Three months.
And she waited at the gates every single day.
Rain or frost, wind or silence—she waited. Wrapped in wool and resignation. The palace grounds had shifted slowly around her, seasons inching forward as if in mourning. Now, winter had finally loosened its grip. The snow had melted in uneven patches, edged by yesterday's thaw, leaving the earth raw and soaked. But still, no horns. No banners. No dust trailing the hills.
No word.
"I thought they'd be back today," Lily murmured, voice nearly swallowed by the wind. Her eyes never moved from the road—searching the distance with a devotion too stubborn for dignity.
"They will arrive, Your Highness," Colla said gently. She stepped forward, steady as ever, her palm sliding beneath Lily's elbow like a brace. Her hands were warm, despite the lingering cold. "Perhaps they're delayed by the road."
"I'll wait a bit longer."
Colla tilted her head, her voice hushed with care. "Would you like tea in the garden?"
Lily gave her a soft smile—brief, a flicker of old grace—before nodding. "Let's have tea together."
Colla bowed and departed, her footsteps muted in the slush, leaving Lily alone in the hush of retreating frost and wind that refused to settle.
She looked down at her hands.
They were pale. Numb. Her fingertips twitched faintly as she rubbed them together, trying to remember what warmth felt like. The hem of her coat was damp with thawwater, but she hadn't moved. She never moved. Not when there was still a chance—still a whisper of hoofbeats or banners rising over the hills like a dream long denied.
Then—hooves.
Quick. Sharp. Echoing across stone.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She ran.
No hesitation. No thought. Just boots splashing through half-melted snow, kicking slush behind her as she tore past the guards, past the knights who no longer questioned her mad dashes toward the road. Her breath came out in clouds. Her heart was hammering hope into every step.
She rounded the bend, her eyes wide, mouth parted in joy she hadn't dared voice—
But it wasn't him.
Just a lone knight returning from patrol, reins slack in one hand. No war horses. No banners. No golden eyes.
Her feet slowed. Her chest still heaved, but her breath no longer caught in joy—only in ache. Her smile withered, lips trembling around some silent plea. As if, maybe, if she just stood there long enough… he'd still appear. Rise like a miracle from the fog of spring.
She stared.
Nothing.
No one.
And then—arms. Strong and sudden, wrapping tight around her waist from behind.
She gasped. A startled squeal escaped her as her feet left the ground.
"Got you," came the voice, low and unmistakable against her ear.
Her heart stopped.
"Yen?!"
She twisted instinctively, clinging to the arms that held her aloft. He was solid. Warm. Real. The world spun with the force of his return—and then stopped altogether when he buried his face in her neck, breathing her in like he'd been starved.
He smelled of dirt and sweat and iron. Old blood and horse. Road-weariness clung to him like armor. But none of it mattered.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him like she could stitch the days apart back together with her bare hands.
They didn't speak. Not at first.
They just held each other—tight and wordless, like two halves forced apart too long. Her feet finally touched earth again, but she didn't let go.
"I…" he started, breath catching. He fumbled at the folds of his coat, still half-laughing, half-breathless. "I picked them. The first flowers to bloom this spring."
He pulled out a small, crushed bouquet of white petals—snowdrops, bruised and trembling in his palm.
Her breath caught.
"They got flattened a bit," he admitted, sheepish, "but I kept them. For you."
She stared.
Then—yanked his hair.
"You're late!" she snapped, voice breaking somewhere between fury and relief. She gave another sharp tug, making him wince and drop to one knee.
"OW—!" he barked, laughing even through the pain. "You didn't kiss anyone while I was gone, right?"
She flushed. "Yen!"
He poked her ribs.
She squeaked.
He grinned. "Answer me, traitor."
"Who do you think I am?!"
Her hands tangled in his hair again, pulling left and right like she meant to tear answers from his skull.
"OW—OW—Okay, I believe you!" he yelped, caught between surrender and laughter.
But she didn't stop. Not yet. Not until her fingers shook and her shoulders trembled. Not until the tears welled uninvited and spilled down her cheeks. Not until she finally collapsed against his shoulder, sobbing and laughing and calling him a bastard beneath her breath.
He held her close. Tighter now. Like he'd never let go again.
And from somewhere across the courtyard, Arkon passed with all the subtlety of a brick wall.
"There's this thing," he muttered as he unbuckled a leather strap from across his chest, "called privacy."
Yen didn't even look up. He just reached out and smacked him upside the head.
Thwack.
Arkon grunted. "Yen."
Lily squinted. "Yen."
"What?" he said, grinning like a fool.
Arkon rolled his eyes and threw a half-hearted punch, which Yen swatted away with the bored reflexes of a man who'd dodged arrows for fun.
"He's proposing," Arkon said flatly as he walked off, dragging his horse behind. "The idiot's proposing."
Yen froze.
He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out—just a sharp inhale, startled and unready. He turned slowly toward Lily like the air had thickened.
She was looking at him. Eyes wide. Surprised. Expectant. A little stunned.
His ears turned bright red.
He tried to grin—because grinning was safe. Grinning was armor.
"If… I asked you to marry me," he said, and this time his voice was soft, uncertain, "would you say yes?"
Lily blinked, her lashes wet.
"I waited for months," she said. "Every single day."
He leaned in. Drawn like a tide to her voice.
But she said nothing else.
The silence folded in around them.
"I'll make it up to you," he whispered. His voice cracked just slightly, betraying something raw beneath it. "If you say no… I'll just pursue you longer."
That cocky grin surfaced again, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Not this time.
Because this wasn't a jest. This was the boy underneath the man—vulnerable, bruised, and asking if his heart could stay.
Lily didn't speak.
Her lips parted.
Then—tears. Sudden and helpless.
"Y-You always make me cry," she sobbed.
Yen's smile vanished. "Do I?"
He stepped closer and gently took her hands. His palms were rough and calloused, warm and shaking.
He held her like she might break.
And she did.
But not in pain. Not in sorrow.
She cried because he was gentle. Because he'd brought her crushed snowdrops in spring. Because he looked at her like nothing else had ever been worth fighting for.
She sniffed, messy and smiling, swiping at her cheeks like a child.
Then raised her hand.
Yen blinked. Then laughed softly and dug into his coat again.
He pulled out an ancient ring—tarnished silver, crowned with ruby just like her eyes—and slid it onto her finger like he'd been waiting three lifetimes to do it.
"No kneeling?" she whispered.
"I already knelt when you yanked my hair," he said, smirking.
She let out a cracked laugh and smacked his arm.
He kissed her fingertips.
And across the courtyard, Arkon muttered under his breath: "Disgusting."
Then slung a saddle over his shoulder and disappeared, grumbling all the way.