The House of Reyes did not raise children.
It raised heirs.
Within the gilded halls of the palace, love was measured by usefulness, affection by outcome. Queen Vera Reyes ruled her household as firmly as she ruled the court—watchful, demanding, relentless. Every gesture was corrected, every word refined. To her, tenderness was indulgence, and indulgence weakened crowns.
King Rafael Reyes was quieter but no gentler. He did not scold or hover. He simply chose what served Avalor best and discarded the rest. His approval was rare, his disappointment wordless—and therefore impossible to escape.
Between them stood two children, shaped by duty long before they understood desire.
Princess Camila adapted.
She learned early how to smile at the right moments, how to speak without revealing anything at all. Her posture was flawless, her voice measured, her emotions neatly filed away. She moved through court like a living emblem of grace, so composed that some mistook her calm for coldness. Camila did not resist the life she was given. She mastered it.
Prince Matteo, however, never quite did.
He obeyed. He studied. He listened. But beneath the charm the court adored lived a restlessness he could not silence. He wondered what it would feel like to speak without calculation, to laugh without watching who listened, to choose something simply because he wanted it.
And that wondering had a name.
Sofia.
She was not the most beautiful girl in the palace. Not in the way courtiers meant beauty—with powdered skin and jeweled hair, with practiced elegance and costly perfumes. Sofia was fairly pretty in a way that seemed accidental. She did nothing to enhance it. No paint on her lips, no ornaments beyond what duty required.
What drew Matteo to her was not how she looked—but how real she was.
She laughed without restraint, a soft, sudden sound that startled him every time. She asked questions no one else dared—innocent, unguarded questions about laws, about customs, about why things were simply the way they were. She did not understand the invisible chains that governed palace life, and because of that, she moved freely where Matteo could not.
She was not careful.
And he loved her for it.
In the privacy of his chamber, Matteo sketched her endlessly—her hands mid-gesture, her head tilted in confusion, the rare moments when she laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth. He hid the drawings beneath loose floorboards, as though they were contraband rather than longing.
No one knew.
No one except Camila.
His sister had found one sketch by accident years ago. She had studied it quietly, then looked at him with something like pity.
"You can't have her," she had said gently.
"I know," Matteo had replied.
He never approached Sofia. Never spoke more than courtesy allowed. He only watched—hoping, foolishly, that she might notice his gaze lingering too long and somehow understand what he could never say.
He tried to be good.
Tried to be the prince Avalor needed.
But Sofia made him ache for a life that did not belong to him.
Then there was Rosa Fierro.
Sweet, intelligent, steadfast Rosa—so perfectly suited to the throne that the kingdom had already crowned her in expectation. Matteo cared for her. Truly. He admired her strength, her kindness, her quiet endurance.
But he knew she loved him.
And he knew the truth would wound her.
The kingdom needed Rosa Fierro as queen. Duty demanded it. And yet—there was Álvaro Espada, always at her side, sharp-eyed and unyielding. Matteo was not blind to the way Álvaro watched Rosa, nor to the fierce devotion beneath his easy arrogance.
Álvaro's love was not gentle.
It was dangerous.
And Matteo knew, with a certainty that unsettled him, that Álvaro Espada was not a man who could be ignored—or silenced—without consequence.
Between crown and conscience, between duty and desire, Prince Matteo stood exactly where he had always been:
Trapped by a kingdom that loved him too much to let him be free.
***
When Matteo had ridden into the fields that afternoon, he had told himself it was coincidence. A moment of freedom. He'd seen Sofia come here to care for the horses and wanted to enjoy those quiet moments with her where no words were said but they understood each other. A chance to breathe. He had not expected Rosa's laughter to carry so easily on the wind—or Álvaro Espada's sharp, knowing gaze to find him so quickly.
Álvaro unsettled him.
Not because of arrogance, though the man had plenty, but because he saw too clearly. Matteo had spent years learning how to hide truths behind grace. Álvaro tore through such illusions with a smile.
