The Royal Proposal

“Prince Caleb Gael.”

The moment I hear his name, my heart stumbles, and a shudder runs through my entire body. I sit straighter in my seat before my gaze darts toward my parents. My father, King Derrick Easton, and my mother, Queen Pearl Easton, look just as startled by the name. Their expressions tighten as they regard the royal messenger with their full attention.

That name has been treated like a taboo for the past twenty years. Ever since he left for his kingdom, Gaedal, not once have I heard anyone mention him or any member of his royal family. With time, I had almost begun to believe I was the only person who still remembered that he had ever existed, that perhaps the rest of the palace had simply decided to bury every trace of him along with the memories of that year.

Yet now, a royal messenger stands in the middle of our throne room with a scroll in his hands, carrying words from that very prince.

The messenger, a man in his late fifties, stands tall as he clears his throat and reads out loud from the unrolled parchment, “His Highness, Prince Caleb Gael, wishes to begin by expressing his deepest gratitude for the love and care he received during his year-long stay here at the Royal Palace of Eproya.”

My fingers curl against the armrest as I listen.

The messenger continues without pause, “He wishes to convey that it was solely because His Majesty and Her Majesty graciously accepted him into their care that he was able to remain safe and unharmed while his kingdom was under attack by the Loris Empire. Without your protection and generosity, His Highness may not have survived those turbulent days.”

My chest feels strangely tight. So, he remembers…

My mother lets out a sharp scoff at the words, lifting her chin as if they were nothing more than an insult arriving two decades too late. “They took long enough to remember their gratitude,” she remarks, her voice dripping with disdain. “Twenty years, and only now have they decided to acknowledge everything we did for them?”

“Mother,” my younger sister, Becka, whispers from her seat on the other side of her. “Please calm down.”

Mother only huffs in response before folding her arms across her chest in displeasure. She looks as though she has already decided she dislikes every word that is yet to leave the messenger’s mouth.

The messenger, however, remains composed. He lowers his eyes briefly to the scroll before continuing in the same measured tone, “His Highness, Prince Caleb Gael, deeply regrets the unfortunate circumstances that led to the severing of relations between the kingdoms of Gaedal and Eproya shortly after his departure. He wishes to put an end to the resentment that has persisted between our two kingdoms and hopes to restore what was once lost by forming new and stronger ties between Gaedal and Eproya.”

My stomach twists. There is something about the way he says new and stronger ties that makes an uneasy feeling crawl up my spine.

The messenger pauses for only a moment before revealing, “To that end, His Highness wishes to propose a marriage alliance between the two royal families. Prince Caleb Gael respectfully offers himself in marriage to Your Royal Highness.”

My brows shoot upward.

“What?!” my mother’s snap cuts through the throne room so sharply that even the messenger falters. She rises from her seat, her arms falling to her sides as she stares at him in disbelief, her face flushing with outrage.

“Pearl,” Father calls softly as he looks toward her.

Mother whips her head toward him. “No, Derrick!” she snaps, turning back toward the messenger. “First, they disregard everything we did for them! They take our protection, our kindness, and everything else we offered their prince, then sever all ties with us the moment he returns to Gaedal. And now, after twenty years of silence, this ungrateful prince has the audacity to come crawling back and ask for our daughter’s hand simply because he wants an alliance?! My daughter is not some bargaining chip they can use to repair relations they were responsible for destroying in the first place!”

“Your Majesty,” the messenger carefully intervenes before my mother can say anything more. “Please allow me to clarify. His Highness is entirely sincere in his proposal, and his intentions are genuine. He does not regard this marriage as a mere political transaction. To demonstrate the sincerity behind his words, His Highness has sent something he created himself.”

He turns slightly and gestures toward the large canvas standing behind him. Its entire surface is concealed beneath a white cloth.

My brows furrow as he steps toward it and reaches for the edge of the covering. With one strong tug, he pulls the cloak down, and I feel as though an icy knife has been driven straight through my chest.

It is a charcoal sketch of Eyrlear, the ethereal flower native to our kingdom. Every petal has been rendered with fluid, confident strokes. The delicate curves and intricate shape are captured with an astonishing level of precision. I stare at it in disbelief, unable to understand how something as smudgy and seemingly messy as charcoal could possibly do justice to a flower so delicate.

