The Princess and Her Knight

The torches along the eastern corridor burned low, throwing long gold shadows across the cold stone floor. Princess Maeve walked quickly, her silk skirts whispering behind her like restless ghosts. She’d slipped from the council chamber before her mother noticed—another night of forced smiles, whispered alliances, and veiled reminders of her duty.

Duty.

Always duty.

She pressed a hand to her temple. The heavy crown felt like a shackle today.

A soft step echoed behind her.

“Your Highness.”

Maeve closed her eyes before turning. She already knew the voice smooth, controlled, as unwavering as winter steel.

Sir Silas.

He bowed, though his gaze flickered briefly to hers before dropping. A dangerous slip. His eyes always betrayed him before he could school them back into stoic obedience.

“You left the meeting early,” he said quietly. “Are you unwell?”

“I’m fine,” she lied.

He studied her for a heartbeat too long. Silas always noticed what others ignored. He noticed the way she twisted her ring when anxious. He noticed when her smiles didn’t reach her eyes. He noticed when she slipped away like this, too brittle to endure one more political performance.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly.

Her brows lifted. “Sir Silas—”

“Please.”

A single word, low and earnest — a line knights were not supposed to cross.

Against her better judgment, she followed him down a narrow servants’ passageway lit only by moonlight. They stopped in a small alcove, and Silas reached behind an old tapestry, retrieving something wrapped in linen.

He held it out to her gently, almost shyly.

“I thought this might help,” he murmured.

Inside the cloth was a small wooden bowl filled with sweet cream custard, smooth and pale, topped with a drizzle of honey. It wasn’t a royal dessert — it was comfort food. Soft. Simple. Something a kitchen boy might set aside for someone having a terrible day.

Maeve blinked. “You… brought this for me?”

His jaw tightened, but he nodded.

“I noticed you didn’t eat tonight.”

Her heart kicked against her ribs. No one else in the entire kingdom would have noticed that.

“You could be dismissed for this,” she whispered. “Bringing food to a princess privately… it violates protocol.”

“So do a great many things I think about,” he said, voice low.

The air went still.

Maeve’s breath caught, though she kept her expression carefully neutral. Silas looked away, as if realizing he’d gone too far. He straightened, returning to the cold, disciplined version of himself.

“I only wish for your well-being, Your Highness.”

But the words he didn’t speak hung in the silence between them.

She lifted the bowl, fingers brushing his. The smallest spark leapt between them — real, electric.

“Thank you, Silas,” she whispered. Not “Sir Silas.” Just Silas.

His eyes snapped to hers.

He heard the difference.

He felt it.

For the first time that night, Maeve smiled — soft, real, and entirely forbidden.

And Silas…

Silas looked like he’d go to war with the world for that one single smile.

Maeve finished the last bite of the honeyed custard long after Silas slipped back into the shadows. She carried the empty bowl to her chambers with a strange warmth settling in her chest — a feeling dangerously close to comfort.

But comfort never lasted long in a palace built on secrets.

As she entered her room, a folded slip of parchment lay on her pillow. No seal. No signature. Just a single line of ink:

They are coming for the crown through you.

Maeve’s blood ran cold.

She clutched the note and hurried back toward the hall, nearly colliding with Silas as he appeared around the corner, hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Your Highness,” he said sharply. His voice softened when he saw her expression. “What happened?”

She opened her hand and showed him the parchment.

His entire demeanor changed.

The stoic knight vanished. In his place stood a man whose pulse roared with protective fury.

“Who left this?” he demanded.

“I don’t know. I found it in my chamber—”

“In your chamber?” His jaw tightened. “Then someone bypassed all guards and wards. Someone with power.”

Maeve swallowed. “Silas… what does it mean?”

He took the parchment, scanning it with eyes that suddenly looked far too calculating for a simple guard.

“It means,” he said quietly, “that somebody intends to use you as a pawn. Or a sacrifice.”

Her breath caught.

A sacrifice?

Silas stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“There have been whispers,” he admitted. “Noble factions moving in the shadows. Lords who believe you’re… inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?” Maeve frowned. “For what?”

“For their claim to the throne.”

A chill rolled through her. She had known of political games, of course, but never had she been the direct target of one. Never had anyone dared to threaten her life so bluntly.

“I’ll alert the Queen,” Maeve said, turning—

Silas caught her wrist.

The touch was firm, warm, utterly forbidden.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “If the threat came from inside the palace, telling the wrong person could push them to act sooner.”

Maeve looked up at him, her heart tightening. His face was deadly serious. His hand around her wrist trembled almost imperceptibly — not with fear, but with the effort to maintain control.

“What should I do?” she whispered.

“You stay where I can see you,” he said. “From this moment on.”

“Silas—”

“This isn’t a request.”

His voice was soft, but it held the weight of an oath.