Still, Matteo did not lie. Not outright. He never did. Silence was safer.
Now, seated at the head of the dining table, Matteo replayed the evening in fragments—the queen's pointed suggestions, Álvaro's casual confidence, Rosa's gentle presence beside Princess Camila. He watched her laugh, watched how easily she slipped into meekness when expected, strength when required.
She deserved honesty.
But honesty was a luxury kings did not possess.
Later, alone in his chambers, Matteo removed his signet ring and placed it carefully on the table. Without it, the room felt strangely lighter. He stared out at the darkened city, at the kingdom that waited for him to become more than a prince.
Avalor needed stability. Avalor needed alliances. Avalor needed a queen forged from iron and loyalty.
It did not need his happiness.
Somewhere in the palace, Sofia's quiet footsteps echoed faintly. Matteo closed his eyes, jaw tightening at the very thought of her.
The corridor outside his chamber carried sound too easily.
Matteo had learned to recognize footsteps the way other men recognized voices. Guards were firm and even. Nobles were deliberate. Servants were quick and light.
Sofia's were unguarded.
He heard them now—soft, unhurried, accompanied by the faint rustle of linens. His pulse shifted before he could command it otherwise.
He crossed to the door and opened it just as she passed.
"Sofia."
She stopped at once, lowering into a respectful curtsy. "Your Highness."
He searched for an excuse, something plausible, something princely. "My chamber requires attention," he said smoothly. "See to it."
Her brows lifted just slightly—as though she suspected the fabrication—but she nodded. "Of course."
Inside, she moved efficiently, gathering scattered parchment, straightening the bed, dusting the shelves. Matteo stepped behind the privacy screen and changed into a loose bathrobe, more aware of her presence than he cared to admit.
He emerged deliberately.
Most women in the palace noticed him. Some stared openly. Others pretended not to while failing miserably.
Sofia did neither.
She continued folding a blanket, eyes focused on her task. Calm. Unaffected. As though he were merely furniture.
Matteo blinked.
He shifted his stance, stepping directly into her line of sight.
Nothing.
Her gaze flicked up briefly in acknowledgment of proximity—then returned to her work.
He felt something dangerously close to amusement.
"You're different," he said.
She paused, then looked at him fully for the first time. "Different how, Your Highness?"
"You're not impressed."
She scoffed softly. "Is there something particularly impressive about you?"
His brows rose.
She tilted her head, studying him openly now—cool, assessing. "You're tall. You're dressed well. You have a crown waiting for you." A small shrug. "That's circumstance, not character."
Matteo let out a quiet laugh. "You're the first to speak to me that way."
"Then perhaps you should meet more honest people."
He stepped closer, intrigued rather than offended. "Most girls dream of a prince."
"I don't," she replied easily.
"No?"
She shook out a cloth and resumed dusting. "I'm not like other girls who want a prince charming who needs to save them."
Matteo leaned against the edge of the table, watching her with open curiosity. "And what do you want?"
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes bright with mischief. "If anything, I'd rather be the princess saving the prince."
He laughed then—genuine and unguarded. The sound surprised even him.
She smiled faintly at that, satisfied with her disruption, and returned to her work as though she had not just unsettled the future king of Avalor.
For a fleeting moment, standing there in a simple robe before a girl who refused to see him as extraordinary, Matteo felt something dangerously close to normal.
And he wanted it more than he should.
Matteo watched her move about his chamber, the faint scent of fresh linen trailing in her wake.
He hesitated.
It was a foolish question. Princes did not ask maids about gardens. Princes did not notice patterns in their routines.
And yet—
"Why are you always in the garden?" he asked.
Sofia stopped mid-motion.
Slowly, she turned. One brow arched. "So you've been stalking me."
He straightened at once. "I have not."
"Mhm." She folded her arms loosely. "You just happen to know where I spend my afternoons."
"I observe my palace," he replied smoothly. "That includes its gardens."
"Oh, I see." She held his gaze for a second longer—then laughed.