Yet somehow, he has managed to capture its fragile beauty so perfectly that for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

Even with the white drapes falling from my shoulders along either side of my bare chest before tucking into my belt, I feel as though they are tightening around my lungs. My throat tightens as I continue staring at the sketch, my heart pounding harder with every passing second.

The messenger takes another parchment from the scroll in his hands and unfolds it. “His Highness has also included a personal message to accompany the sketch. I shall read his words as he wrote them: I have not had the honor of gazing upon you since we were but children, yet I have heard many accounts of the beauty you have grown into. Though I know you only through the countless ways others have used to describe you, whenever I hear them compare you to a delicate flower, I find myself imagining this one. Eyrlear has always reminded me of you. Perhaps because it is beautiful without asking to be admired, and delicate without being weak. I never had the opportunity to decide for myself whether the comparison is true, but if I am ever fortunate enough to stand before you again, I hope I will finally be able to see it for myself.”

Heat rushes through my face as anger begins to boil in my veins, burning hotter with every word. My grip tightens around the armrests until my knuckles ache. How dare he?

Twenty years.

After twenty years of silence, after abandoning every connection between our kingdoms, he thinks a pretty sketch and a few carefully chosen words are enough to make a marriage proposal sincere?

The messenger returns to reading from the scroll, seemingly unaware of the storm brewing across the throne room: “His Highness has also sought permission to stay in the Kingdom of Eproya for seven days.”

Mother’s expression darkens immediately. “Seven days?” she echoes incredulously.

“He wishes to use those seven days to determine whether Your Highness feels the same affection he holds in his heart. During that time, His Highness wishes to express his feelings himself, rather than relying solely upon letters or words carried by messengers. He asks only for the opportunity to let his love be known and to see whether it may be returned.”

A bitter bile rises in the back of my throat at the word love.

The messenger lowers his gaze to the final lines. “Should his feelings remain unreciprocated after those seven days, His Highness has pledged to return to Gaedal without another word or resentment, and will not trouble Eproya with the matter again.”

Mother immediately scoffs, “Absolutely not! I refuse!” She points toward the messenger, her outrage returning in full force. “I will not have that prince anywhere near this sanctuary of our palace after everything his family has done. Seven days? He should be grateful we have even allowed his messenger to stand before us!”

“I agree with her.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. My pulse is still hammering from everything I have heard, and the thought of Prince Caleb returning after twenty years to marry my sister makes something inside me recoil. “I am against this arrangement as well. We owe Gaedal nothing! If he truly wished to express his sincerity, he should’ve done so twenty years ago instead of waiting until now.”

Mother gives me a sharp nod, clearly pleased to have my support, before both of us turn toward Father.

King Derrick sits motionless upon his throne, his expression unusually grave. His fingers rest against the armrest, tapping once before going still, as though he is weighing every consequence of what has just been placed before him. For a moment, he looks less like a king making a decision and more like a father caught between two impossible choices.

Father parts his lips to speak, “I—”

“I agree to it,” Becka speaks in.

Every head in the throne room turns toward her. For a moment, I simply stare at my younger sister, certain I must have heard her incorrectly. Mother looks equally stunned, her mouth falling slightly open before her features contort. “Becka!” she snaps.

My sister doesn’t flinch. She sits straight in her chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she meets our mother’s furious gaze with a surprising composure. “I know where my duties lie, Mother. If this marriage is what is required to establish a strong alliance between Gaedal and Eproya, then I am prepared to accept it.”

“Becka, you cannot possibly mean…”

“I do.”

She looks toward Father, then briefly toward the messenger. “I may not know Prince Caleb anymore, but if he is willing to come here himself and give me seven moons to decide, then I believe I should at least give him the same courtesy.”

Mother opens her mouth, clearly ready to object, but Father clears his throat. The sound is quiet, yet it immediately commands the room. “Then I have made my decision. Prince Caleb Gael will be welcomed into Eproya and permitted to remain here for seven moons.”

His gaze moves across the throne room before settling upon Becka.

“After those seven moons, the matter of the proposal will be finalized between Prince Caleb and Princess Becka.”