And a promise.

“I will not let anything happen to you. Even if it means…”

He stopped himself, jaw flexing.

“Even if it means what?” Maeve pressed.

His eyes met hers — and for the first time, he let her see the truth he usually buried beneath armor and duty.

“Even if it means betraying every vow I’ve ever taken.”

The air between them turned molten — dangerous, fragile, charged.

But before Maeve could breathe a word, a shout echoed down the corridor.

“Prince Alden approaches! Prepare the princess!”

Maeve and Silas snapped apart, distance rushing between them like a slammed door.

Prince Alden. Her intended.

Her political future.

Silas’s eyes darkened with something like pain — or rage — or both.

“We’ll speak again soon,” he said, voice strained.

Then he stepped back into the shadows, vanishing just as the prince and his escort rounded the corner.

And Maeve was left standing alone, clutching the threatening note, her pulse still thrumming with Silas’s touch.

Maeve barely survived the evening with Prince Alden.

She wore the jewels. She smiled the practiced smile. She danced once, maybe twice. And all the while, her eyes drifted — involuntarily, helplessly — to the far corner of the hall where Silas stood guard.

He didn’t meet her gaze once.

Which only made her look more.

But when the feast ended and the castle slipped into silent darkness, Maeve found sleep impossible. The warning note lay heavy beneath her pillow, its ink burned into her mind. She tossed once, twice—

A faint knock at her door.

Three soft taps. A rhythm she recognized.

Her pulse quickened. She rose quietly, slipped into a thin cloak, and unlatched the door.

Silas stood on the other side, armor half-removed, hair slightly mussed as if he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. The torchlight lined his features in gold and shadow.

“Your Highness,” he whispered.

The formality was a lie. His eyes said something entirely different.

“Silas,” she breathed. “Is something wrong?”

He scanned the hallway, then stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“Lock it,” he murmured.

A shiver chased down her spine — not from fear.

She slid the latch into place. The sound echoed in the still air.

“We’re alone,” she said quietly. “You can tell me now.”

Silas exhaled, finally letting the mask slip. He looked… conflicted. Angry. Worried. And most dangerous of all: soft.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said. “But I couldn’t let the night end without speaking to you.”

Maeve stepped closer. “About the threat?”

“About everything.”

He raked a hand through his hair and began pacing — a rare show of agitation for the most disciplined knight in the kingdom.

“The factions I mentioned… they’ve grown bolder. There was an attempt tonight. A small one. Someone tried to slip poison into the prince’s goblet.”

Maeve blanched. “Prince Alden? But— he’s the future king!”

Silas stopped pacing. His eyes met hers.

“That’s why it wasn’t meant for him.”

She froze.

Understanding hit her like ice water.

“It was meant for me.”

Silas nodded once — a sharp, pained motion. “I replaced the goblets before the feast began. I didn’t want to alarm you until I confirmed it.”

Maeve pressed a hand to her mouth. “Silas… you saved me.”

“Of course I did,” he said fiercely.

He stepped closer, unable to hide the raw emotion anymore.

“You think I could stand there and watch harm come to you? You think I could pretend you’re just another royal I’m assigned to guard?”

She swallowed. “Isn’t that your duty?”

“My duty,” he murmured, “has been doomed since the moment I first met you.”

Maeve’s heart raced. She took another step forward. Now they stood only inches apart, breath mingling.

“What happens now?” she whispered.

Silas looked down at her — like she was something he desperately wanted to touch but feared would burn him alive.

“Now…” He hesitated, then reached into his cloak and pulled out a folded map. “Now I tell you something that might cost me my title if anyone discovers it.”

He spread the parchment on her table — a layout of the palace tunnels.

“There’s a traitor inside these walls,” Silas said. “And I intend to find them. But I can’t do it alone. You’re part of this whether I want you to be or not.”

Maeve’s breath trembled. “And whether I want to be or not,” she whispered, “I need you.”

He froze.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze to hers.

The air between them felt charged, fragile, dangerous.

Silas reached out — hesitantly — and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered for a fraction of a second too long.

“I will protect you,” he vowed, voice low. “From conspirators, from poison, from shadows… even from myself, if I have to.”

“You don’t have to protect me from yourself,” Maeve breathed. “You’re the only person in this place I trust.”

His eyes darkened — with tenderness, longing, and a conflict he could no longer hide.

“If I stay one moment longer,” he murmured, “I will betray every oath I have ever made.”

She didn’t step back.

Neither did he.

For a suspended heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between them — their breath, their closeness, the pull neither of them could deny.

Then footsteps echoed distantly in the corridor.

Silas jerked back, jaw tight. “I have to go.”

“Silas—”

He stopped at the door, turning just enough for her to see the torment in his eyes.

“Do not leave your room tonight,” he whispered. “And if anything happens before dawn…”

His voice broke slightly.

