Sir Rowan Hale had faced bandits, brigands, and even one particularly angry goose — but nothing terrified him more than standing in front of royalty.
Unfortunately, he was doing exactly that.
The courtyard was buzzing with morning chatter as servants scurried about, knights polished armor, and nobles strolled in silken clusters. Rowan, in his dented breastplate and dusty boots, was trying to look invisible.
He was failing.
"Hold still, you feathered menace!" he hissed, clutching a squirming falcon in his gauntleted hands. The creature screeched and flapped, scattering a few feathers into his hair.
A chorus of gasps erupted from nearby nobles. Rowan turned — and his stomach plummeted.
At the far end of the courtyard stood Princess Elara of Lyrenne, her emerald gown glimmering in the sun. Her eyes were wide with shock — and unmistakable fury.
"That," she said, each word sharp enough to cut steel, "is my falcon."
Rowan blinked.
He looked at the bird. Then back at the princess. Then at the bird again.
"…Oh."
He froze mid-apology as the falcon, apparently tired of the drama, decided to take revenge. It twisted free and pecked him squarely on the nose before flying straight back to its mistress.
The nobles erupted into whispers. Rowan stood there, bleeding slightly and wishing the ground would swallow him whole.
Princess Elara approached, falcon perched regally on her arm. "You have quite the way with animals, Sir Knight," she said dryly.
"I— I was only trying to help, Your Highness!" Rowan stammered. "It flew into the stables, and I— I thought it was lost—"
A flicker of amusement tugged at her lips. "So you decided to wrestle it?"
"I prefer the term 'strategic retrieval.'"
That earned him a very small laugh — the kind that sounded like she regretted letting it slip.
By the time Rowan realized the entire courtyard was watching, it was too late. The rumor mill had already begun spinning.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
"Did you see how he risked himself to save her falcon?"
"How romantic!"
"A knight courting the princess — bold, isn't it?"
Rowan's ears burned as his captain barked orders for everyone to get back to work. Elara merely tilted her head, eyes glinting with mischief.
"Well then, Sir Rowan," she said, voice smooth as silk, "I suppose I should thank you for your… devotion."
And with that, she turned and walked away — leaving Rowan surrounded by murmuring nobles, bleeding nose, and the sinking realization that half the kingdom now thought he'd confessed his love to the princess.
He groaned.
"Finn is never going to let me live this down."
Rowan Hale had survived one sleepless night, three separate lectures from his captain, and roughly forty-seven jokes from his fellow knights.
None of them compared to the torment of sitting in front of Finn the Bard.
"So," Finn said, strumming his lute dramatically, "you've accidentally courted the princess."
Rowan groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I didn't court anyone! I caught a bird!"
"Ah, yes," Finn said, nodding sagely. "The oldest move in the book. Save her pet, win her heart. Classic hero material."
"It bit me!"
"Truly," Finn said, ignoring him, "love is pain."
Rowan considered hitting him with the lute.
They sat in the small tavern just outside the castle gates, where Finn had claimed a corner table and an impressive amount of stale bread. The bard's eyes sparkled with glee — the kind that meant he smelled a good story brewing.
"I'm doomed," Rowan muttered. "The entire court thinks I'm chasing the princess. Even Captain Garrick called me 'Your Romantic Highness' this morning."
Finn leaned in, grinning. "Then lean into it."
"What?"
"You've already got their attention! The princess noticed you. You can't back out now — that would look weak. You have to double down."
Rowan blinked. "Double down… how?"
Finn's grin widened. "Poetry."
"No."
"Yes."
"Finn, no."
Finn strummed a dramatic chord. "Every lady loves a heartfelt poem! Trust me — I've written hundreds."
Rowan gave him a flat look. "And how many of those actually worked?"
Finn hesitated. "That's not the point."
Before Rowan could protest further, Finn shoved a scrap of parchment and a quill into his hands. "Here. Start simple. Write her something sincere. Like… 'Your eyes are as radiant as—'"
"—a forge fire?"
Finn blinked. "That's… one way to describe it."
"She is terrifying."
They spent the next hour crafting what might have been the worst love poem in recorded history. By the end, Rowan's handwriting looked like the aftermath of a small war, and Finn was crying from laughter.
"Perfect," Finn declared, wiping his eyes. "Now deliver it personally. She'll swoon."
"She'll kill me."
"That's how you'll know it's working!"
By the time Rowan trudged back to the palace, poem clutched in his trembling hand, he was seriously considering moving to another kingdom.
He slipped through the garden, hoping to find a messenger who could deliver the letter for him — but fate, as usual, had other plans.