Mother turns toward him. “Derrick!”

Father raises one hand, silencing her before she can continue. His expression turns stern, the authority of the king settling firmly over his features. “I have declared my decision, Pearl.”

Mother stares at him in disbelief, but Father does not waver. He lowers his hand and leans back against his throne.

“The matter is settled.”

***

Just like that, Prince Caleb’s name becomes all I seem to hear in every waking moment for the next three weeks. Maids whisper about him while tending to the palace, servants trade rumors whenever they think no one important is listening, and even the knights and guards seem to have some new piece of news about Gaedal Kingdom to share. It is as though the moment his name crossed the threshold of our throne room, the entire palace suddenly remembered how to speak about him, and somehow, not a single thing they have to say is kind.

With every passing day, his reputation seems to tarnish further. Apparently, over the last ten years, Prince Caleb has earned himself a reputation as a cold-hearted womanizer. The sort of prince who beds a different woman almost every night. Despite all those affairs, none of the ladies ever received more than a fleeting day of his attention. They say he discards them as easily as unwanted clothes, already on the prowl for another heart to break before the last one had even begun to heal.

And I hate it.

I hate the way they drag his name through the mud as though he is nothing more than some depraved prince who spends his nights collecting women and his mornings forgetting their names. And I hate him for apparently being exactly the kind of rotten prince who deserves every ugly word spoken about him.

If even half of these rumors are true, then what kind of man has Prince Caleb Gael become? I find myself wondering that far more often than I care to admit, only to grow more irritated whenever another whisper reaches my ears.

The rumors, however, are not the only things that arrive from Gaedal Kingdom during these three weeks. Every second day, without fail, another sketch makes its way into our palace, sent by His Royal Highness himself.

Each one is of Eyrlear, rendered in charcoal with those same fluid, confident strokes, and every time I see another, I find myself staring despite every effort not to.

I hate it.

I hate how he manages to capture the flower’s ethereal beauty so effortlessly, how every delicate petal seems to come alive beneath the charcoal, and how no two sketches feel quite the same despite depicting the very same flower.

Most of all, I hate that somewhere between the rumors, the whispers, and those infuriating drawings, Prince Caleb has managed to occupy far more of my thoughts than a man I have not seen in twenty years has any right to.

“Only a man with an unhealthy obsession would keep sketching the same thing over and over,” I mutter, staring at the growing collection of Eyrlear sketches filling the room in our palace, which has practically turned into an art gallery dedicated entirely to Prince Caleb’s work.

There must be a dozen of them by now.

“Seriously, what kind of person spends this much time drawing the same flower?”

Becka, seated comfortably on a chair facing the collection, merely smiles as she looks over each sketch. Her expression holds none of my annoyance, only quiet admiration as her eyes move from one drawing to the next. “Perhaps he’s simply trying to keep the image of it etched into his mind,” she says, her voice thoughtful. “Maybe he’s afraid that if he doesn’t draw it enough times, the memory of it will eventually slip from his mind forever.”

My heart clenches again.

It has been doing that far too often lately, squeezing so painfully inside my chest that my eyes sting with sudden tears. I hate the sensation. Every time it does, frustration burns through me until it twists into a sharp rage that leaves me wanting to lash out at anything within reach.

“Why are you talking about him so fondly?” I snap, unable to keep the irritation from my voice.

Becka turns her head toward me, her brows lifting slightly. Like me, she wears the flowing white skirt and drapes customary within the royal family, but the fabric crossing over her shoulders spreads across her chest, forming a modest covering over her chest before being secured by a second gold belt beneath them. The remaining fabric falls down to tuck into the belt at her waist.

She studies me for a moment before asking, “Why are you so against him? Weren’t you friends with him back then? You and Prince Caleb were practically inseparable.”

I scoff loudly. “We were nothing like that!”

Becka’s expression turns amused, but I continue, “I was forced to stick close to him because he would start crying the moment he was left alone! Don’t you remember? Mother used to pamper him constantly, giving him all the delicious treats and making sure he got whatever he wanted. She’d even read us an extra story at night just because he asked for one!”

I throw my hands up in exasperation, the memories rushing back despite how determined I’m to push them away.

