The Daughter Who Waits

Throughout these corridors, one could hear the echo of footsteps—the footsteps of a princess who wanted nothing more than a respite from the exhausting day she just had.

The unexpected encounter in the armory. The apology. The spar. The magic. His hold. And now… a personal bodyguard.

…Who would’ve thought she’d end up being protected by the same man who mistook the princess for a thief in her own castle?

Its absurdity almost made her laugh. But her rational side demanded answers.

…What were you thinking, Charlotte? Saying yes to someone so strange, so dangerous? Keeping him close as your guard? Have you lost your mind…?

Yet beneath these practical concerns, curiosity tugged at her. The way he looked at her—devoid of emotion, untouched by ego, intrigued her more than she wanted to admit. Eyes that seemed to say he didn’t care what became of himself. No matter how hard she tried to shake the feeling, it clung to her like a shadow.

She had seen eyes like that before. Not exactly the same, but close enough. Five years ago, she had worn that same hollow gaze herself.

And maybe that was why—beneath all logic and duty—she wanted to understand him. To know more about that young man with eyes like the sea.

Even more troubling, some part of her believed it wouldn’t matter, even if he turned out to be dangerous. Even if his intentions weren’t pure.

The reason she gave for accepting him had been partially true. With a personal guard, she could move more freely, maybe even sneak out to visit the town bakery without alerting half the castle.

But under that logic, she couldn't shake the feeling of a certain recklessness toward herself—a sense of despair that lingered just beneath the surface.

I am merely a stand-in, a replacement for my mother, the absent queen.

So, what does it matter if a stranger from an unknown place has become my guard?

Her eyes flicked to the courtyard. Outside the arched windows, the courtyard had begun to bloom—clusters of white and violet flowers pushing up through the thawed soil, their petals trembling in the breeze.

It was a scene that radiated warmth and the quiet promise of happiness.

However, she turned her gaze away from the flowers swaying in the sunset. Her feet moved of their own accord, carrying her not to her chambers, but deeper into the heart of the castle.

The doors loomed tall and heavy, groaning as she pushed them open.

Inside, the vast space yawned before her, silent and solemn. No court musicians, no rustling of robes or murmur of advisors. Only her own soft footsteps echoed against the carpet.

Light streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the floor in fractured hues of gold and green. The color washed over the two thrones at the far end.

Majestic. Empty.

She walked forward slowly, her gaze locked on the larger of the two. Her mother’s throne.

When she reached it, her knees gave way.

She knelt beside it, one trembling hand brushing the cool, ornate armrest. Then, bowing her head, she pressed her cheek gently against it.

The armrest, so unlike her mother’s embrace, drew the warmth from her cheek little by little.

She had been just a girl when they left. The memory washed over her now, as fresh as the day they departed. She had believed without question they would return—eagerly awaiting tales of travel and souvenirs from the desert lands, imagining herself laughing as they stepped through the palace gates.

Her mother, radiant in her desert silks, would sweep her up into an embrace, while her father, sunburnt and smiling, would kneel to her level and press a strange stone into her palm, telling her its name and the ancient story carved into its veins.

But the day of their return came. And passed.

No letters. No messenger. Nothing.

In a panic, Peridotia had sent word to Bahharis. The reply had been swift: the royal couple had already departed long ago.

That was all.

She remembered the feeling. Like the floor had crumbled beneath her feet. Like falling into a place where no light reached.

The kingdoms searched together—Peridotia and Bahharis—combing every trail, following every rumor.

A year passed. Then two.

There were no signs. No evidence. No trace.

It was as if the world had swallowed them whole.

…Perhaps they had been taken by the gods. That's what the king of Bahharis had said. There were old stories—tales of people who vanished into thin air, claimed by some strange, otherworldly force, never to return.

The search had cost time, money, and hope. Eventually, both nations had no choice but to stop. 

When the final report arrived, she collapsed—and when she awoke, it was as if all her life had drained from her.

She couldn’t eat, too exhausted to even speak, and sleep became impossible as relentless nightmares haunted her—where her mother and father wandered through the desert, dying of thirst.

