A Forbidden Devotion

The First of Solis, Year 842 of the High Reign - The Summer Palace

T.,

It is a cruel thing, this longing I have for you. I should not feel it, and yet it consumes me, growing wilder with each day. When you arrived from battle, torn and bloodied, I could scarcely breathe for fear of what I might betray in my expression. My fingers twitched at my sides, desperate to reach for you, to touch the bruises blooming beneath your torn uniform, to soothe the wounds that were not mine to tend.

They welcomed you as a hero, but I saw the pain beneath your smile. The exhaustion you carried in your shoulders, the stiffness in your stance. I watched from across the hall as you lifted your goblet, your grip unsteady. And yet, all I could do was watch. I was as useless to you as a ghost.

I should not write to you. If the Queen knew, she would send me away without hesitation, and what would become of you then? She already watches too closely, her suspicion curling like smoke in the air between us. But I do not care. I will not let my fear silence me, not when I wake in the night with your name on my lips, not when my heart pounds at the thought of what could be if only fate were kinder.

Tell me you feel it too. Tell me I am not alone in this torment.

Yours, though I should not be,

L.

The Ninth of Solis, Year 842 of the High Reign- The Summer Palace

My Lady L.,

You are not alone. You could never be.

The salve you left soothed more than my wounds, though it was your touch I craved most. In the fever’s grip, I drifted between reality and illusion, unsure if I imagined you beside me. How could you have escaped the Queen’s scrutiny? And yet, I swear I felt you—the whisper of your skirts, the cool relief of your fingers brushing my brow. A touch so gentle, I feared it was only a dream. But when I woke, the scent of lavender lingered, and your note was there—proof that my heart had not deceived me. I read it again and again, as if your words might summon you back to me.

I long for the scent of you still, the traces of lavender and honey that cling to your skin. When you left your handkerchief behind, I stole it as a thief would a sacred token. I hold it now, pressing it to my lips, inhaling deeply as if your very essence might seep into me. The memory of you torments me—those moments at court when I watched you across the long tables, feigning indifference while my entire being burned. How often I imagined tracing my fingers down the delicate column of your throat, learning the taste of your lips.

My body aches for you, for the touch I have never known but dream of endlessly. My hands burn with the need to feel you beneath them, to trace your skin with lips that whisper only your name. Tell me, my love, do you long for me as I long for you? If I slipped into your chambers one night upon my return, would you turn me away?

When you wake, the King and I will already be on our way, riding toward the threat that festers within our borders. The burden of this duty weighs on me, but heavier still is the ache of leaving you behind. The King relies on me for this mission, but my thoughts remain with you, alone beneath the Queen’s scrutiny. I fear for what she might do in my absence. The Queen does not forget, nor does she forgive, and without my presence to temper her whims, I dread what cruelty she may inflict. Watch yourself, my love, and be cautious in all things.

T.

The Twenthieth of Solis, Year 842 of the High Reign - The Summer Palace

T.,

I have entrusted this letter to the King’s royal messenger, the one who carries his private correspondence when he travels. He does not question what he delivers so long as it bears the correct seal, but even so, I have chosen my words carefully.

I have dreamed of that night since you left. I would have come to you every evening if I could, but the Queen’s eyes have been upon me, watching my every move. Still, I do not regret it. You remember correctly—I was there that first night. I sat beside you, watching the fever flush your skin, listening to your breath come in uneven gasps. I touched your brow, hoping to draw the heat from you, and for a moment, I thought you stirred, that you knew it was me.

The salve I used was no ordinary balm. Its secrets have been passed down through my lineage, whispered from mother to daughter, a remedy known only to those who understand its power. It does more than soothe wounds—it draws out fever, restores strength, and, they say, can mend even the unseen wounds of the soul. I watched as it calmed your breath, as the worst of the heat left your body. Yet my hands ached to do more. I wanted to trace the tension from your brow, to let my fingers linger against your skin—not just to heal, but to remember how you felt beneath my touch.