Princess Elara was already there, seated beneath a willow tree, a book in hand. The sunlight danced through the leaves, framing her in soft gold. Rowan froze mid-step.
She looked up. "Sir Rowan."
"Your Highness!" he squeaked, nearly dropping the parchment. "I wasn't— I mean, I was— uh—"
Her lips curved into that same knowing smile. "You were?"
"…existing," he said weakly.
A pause. Then, to his horror, she closed her book and stood, walking toward him.
"Is that a letter?" she asked.
Rowan's soul left his body. "No! I mean— yes! I mean— not for you— I mean— definitely not romantic!"
Her brow arched. "Then why does it have my name written across the top?"
He glanced down. It did. In very large, shaky letters.
Finn was a dead man.
Elara took the parchment before he could stop her. Rowan considered diving into the nearest fountain. As she read, her expression shifted — from amusement… to disbelief… to something dangerously close to laughter.
Finally, she folded the paper neatly and said, "That was the worst poem I have ever read."
Rowan swallowed. "Thank you?"
"But…" she added, voice softer now, "it was also the first one anyone's ever written for me."
For a heartbeat, she looked — not like a princess, but like a girl who'd never been surprised before.
Then she turned away, hiding a smile. "Good day, Sir Rowan."
As she left, Rowan leaned against the tree, heart pounding, face on fire. Somewhere, he swore he heard Finn's laughter echoing through the wind.
The next morning, Sir Rowan Hale woke up to find a rose on his armor.
It wasn't a particularly fancy rose — just a simple red bloom, tucked neatly into his chest plate — but it was enough to make his stomach drop and his fellow knights howl with laughter.
"Oh no," he muttered. "Oh no, no, no…"
Captain Garrick walked by, eyeing the flower. "A token from your beloved, Sir Rowan?"
Rowan went red to the ears. "I don't have a beloved!"
"Funny," said the captain dryly, "because the entire castle seems to think otherwise."
And that was how Rowan discovered the latest round of palace gossip.
According to the servants (and at least three overeager bards), Princess Elara had personally presented him with the rose as a symbol of affection after being moved to tears by his "divine poetry."
He groaned into his hands. "Finn. I'm going to strangle him with his own lute strings."
By the time Rowan made it to the courtyard, the damage was complete. Nobles whispered behind fans, knights smirked as he passed, and a few maids actually giggled when he walked by.
And there, sitting on the garden bench beneath the willow tree, was the architect of his misery — Princess Elara herself.
She looked perfectly serene, sipping tea as though she hadn't just turned his life into a romantic farce.
Rowan cleared his throat awkwardly. "Your Highness."
"Sir Rowan." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "You're quite the poet, it seems."
He winced. "I can explain—"
"Oh, please don't." She set down her teacup delicately. "I've had such a lovely morning listening to the court argue over whether your poem was meant as a confession or a political statement."
"A what?"
"Apparently, comparing my eyes to 'a forge fire' has led some to believe you were referencing the kingdom's prosperity."
Rowan blinked. "That's… actually impressive. In a horrifying way."
She smiled sweetly. "I did nothing to correct them."
"Of course you didn't," he muttered.
Elara leaned closer, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "You know, Sir Rowan… if you are going to keep writing me love letters, you might at least spell my name correctly next time."
He nearly choked. "I— It was the ink! It smudged!"
"Of course," she said, eyes glinting. "So, tell me… are you truly this hopeless, or is it all part of your charm?"
Rowan opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His brain had apparently declared bankruptcy.
Elara laughed softly — the kind of laugh that made him feel like he might faint and smile at the same time.
"Relax, Sir Rowan. I find your honesty… refreshing. Most men at court only speak in rehearsed compliments."
Rowan scratched the back of his neck. "Well, I'm not very good at rehearsing."
"I've noticed."
For a moment, their banter faded into quiet — the kind of comfortable silence that made the world feel oddly smaller. Then, Elara stood, brushing the petals from her gown.
"I expect your next poem to be at least mildly tolerable," she said over her shoulder.
Rowan blinked. "Wait— you actually want another one?"
Her lips curved into that dangerously playful smile. "Surprise me, Sir Rowan."
And just like that, she was gone — leaving him alone with a rose, a pounding heart, and the terrifying knowledge that the princess of Lyrenne was enjoying this.
That evening, Finn found him pacing outside the barracks, muttering to himself.
"She told me to write another poem!" Rowan said, running both hands through his hair. "What do I even write about this time?"
Finn's grin could have lit up the entire kingdom. "Ah, my dear knight, you've entered the most dangerous stage of love…"
Rowan groaned. "Please don't say it."
"…mutual interest!"
"I hate you."