The green magic that had protected and aided her since birth slipped beyond her control. With every surge of emotion, the forest flora lashed out in wild confusion, and her magic rampage twisted grieving beasts. The beasts who had lost their mates and young just as she had—into frenzied, monstrous creatures.

She had barely been a shadow of herself.

It was Jack—the strongest knight in the kingdom, cloaked in power and mystery—who had kept her from breaking.

Even back then, he was already known as the mightiest among them, and yet he remained just one knight among many. No matter how often others urged him to take up the title of captain or accept a position within the order, he always turned them down with a shrug and a grin. “Too grand for someone like me,” he’d say, as though the crown would crack under the weight of placing it on his head.

And so, he had stayed at the castle when the queen and her company departed, waving them off. When Charlotte had asked why, he said, “I don’t do well with heat. Deserts and I don’t mix.” Then he ruffled her hair and added, “Besides, someone has to stick around for the princess.”

He’d laughed it off like it was nothing more than a missed vacation. But in the end, that choice became his greatest regret.

Perhaps, if he had gone with them…

And so, he made a vow. A knight’s vow. He hadn’t made it with ceremony. No kneeling, no grand gesture. Just a quiet promise, spoken in the hush between sobs—and somehow, that made it all the more sacred.

“I will find them,” he had told her.

Once just a solitary knight who refused every offer of rank, he had at last accepted the mantle he’d long resisted, rising to the highest position of all: Commander of the Knights. With quiet authority and effortless charisma, he united the order, earning the respect of even the most seasoned veterans.

It was because he, of all people, had made that promise—because of that, Charlotte had risen from the darkness. She had found the strength to stand, not as a grieving child, but as a princess, as their daughter, and to swear she would protect this kingdom in their stead.

She began to eat proper meals again. She could sleep through the night. Bit by bit, she caught up on the studies she'd fallen behind on. Eventually, she grew capable enough to handle affairs vital to the realm's foundation.

But always, in her heart, she told herself it was only until the rightful queen and her consort returned safely to the country. That she was merely a temporary substitute, nothing more.

She had to believe that. If she didn’t, the crushing weight of royal duty and responsibility that had been thrust upon her so suddenly would break her entirely.

So she acted the part of a princess and kept the kingdom running. And before she knew it, five years had passed since they disappeared.

Every winter, Jack rode off alone to search for them, and all she could do was watch him go—anxious, helpless, praying each time he’d return with news.

She knew, deep down, that Jack was probably trying to find some sign of their remains. A body. A lock of hair. Even the smallest trace of death might have been enough.

Maybe then, she could have accepted it. Maybe she could have mourned properly… and moved on.

But there was nothing. And with nothing, she couldn’t give up.

The cruelest part was that they were the ones who told her to hope— 

Her uncle. Her maid. The chancellor. Her teachers. Her friends. The townfolks.

They were the ones who, again and again, told her not to give up.

To believe. To keep waiting. So she did.

But as time went by, she could feel it—in the way people went quiet when she spoke of her parents, in the gentle, practiced sympathy in their eyes, in the subtle shift of their words, carefully chosen, as if to cushion the blow she refused to feel.

They had accepted it.

And even if they never said so aloud, she could sense it—that quiet pity they held for her, the daughter who still waits.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t cold—It was kindness.

But it was a kindness that hurt all the more because it came from a place she couldn’t share.

Jack, though—he was different.

There was no resignation in his voice, no gentle pressure in his silence. He never tried to lead her forward, nor did he leave her behind. He simply stood beside her. No pity in his eyes. Unmoving. Unyielding. She clung to his presence like a lifeline.

Yet, ironically, because of him, she couldn’t let go of hope.

A hope that feels so close to despair, she sometimes can't tell the difference anymore.

“…Please…” she whispered into the quiet, voice catching in her throat. “…Please come home.”

No answer came.

No arms wrapped around her. No soft voice, no warm laughs.

Only the stillness remained.

And the thrones—grand, cold, and empty—watching her, as always, in silence.