The Kingdom of Aethel was a legend, famed for its towering white cities and rulers whose wisdom was said to rival the gods.

Princess Dima of Aethel was its last bloom—a girl destined for a political marriage, but cursed with a heart too full of wild, rebellious love. She had a lover, Kael, a cartographer, a man of humble birth but possessed keen intellect and daring spirit.

Their secret courtship was a dangerous dance under the glow of the palace moons. On the eve of her betrothal, they executed their desperate plan; they hatched their plan to elope to the east, toward the free territories across the Serpent’s Spine mountains, where her title meant nothing and their love meant everything.

Their journey began with a breathless rush of freedom, but halfway to the mountains, peril found them. They were ambushed—not by the King’s men, but by brigands whose motives were murky. Kael fought with a ferocity Dima hadn’t known he possessed, driving them off, but sustaining a deep, grievous wound to his side.

Dima tended the injury beneath a crumbling stone ruin, her hands slick with blood and tears. Kael grew feverish, and with each passing hour, it was certain that he might not survive the ordeal.

Two days later, under a cold, uncaring sky, Kael died in Dima’s arms, his last, rattling breath a whispered vow of eternal love.

Dima was not only alone but with child. Her grief was a physical weight, but the tiny, stirring life inside her gave her a cruel, fierce clarity.

She was going to live for herself and her baby, Kael would died protecting them, she would die protecting her baby if she she had to, she could not return to Aethel as to return to Aethel was to face inevitable disgrace, and the loss of her child to the cold machinery of succession, with a lifetime entombed by regret.

Dima pressed on. She found refuge in Oakhaven, a remote village clinging to the mountains’ base. It was a place of tough earth, quiet folk, and deep suspicion of outsiders. Dima shed her jewels, trading her silk robes for coarse wool, and took the name Lyra.

The early years were a brutal struggle. She gave birth to a son, she named him Orin, under the care of a quiet midwife. To sustain them, she took up needlework, selling what few possessions she had left, often facing starvation. Yet, through the harshest and leanest seasons, they survived.

One thing she could not explain was, whenever a fever took Orin, a rare herb would appear on her doorstep. When their roof collapsed, timber and tools would materialize during the night. The villagers attributed these events to the “kindness of the mountain spirits,” but Lyra simply accepted the silent, mysterious aid, attributing it to Karl’s spirit watching over them.

Every night, as the fireflies danced outside their small cottage, Lyra wove tales for Orin—stories of the golden spires, the majestic parades, and the legendary warriors of the Kingdom of Aethel. She never mentioned she was the lost princess; those were simply fantastical tales of a grand, far-off life.

Orin, growing strong and bright, absorbed the folklore of a kingdom he had never seen.

One evening, seven years after she had run away from Aethel and settled in Oakhaven, Orin asked a piercing question as he traced the outline of a scar on her arm.Orin: Mama, those brigands—the ones you told me about, that hurt Papa, how did you escape them when they came back?

Dima froze. She hadn’t realized she had spoken of the ambush multiple times. But she had never mentioned the second attack—the night after Kael died, when the brigands returned, sensing easy prey.

Princess Dima: They… they never came back, darling. They were scared off by Papa.

Orin: No. Old Man Heth told me you were lying on the ground, weeping, and then a great shadow fell over the camp. He said the brigands screamed and ran, leaving their gold and weapons. He said he saw tall men, cloaked and silent, moving through the trees like the wind.

Dima stared at her son, a cold dread washing over her. She had been so consumed by grief and struggle that she had repressed the memory of that terrifying night. She hadn’t driven the brigands off; she had been too weak. Someone—or something—had saved them.

That night, as the moon rose high over Oakhaven, Dima finally knew she wasn’t alone. She stepped outside their cottage, her heart hammering against her ribs, and whispered into the cold mountain air.I know you are there. The wood for the roof, the medicine for Orin, the safety from the brigands. Why? And who are you? (Silence). Then, a voice, low and resonant, emerged from the dark corner where the shadows were thickest. We are the Gild-Watchers. We are the silent heart of Aethel.

A figure stepped forward, cloaked in deep blue, his face half-hidden by a cowl. He was massive, yet his appearance was noiseless You are Princess Dima., the daughter of our King, before you left, the King charged his most loyal guards—the Order of the Watchers—with an impossible task: follow you, but never interfere.

Never interfere? Princess Dima asked, so you watched Kael get butchered, you let my love die!

We watched your sorrow, Princess. It was our torment. But the King’s order was absolute. We were commanded to protect your life and your bloodline, not your choices. When the brigands returned to harm the Crown’s blood, the order shifted, we intervened, clearing the path, securing your refuge.

He pushed, then reached into his cloak and drew out a small, familiar object: the silver lion charm that had been Kael’s only family heirloom, lost in the scuffle.

He drew a deep breath then continued, We have been the shadow on your trail, the luck in your struggle, and the silent shield over your son, We are here now because Aethel is fading, the King is old, the capital descends into factional chaos.

He knelt, the sound of stone on earth.Princess Dima, the Kingdom that thought you were a lost cause has never stopped watching over you. You and Prince Orin are the last hope for Aethel, the time of the hidden watch is over. It is time to come home.

Dima looked back at the cottage where her son slept, then at the man kneeling before her, the representative of a power so vast, so loyal, and so tragically close that it had defined her entire life in exile. She was never forgotten; she was always guarded.

She took a deep breath and heaved a sigh; The suspense was over, replaced by an overwhelming, emotional choice: The princess, who became a common woman for love, must now decide if she will embrace the crown for her son.

She stood for some minutes, thinking about what decision to take, then she turned around, walking towards her cabin, looking at the man, then said, we leave at the first sight of light, with that, she walked into her cabin, the man heaved a sigh, then said to himself, finally, the wait is over, we get to go home.