Chapter 2 The Girl in the Library

The Royal Library of Valdoria Palace was a sanctuary of cathedral-like silence, its soaring shelves steeped in the rich musk of ancient leather and drying ink. Here, sunlight slanted through colossal arched windows, illuminating swirling dust motes like forgotten constellations. For Mia Ritchard, it was the only place in the palace where the world's rigid hierarchies melted away. In this haven, she was not merely Sofia Ritchard's daughter, a ghost in the palace's gilded machinery, tethered to its grandeur by her mother's role as a nanny. She was simply Mia, a sixteen-year-old whose soul found its truest refuge in the cadence of verse.

Her beauty was a quiet marvel, a dangerous currency in a world that prized lineage above all else. Her hair, a cascade of spun gold, framed a face of delicate symmetry, but it was her eyes, the sharp, luminous blue of Klbasian sapphires, that held a depth of intelligence and longing that belied her station. She lived under the shadow of her mother's constant, whispered warning: Keep your head down, Mia. We are guests here, nothing more. A beautiful girl with no standing is a target, not a treasure.

Mia clung to that counsel like a prayer, especially as her childhood bond with Princess Myar strained under the suffocating weight of royal decorum. Myar, whose bronze skin glowed like the Klbasian sun, had once been her partner in every mischief, her laughter a bright, shared secret. Now, Myar's world revolved around courtly duties and political alliances, a world from which Mia was gently but firmly excluded. Only one person had ever dared to defy those invisible, unbreachable boundaries: Prince Tarkan.

A memory stirred, as vivid and warm as the library's candlelight. This had been their secret kingdom. As children, Tarkan, his bronze complexion glowing even in the dim light, would stage mock battles with rolled parchments, his dark eyes dancing with unrestrained laughter. Myar, her wit as quick as her grin, would orchestrate their games, crowning a giggling Mia with wreaths woven from discarded paper. One golden afternoon, when they were twelve, Tarkan had knighted her with a fallen feather quill. "No kings or servants here," he'd declared, his boyish voice fierce with a loyalty that felt more real than any crown. "Just us." Those days were now paradise lost to the relentless march of duty.

Mia's fingers grazed the worn spine of Shakespeare's sonnets, her lips silently tracing the timeless words of Sonnet 18: Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? The poetry was a way to armor her heart against the inevitable ache of change. In two days, Tarkan will leave for four years of diplomatic study abroad. A quiet, unspoken grief had settled between them, as heavy and tangible as the ancient books surrounding her.

The soft tread of footsteps on the polished parquet floor broke her reverie. She looked up, her breath catching in her throat. Tarkan stood at the end of the aisle. His formal jacket was gone, shed for a simple white linen shirt that clung to his broad shoulders, hinting at the strength of the man he was becoming. At eighteen, he was every inch the Klbasian prince, bronze skin gleaming under the soft light, dark hair slightly tousled, and deep brown eyes that held a storm of unspoken words. Yet, in the unguarded line of his shoulders, he was still the boy who'd raced her to the palace oaks, his presence a paradox of profound comfort and imminent danger.

"I knew I'd find you here," he said. His voice, now a low baritone, cut through the library's hush like a secret intended only for her.

"It's quiet," Mia replied, closing the book with a faint, definitive snap. She had to be strong. "Shouldn't you be at your farewell dinner?" A formal affair she had not been invited to.

He stepped closer, a wry, rebellious smile curving his lips. "Mother is delivering a lecture on the political virtues of various European dukes. I'd rather be here." His gaze softened, pinning her in place with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "With you."

The words, simple and direct, were a lit match in the dry tinder of the air between them. This was no longer the innocent camaraderie of their youth. He was the Crown Prince, heir to the Klbasian throne, and she was a girl whose quiet beauty could never bridge the chasm that separated their worlds.

"I hope you enjoy your time abroad," she said, hating the tremor that betrayed her resolve.

Tarkan's eyes dropped to the book clutched in her hands. "What are you reading?"

"Shakespeare's sonnets," she breathed, gripping the volume as if it could anchor her to the spot.

He reached out, his fingers deliberately brushing against hers as he took the book. A jolt, sharp and forbidden, shot up her arm. He opened it to the page she'd been reading. "Thou art more lovely and more temperate..." he read, his voice a soft caress, though his eyes never left her face. "You always loved this one."

Her heart pounded, each beat a frantic warning against the spell he was weaving. "It's just poetry," she whispered.

He flipped to another sonnet, his gaze unwavering, as if he could see straight into her soul. "Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments..." His voice deepened, each syllable deliberate, each word a vow. "Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds..." He closed the book, the sound echoing in the profound stillness. "That's what I feel, Mia. For you."

The confession landed, shattering the fragile composure she had clung to for years. Her breath caught, her sapphire eyes wide with a dizzying mix of panic and longing. "Your Highness, you can't-"

"Don't call me Your Highness," he interrupted, frustration roughening the edges of his voice. He closed the remaining space between them, caging her between his body and the towering shelves until all she could smell was the faint, clean scent of cedar that clung to him. "Not you. Never you."

Before she could form a protest, his hands came up to cup her face, his thumb grazing the delicate line of her jaw. He leaned down, and his lips met hers. It was not the polished, practiced gesture of a prince, but a kiss that was a raw and desperate collision of four years of unspoken longing and the bitter tang of farewell. It was a question, a vow, and heartbreak all in one, over far too soon. Mia swayed, dizzy, her lips tingling with the impossible weight of it. It was the breaking of a promise she had made to her mother and the sealing of a new, terrifying one with him.

He stepped back, his dark eyes searching hers, his own breath unsteady. "I left a note inside," he murmured, pressing the warm leather-bound book into her trembling hands as if it were a sacred text. "Read it."

And then he was gone, his footsteps a fading echo in the library's vast silence. Mia stood alone, her heart a wild, frantic pulse against her ribs. With numb fingers, she opened the book. Nestled between the pages of Sonnet 116 was a slip of paper, his handwriting bold and achingly intimate.

I'll wait for your answer.

It wasn't just a note; it was a promise she felt in her very bones, a single sentence that would become both the anchor and the burden she would carry through all the silent years to come.