I wanted to stay, to brush my fingers over your chest, to soothe the bruises with something more than medicine. To press my lips to each mark that pain had left upon you, to make you forget the agony with something softer. But I could not risk it. The Queen's shadow is long, her suspicion a blade ever poised. And yet, even now, I dream of returning to you—not as a healer tending to a broken man, but as a woman who has waited too long to claim what she desires. I do not dream of frailty, but of strength—of you, whole and restored, beneath my hands. I long for the moment when I may touch you freely, unafraid, tracing each scar with my lips as if to rewrite the story they tell. The body that war and duty have taken from me, I will one day make mine again.

You tempt me with words that make my skin burn hotter than any fire. If you came to my chambers, if you stood before me with that defiance in your eyes, I would not send you away. I would not resist. I would let your hands unlace my gown, let your mouth teach me what duty forbids. I would let the night claim us, our whispered sins hidden beneath silk and candlelight. But T., the walls have ears, and the Queen’s reach is long. She has begun whispering of promising me to another, a match that would extend our borders, bind our kingdom to foreign strength. Yet the King knows the truth—my power flows from his bloodline, a gift that cannot be traded away without folly. Still, she plots. I see it in her eyes, in the way she watches the court, as if measuring its worth, as if seeking loyalty where it should not be found.

I fear there is more at play than simple ambition. The Queen speaks of strengthening the realm, of alliances to ensure stability, yet I see the calculation behind her words. She watches the court as if weighing its worth, as if seeking loyalty beyond what is already sworn. There are whispers that she gathers power in secret, that she moves with a purpose not even the King foresees. If it is true, T., then our greatest danger is not what she suspects of us, but what she intends for the throne itself.

My father sent me to your room that first night to tend to you. Every night since, I close my eyes and recall sitting by your side, tending to your fever, whispering your name into the quiet dark. You stirred beneath my touch, and I wished—God, how I wished—you had woken to see me there, to know that it was my hands that soothed you, my lips that ached to brush against your skin.

And now, I think of how I will touch you not as a healer, but as a woman unburdened by fear. When you return, I will not linger in corridors or let duty keep me from what I want. I will press my palm to yours, and this time, I will not pull away.

So tell me, my love, are you prepared to risk everything for this? For me?

L., bound to you in soul and sin

The Fifth of Zephyria, Year 842 of the High Reign - The King’s Campaign, Approaching the Red Dunes of Valaquín

My Lady L.,

The days stretch longer than I anticipated, my love. The negotiations are fraught with obstacles, each delay another dagger keeping me from you. We were ambushed on our way to Valaquin, the King and I riding ahead with only a handful of men when they struck. Steel clashed, horses reared, and for a moment, I feared it would be our end. But I fought—I fought like a man possessed, cutting down those who sought to take his life. I saved him, L. And yet, the only thought that burned through me, even as I stood over the fallen, was you. How much I ached to return to you, to feel your hands on me, not in duty, but in desire. The King is relentless, determined to secure what we came for, but I have never wished more fervently for expediency. Every night without you is another torment, another reminder that duty is a cruel master.

I think of you constantly. Of those afternoons at court, surrounded by others, where my only indulgence was to watch you from across the table. You never knew how much I longed to reach for you then, how the delicate way you held your cup, the way your lips parted when you laughed, made me burn. Those stolen moments, where only I knew how deep my need for you ran.

I remember the scent of your perfume lingering in the great hall long after you had gone. How I would find reasons to stand where you had stood, hoping to breathe you in one more time. And at night, when the halls were empty, I would run my fingers over the carved wood of the banister you had graced with your touch hours before, longing to chase the ghost of you upon my skin.

I long to return to you as swiftly as I can. When I do, three nights from then, my chamber door will be unbarred. If you come to me, you will know what it means to be worshipped—to be held, adored, consumed in a way that no vow of duty can deny us any longer. I will not wait for fate to grant us a gentler path. I will take you as you are, as you have always been—mine. Let nothing, not even the Queen’s will, keep us apart.

T., bound to you in love, forged in fire, and in the war we will fight for each other.