Sleep would not come.
Prince Reginald sat at his desk long after midnight, a candle burning low beside unread papers.
The flame's unsteady light threw his reflection across the window: the same composed face that everyone feared, but tonight his eyes looked tired.
He shut the ledger and stood.
The image that kept returning....her bowed head by the gate had no place in his thoughts.
It was nothing. He told himself.
A distraction.
And he despised distractions.
When morning broke pale over the palace walls, he had already made up his mind.
"Rowan," he said, "We're going out. A routine check on the city."
He stood before his mirror, fastening the plain cloak at his shoulders.
The fabric was coarse, not his usual silks, and the hood shadowed part of his face.
Yet even dressed as a commoner, there was no disguising what he was.
His carriage, his eyes; sharp and cold as a winter storm, his very presence spoke of command.
Behind him, Rowan waited quietly.
The captain's dark hair was streaked faintly with silver now, his expression patient but knowing.
"You are certain of this, Your Highness?" Rowan asked at last. "The streets are restless this time of year. Too many tongues wagging over matters of the court."
"I've walked them before," Reginald said curtly, adjusting his gloves.
"Yes," Rowan replied dryly. "But not with half the kingdom whispering about your bride hunt."
Reginald's hands stilled. "Let them whisper."
He pulled the hood up, concealing just enough. "The city is mine to walk."
Rowan inclined his head. "As you wish, my prince."
They left the palace quietly through the eastern gates, unannounced and unguarded save for Rowan's presence.
The streets of Valoria were already alive, merchants calling, horses clattering over cobbles, the morning scent of spice and freshly baked bread threading the air.
It should have calmed him.
Once, it would have.
But today, his chest was heavy with unrest.
He told himself this was duty, a routine inspection to gauge the conditions of his people.
That was what he had always done, slipping into the city unnoticed, watching and listening. But beneath that thin layer of reason, he knew the truth.
He had not slept.
He had tried. Heavens! He had tried. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.
The veiled girl.
The image had burned into him, unbidden, unwelcome.
He despised it.
He despised the thought of any woman having such power over his focus.
Yet here he was, striding through the city with her shadow still clinging to him.
They reached the marketplace, a chaos of color and sound.
The scent of fruit and roasted nuts mingled with laughter and shouts.
"Lively," Rowan murmured, scanning the crowd with the practiced eyes of a soldier.
"You'd almost think no one feared you."
"They fear the crown," Reginald said quietly. "Not the man beneath it."
Rowan glanced at him, but said nothing. He had learned long ago when to hold his tongue.
Reginald's gaze drifted, absently at first.....until something stilled him.
Across the square, sunlight fell over a modest bakery with a painted wooden sign and open doors that spilled the scent of honey and warm bread.
A small crowd had gathered before it, chatting easily with the woman at the counter.
No, not a woman.
Her.
Even veiled, he knew.
The same veil, the same composure, the same quiet grace.
She was handing a small loaf to a child who could not have been more than seven.
The boy fumbled for a coin, but she only smiled, her voice soft and warm even over the bustle.
"Keep it," she said. "Tell your mother it's fresh. Come early next time, all right?"
The child beamed, clutching the bread as if it were treasure.
Reginald's throat tightened unexpectedly.
She was smaller than he remembered, the crown of her head would barely reach his chest and her auburn hair, though mostly tucked beneath the scarf, spilled in loose curls down her back.
Her hands were quick and sure as she moved, yet her presence was… gentle.
A softness untouched by the world's noise.
He could not look away.
Rowan followed his gaze and sighed quietly. "I see."
"You see nothing," Reginald said sharply.
The captain said nothing more, though the corner of his mouth curved faintly.
Before he quite realized what he was doing, Reginald's steps carried him forward.
The crowd parted easily before his height, before the cold composure that clung to him even in plain clothes.
He stopped before the counter.
The hum of chatter seemed to dim.
Eliora looked up and for the briefest moment, her breath caught.
The man before her was no ordinary customer, he was beautiful.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his hood shadowed most of his face, yet what she saw made her pulse stumble.
His eyes; gray, intense, commanding met hers with quiet authority.
His voice, when he spoke, was quite deep and steady, every syllable like velvet over steel.
"Your best," he said simply.
Eliora blinked, then nodded, reaching for the fresh tray of honey rolls that had just cooled.
"Of course, sir."
Her fingers brushed his glove as she offered the small parcel.
The touch was brief, barely a heartbeat, yet it was enough to unsettle them both.
Reginald's hand lingered a second longer than it should have before he withdrew it.
He reached for his coin pouch and dropped several gold crowns onto the counter.
Eliora's eyes widened. "Oh, sir, this is far too much."
"Keep it," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
He turned, cloak whispering behind him.
Rowan inclined his head politely to the bewildered baker's daughter and followed.
Eliora watched them go, her heart fluttering strangely in her chest.
"He must be a nobleman," she murmured under her breath. "No merchant gives coin like that."
Her father's voice came from the back room. "What was that, Eliora?"
"Nothing, Papa," she said quickly, though her eyes lingered on the retreating figure disappearing into the crowd.
Outside, Rowan finally spoke. "You're troubled."
Reginald kept his gaze forward. "I'm fine."
They walked in silence for a time, the noise of the market receding behind them. But Reginald's mind was not on the city, nor on the inspection he had intended to make.
It was on a pair of eyes, soft, brown, and kind and the feeling that had stirred, uninvited, in the quiet of his chest.
Love was a weakness.
Compassion, a chain.
Yet somehow, when she had smiled, not at him, but at that ragged child, he had felt something fracture.
That night, long after he returned to the palace, Reginald sat alone by the window once more.
The city lay quiet beneath a veil of starlight.
His gloves were still dusted faintly with flour from where their hands had met.
He stared at them, expression unreadable.
"Foolish," he muttered under his breath.