“And yet, none of that mattered the moment he found himself alone. The instant Mother or the servants walked away, he’d start crying again. So, what choice did I have? I had to stay beside him just to keep him quiet!”

Becka places a hand over her chest, her expression softening as she looks at me. “Have a little heart, would you, brother? He was only eight, and far away from his home and his family. Surrounded by strangers while his kingdom was under attack. He was terrified that he might lose his parents.”

She tilts her head, studying me with an almost knowing look.

“And you understood him the most… Far better than I ever could at my naïve age of 6. You were only a year older than him yet looked after him when he was frightened.” Her expression turns fond as she lets out a soft huff. “All I did was weave him an Eyrlear crown…”

Her eyes suddenly widen.

Becka turns toward the collection of sketches, her gaze darting from one drawing to another as realization dawns across her face. “Wait…is that why Prince Caleb keeps sending Eyrlear sketches?” she asks, her voice rising with excitement. “Oh my goodness, that’s so sweet!”

I feel my jaw lock. “Ridiculous!” I grumble, unable to stand another second of this conversation.

I turn on my heel and leave before Becka can say anything else, her voice fading behind me as I stride through the palace halls. I don’t know where I’m going. My feet carry me through one corridor after another, past towering pillars and familiar archways, until eventually I slow to a stop.

When I lift my head, I realize I’ve wandered into the royal garden, standing beneath the magnificent Eyrlear tree whose pale blossoms spread across the branches overhead.

My gaze lingers on it for a moment before I turn around. My eyes travel upward toward the balcony of my room.

It’s precisely because this tree is visible from my balcony that I could always spot Prince Caleb beneath it whenever Derek, the valet, came looking for me and quietly informed me that the young prince was missing from the guest bedroom again. I never had to ask where he was. I would simply step onto my balcony, look down toward the garden, and there he would be, crouched beneath the Eyrlear tree, his small shoulders trembling as he cried for his parents.

I remember coming down here in my night robes to comfort him more times than I can count. He was so different from me in almost every way. His skin was tanned, his medium-length black hair fell in soft curls around his face, and his eyes were the same deep black as his hair. I was easily a head taller than him, with the pale skin, long blonde hair, and light blue eyes passed down through our bloodline.

Where I remained composed and calm, Prince Caleb was emotional about everything. The smallest things could bring tears to his eyes, and once they started, they seemed impossible to stop.

Whimpy. That was always the word that came to mind whenever I found him curled up beneath the Eyrlear tree, his face buried against his knees as he sobbed.

And I felt…bad for him.

So, I would sit beside him while he cried, listening as he told me how much he missed his parents and how frightened he was that something had happened to them. I felt bad enough for him that, one night, I finally told him he could sleep with me instead. After that, he stopped disappearing from his bed in the middle of the night just to sit beneath the Eyrlear tree. He would stay by my side instead, clinging to me like a baby panda until morning.

...to think that such a soft, pure-hearted boy grew up to become a heartless womanizer...

My jaw clenches hard enough to make my teeth click.

Before I can look away, an Eyrlear breaks free from one of the branches overhead, spinning gently through the air as it drifts toward the ground. I instinctively raise my hand and catch it between my fingers, the delicate petals brushing against my skin.

And I remember.

I remember the morning Queen Leah came to take Prince Caleb home. The war in Gaedal Kingdom had finally ended, and it was safe enough for him to return to his family. I thought that meant he would finally stop crying. I thought he’d be happy to go home.

But that day…he cried even harder.

We had both been too young to understand what was happening between our kingdoms, or why our mothers could barely look at each other without the air around them growing tense. We didn’t understand the weight behind their expressions or the reason everyone around us suddenly seemed so careful with their words. But we were old enough to feel that something had changed.

Even when I told Caleb to come visit me again soon, some mature part of me already knew that we might never see each other after that day. He had clung to me and bawled his eyes out, refusing to let go even when his mother called for him.

I slowly twirl the Eyrlear between my fingers.

I couldn’t stand watching him cry anymore, so I handed him an Eyrlear. His tiny hands had closed around the flower, his face soaked with tears and snot as he stared up at me. Through his broken sobs, he had begged me to wait for him, promising that he would come back to me.

All lies…