It was unrestrained, bright, completely unroyal. The sound filled the room in a way that made the heavy curtains and carved furniture feel less suffocating.
"I love flowers," she admitted easily. "Each one has a meaning. A story. They're more honest than people."
Matteo tilted his head, intrigued. "And what story do they tell about you?"
She resumed arranging the books, but her smile lingered. "They tell me patience. They tell me timing. They tell me not everything blooms because it's ordered to. The beauty of silent strength."
He considered that.
"Which flower would you say you are?" he asked quietly.
She paused, genuinely thinking this time.
"Maybe a wild lily," she said at last. "Or a pride of Barbados."
Matteo smiled faintly. "Those are bold choices."
She shrugged. "They're impossible to overlook in a crowd. Not because they're the most beautiful—but because they refuse to be quiet."
Her chin lifted slightly. "That's me. Not beauty. Just… exuberance."
He chuckled, the sound low and almost fond. "I can't argue with that."
She caught the silent agreement in his expression and looked oddly pleased.
The moment stretched.
Matteo felt the weight of what he was about to do. It was small. Innocent. Harmless.
Dangerous.
"My schedule tomorrow," he began carefully, "happens to be free."
Sofia stilled.
"I thought," he continued, choosing his words with unusual care, "you might teach me a thing or two about flowers."
She turned fully toward him now, crossing her arms.
"I'm not free tomorrow."
The answer was immediate.
Matteo blinked. "You didn't let me finish."
"You were going to suggest a time that suits you."
His lips curved. "Naturally."
She shook her head. "I'm not available until evening."
He opened his mouth to negotiate.
"And I wouldn't settle for anything else," she added firmly. "Even if you were king."
Silence fell between them.
For a heartbeat, he stared at her—unused to refusal, unused to conditions.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
"Even if I were king?" he repeated.
"Especially then," she replied.
There it was again—that impossible, fearless honesty.
Matteo inclined his head, conceding the point. "Evening, then."
She nodded once, satisfied, and returned to her work as though she had not just set terms with the future ruler of Avalor.
And for the first time in a very long while, Prince Matteo felt something dangerously close to anticipation.
He smirked walking close to her, "You know, no one has ever haggled with the prince or king, especially not a lady or a....."
She raised a brow, "Maid? Well if you actually want me teaching you then you'll have to lower yourself down to this maid or you might as well forget it."
He took another step closer, "As a prince I can choose to command you." This was dangerous, he was ruining the reputation of the down to earth prince he'd given everyone, that he'd been brought up with. Why was he lowering his standards with her.
Sofia took a step backwards, her head lifted high, "As Sofia Morales I wouldn't do a single thing just because I'm forced to by ranks or male dominance."
He smirked, taking another step closer, "As your prince you're obliged to serve me or are you committing treason against your own country?"
Sofia rolled her eyes, "I'd only bow to someone deserving of my service." Her heart was beating rapidly but she overlooked it. She wasn't going to be some helpless girl especially not to this entitled asshole.
He cornered her to the wall, his hand blocking her exit as he moved closer, "I'm the prince, the perfect prince of Avalor."
She scoffed, "Well that prince is a gentleman who knows not to approach a lady like she's some property he's entitled to."
As he leaned closer, a smirk on, his heart racing about to tease her again, she moved swiftly biting him on the arm he used to block her and slipping underneath it, her laughter ringing in the noise proof room as she raised to the door. She paused, glanced at him slightly and smirked,
"Girls aren't as submissive as you've been made to believe you know. See you in the evening.... Your highness."
Matteo hissed at the pain in his arm but couldn't help but smile at the way she'd ran without restraint, the way she'd laughed with no care in the world. He smirked softly. What the heck just happened.
***
Alvaro sat in a club, hidden in the layers of smoke and vape within the dim red light. It was a club for paupers, the least recognised people in the society but here he was. A lady passed by him, giving him a sly look and winked flirtatiously. He chuckled as he smirked back. She took the cue and walked towards him. She sat next to him immediately leaning close, "Hey pretty boy. You don't exactly look like you belong here."
