the Conjurare.”

  He turned back to Amayra.

  The room was suddenly very quiet.

  Joseph opened the first-aid kit carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile calm between them.

  He dabbed ointment onto a clean cloth, then returned his attention to her palms.

  “This might sting a little,” he warned softly.

  Amayra nodded—but she was watching his face more than her hands.

  Joseph applied the ointment with slow, precise movements. His fingers were steady, his touch light, practiced—yet strangely tender. When she flinched despite herself, he leaned closer without thinking and blew gently over her skin.

  A soft breath.

  Cool air.

  The sting faded almost instantly.

  Amayra froze.

  Her eyes widened—not in pain, but in surprise.

  Joseph realized what he'd done and paused mid-motion. “…Did that help?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “It did.”

  Her voice came out quieter than before.

  He wrapped the bandage around her palm with care, securing it without pulling too tight. Then he repeated the process with her other hand—ointment, a gentle breath, then bandage.

  When he finished, he looked up at her.

  “What about your knees?” he asked.

  Amayra stiffened.

  Her gaze flicked away. “I—I can do that myself.”

  Joseph tilted his head slightly. “You shouldn't bend too much. The cuts could reopen.”

  “I said I can—” She stopped herself, cheeks already warming. “…It's fine.”

  Joseph didn't move from where he knelt.

  “I won't hurt you,” he said simply.

  There was no insistence in his voice. No pressure. Just certainty.

  Amayra hesitated.

  Then—very slowly—she reached down and lifted the edge of her gown just enough to reveal her knees.

  Moonlight spilled over pale skin.

  Scratches.

  Bruises.

  Faint traces of blood.

  Her face flushed the color of a deep red rose.

  She couldn't bring herself to look at him.

  Joseph didn't react outwardly.

  No teasing.

  No sharp intake of breath.

  He merely reached for the ointment again.

  “Tell me if it hurts,” he said quietly.

  He applied the cream slowly, carefully—his fingers barely pressing, tracing around the wounds instead of directly over them. His focus was absolute, brows drawn together in concentration.

  Every movement was deliberate.

  Gentle.

  Protective.

  Amayra swallowed.

  From the corner of her eye, she watched him—how serious he looked, how carefully he treated something as small as scraped skin, as if it mattered more than anything else in the world.

  When he finished, he wrapped the bandage neatly and tied it securely.

  “There,” he said softly. “You should be fine.”

  Only then did he look up.

  Their eyes met.

  For a heartbeat, neither spoke.

  Moonlight framed them both—him kneeling before her, her seated at the edge of the bed—the silence between them heavy with something neither dared to name.

  “…Thank you,” Amayra whispered at last.

  Joseph nodded once, a faint smile touching his lips.

  “Anytime.”

  And neither of them realized yet just how much that word would come to mean.

  But just as Joseph moved toward the door, Amayra hesitated.

  “…Why?”

  Her voice was soft—almost uncertain.

  Joseph stopped.

  He glanced back over his shoulder. “What?”

  Amayra turned to face him fully now. She stood near the edge of the bed, fingers tightening around the fabric of her gown as she met his eyes. There was concern there—real, unguarded.

  “Why did you help me back there?” she asked quietly. “She is far more powerful than you—in authority, in position. What if they try to do something to you?”

  She swallowed.

  “I could feel their hostility.”

  Joseph didn't answer immediately.

  He studied her face for a moment, as if weighing something deeper than words. Then he spoke—calm, steady.

  “It's not about whether I have more power or less,” he said.

  He stepped closer—not invading her space, just enough for his presence to be felt.

  “I stayed silent once. I won't do that again...”

  Amayra's breath caught.

  Joseph's gaze didn't waver.

  “And I won't allow my people to suffer again,” he continued. “Not because I stayed silent. Not because I looked away.”

  For a moment, the room felt warmer.

  Then Joseph turned and walked out, the door closing softly behind him.

  Amayra remained where she stood.

  The echo of his words lingered in the quiet—settling deep, wrapping around her like something solid and safe.

  And for the first time after that incident…

  she felt warmth where fear and humiliation had been.

  To be continued…

  What do these feelings mean for them?

  A prince who chose to protect.

  A girl who finally felt safe.

  can something soft survive?

  It is envy dressed as elegance.

  Smiles hiding blades.

  Bloodlines guarding their power like a curse.

  But every choice in this empire has consequences.

  or give his enemies something precious to target?

  When the castle full of lies begins to tighten around him…

  will Joseph truly be able to protect his people from what is coming?

  the Queen is watching.

  Selene is not finished.

  And the storm that almost began in the banquet hall… has only been delayed.

  colder.

  —AK31