“Call my name. I will come.”

Then he slipped into the hall and vanished into the shadows.

Maeve stood alone again — but this time, her heart was no longer steady, no longer safe.

Something had shifted.

Something unstoppable.

Sleep refused to come.

Maeve sat upright in her bed, the moon’s silver glow cutting across her blankets. Her heart had been pounding for over an hour, ever since Silas slipped out of her room. Every shadow looked like a threat. Every whisper of wind sounded like footsteps.

She tried to breathe deeply.

But the air wouldn’t reach her lungs.

The warning note.

The poison.

The political scheming.

The look in Silas’s eyes.

It crowded her all at once, pressing down until her chest ached. Her pulse tripped faster. Lightheadedness washed over her.

No—

No, not now.

Her fingers trembled as she clawed at the front of her corset. The boning cut into her ribs. Her breath hitched, sharp and shallow.

“Stop—” she choked out to no one, pulling at the laces. “Stop, stop—please—”

Her hands slipped. The knot held tight. The fabric squeezed like a vice.

Maeve stumbled toward the balcony, desperate for air, but the moment she opened the doors, the cold wind slapped her and made everything worse. Her vision tunneled. Her lips tingled. She grabbed the railing, trembling violently.

“I can’t— I can’t breathe—”

Her breath fractured. Tears blurred her vision.

Then—

“Maeve?”

Silas’s voice.

She turned, startled. He was already striding across the balcony toward her, expression transformed from alert concern to full panic when he saw her.

“Maeve—what’s happening? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, unable to speak. She grabbed at the corset again, nails scraping the fabric.

“I—can’t— it’s too tight— can’t breathe—”

Silas’s face hardened with calm determination, the kind that only surfaced when he was terrified.

“Maeve. Look at me.”

She tried. Her vision wavered.

“You’re having a panic spell,” he said softly, stepping close. “You’re safe. But you need air.”

He reached for the corset laces at her back.

“May I?”

His voice cracked just slightly. “Please.”

She nodded with a tiny, jerky motion.

Without hesitation, Silas drew a small knife from his belt — a slim blade meant for utility, not combat. He slipped one arm around her waist, steadying her trembling body, and with the other he pressed the knife to the tightly woven laces.

“Hold onto me,” he murmured.

She did. Her fingers knotted into the fabric of his tunic, pulling herself against his chest as if he were the only solid thing left in her spinning world.

“One… two…”

Snap.

The first string gave.

Maeve gasped, collapsing against him as the slightest relief hit her lungs. Silas immediately kept going.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Each cut loosened the crushing pressure.

Each cut felt like salvation.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice nearly shaking. “Just breathe. I’m right here.”

Her knees buckled. Silas caught her fully now, one arm beneath her ribs, the other steady at her shoulder. Her cheek pressed against the warmth of his chest, where his heart beat just as fast as hers.

When the last lace fell, the corset slackened. Maeve inhaled a deep, shaky breath — her first real one in minutes.

Her body sagged against him.

Silas exhaled with relief and wrapped both arms around her, holding her securely but gently, his chin resting briefly atop her head.

“You’re alright,” he whispered, as if speaking the truth into existence. “I’ve got you.”

Maeve clutched the front of his tunic, breath still uneven.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I—I didn’t know what else to do—”

“Don’t apologize,” he said immediately. “You were frightened. Anyone would be.”

“But you shouldn’t have to see me like this,” she murmured.

Silas pulled back just enough to tilt her chin up with the softest touch.

“Maeve,” he said quietly, fiercely, “there is no version of you I would ever turn away from.”

Her breath trembled. His thumb brushed away a tear tracking down her cheek. The tenderness in his eyes was almost unbearable.

“If there is danger,” he continued, voice low but certain, “then I will stand in front of it. If there is fear, I will shoulder it with you. And if you can’t breathe—”

He gently pressed his forehead to hers.

“—then I will breathe until you can.”

Maeve’s eyes fluttered closed.

Silas caught her again as emotion washed through her.

But before anything more could happen — any confession, any kiss, any beautiful mistake — he forced himself to ease his hold, though his hands lingered at her waist longer than protocol would ever allow.

“You need rest,” he whispered, voice tight. “Tomorrow will be hard.”

Maeve nodded softly, still pressed close enough to feel the warmth of him.

Silas turned to go — then hesitated at the doorway.

“Maeve?”

“Yes?”

He swallowed. “If you ever feel that way again… you call for me. I don’t care what hour it is. I don’t care who hears. I will come.”

She touched her now-loosened corset and whispered:

“I know.”

And Silas disappeared into the shadows once more — leaving Maeve breathless for an entirely different reason.

***Author's note- I wrote this at 4am when I was daydreaming. I may or may not be the princess in this story. I also may or may not be picturing a certain man for the knight.

**