Álvaro chuckled pouring her a drink, "Oh really? How so?"
She took the glass, a smile on her lips, "Álvaro Espada. I don't think there's a lady in this kingdom who doesn't know the legendary man."
Álvaro raised a brow tucking her hair behind her ear. She had make up on, a bit too much, quite unlike Rosa. He had a habit of always comparing his women with her. None actually reached her standards but a few managed to graze it.
This girl was..... Minimal.
"Tell me more."
She smiled playing with his buttons as she slowly undid them, "Only son of the Espadas, only heir, powerful, carefree but ruthless, the kingdom's best swordsman, handsome and especially good with the ladies."
Álvaro chuckled as he glanced at her hands moving cleverly, "Hm, not bad. You do your research well."
She slowly crept her hands lower, "Yes I do..... much more than the surface." Álvaro smirked as he leaned in and kissed her neck, "So you're aware of the rules then. No lip kissing, no..." She completed, "Cumming inside of me with or without condoms. I'm quite aware General." He caressed her throat slowly, "There should be a brothel around?" She undid her bra, "This isn't one of those fancy places, we can do it right here."
The girl lay on the couch panting as Álvaro pulled in his trousers, "Here's your pay." He dropped a wad of cash on the table nonchalantly.
The woman glanced at the money on the table then turned to him dramatically with tears in her eyes, "I'm not a prostitute, I slept with you cause I liked you."
Álvaro scoffed, "Seems you didn't research so well. I'm not dumb. Leah Regalio right? I could tell from the minute you smiled at me what your aim was. I would've entertained your..... " He glanced at her, lazily sizing her up, "sluttiness but I'm a busy man and I don't go beyond one night stands."
Her face immediately dropped to a scowl as she cursed, "Screw you Espada."
She reached for her purse but Álvaro simply waved her a small pistol, looking quite bored, "Looking for this? Nice try Regalio, a shame actually. Such beauty with no brains."
He downed a glass of wine, making to walk away when she shouted spitefully, "You might be tough and all but you've got a weakness, Rosa and she won't always be safe yunno. I'll...."
Álvaro didn't wait a blink of an eye before firing a bullet into her leg and then arm. The gun had a silencer so no attention was dragged. He didn't have an emotion on his face, except from the low raise of his brow, "It'd be much more unwise of you to try that lane. I WILL kill you and every damn person behind you."
He walked towards the private arena of the bar and met Matteo under the dim lights. He sat next to him taking away his glass, "Brother."
He acknowledged him lightly. Matteo scoffed, "You have to remember I'm no longer an Espada. "
Álvaro chuckled as Matteo 's eyes followed a lady who was passing by. "But it clearly hasn't left your blood flow. An Espada doesn't become a lesser Espada just because he no longer bears a surname."
Matteo chuckled, "Tell that to your father. The surname to him is all that matters in life. The undefeated Espada."
Álvaro chuckled, slowly a silence ensued, the noise of the bar jamming in a seemingly far distance.
Matteo broke it, "You're clearly not here to spite on the old hound."
Álvaro chugged down a glass, "You know me too well."
Matteo watched him in that dark unreadable eye they'd both inherited from their father, "I don't. You know that better than I do."
Álvaro shrugged relaxing into his chair immediately falling into his serious mode, "The rumours, concerning the recent ambushes and assassinations, what do they say?"
Matteo raised an eyebrow. He always knew his brother wore trouble like a second skin but if he knew something concerning the ambushes then that was simply suicide, "They think it's the villagers rioting against the depleting economy, food has been scarce, water worse. The poor are being oppressed and it's raised some revolt. Nothing that can't be suppressed... With you in on it I'm guessing it's not."
Álvaro chuckled as he glanced at his brother. He sat up, "Father ordered it..... I had to." Matteo sighed, "Give me a clearer picture." Álvaro stared into thin air then spoke carefree, "Care for a game of chess?"