Chapter 18

The city shimmered like a polished jewel.

By the time the first of the royal carriages rolled into the capital, the palace grounds had already transformed into something out of myth. The banners of foreign kingdoms fluttered high above the towers, catching the summer wind – crests of emerald lions, phoenixes in flight, golden serpents coiled around swords. Musicians played softly at the gates, and every archway was adorned with fresh blooms and intricate golden filigree. The cobbled roads were scrubbed to gleam. The servants moved like a silent army – trained, dressed, choreographed.

Est had never seen anything like it.

And in truth, he didn’t think he ever would again.

Over the course of a week, the guests arrived – not all at once, but in waves, each with its own degree of fanfare. Est stood behind William as the prince extended his arm in welcome, clasping hands with emperors, nodding at crown princesses, bowing politely to kings in brocade and queens dripping in diamonds. The air was thick with scent: jasmine, myrrh, sandalwood, powder.

It was… dizzying.

Each party brought gifts – extravagant, gleaming, impossibly foreign. One kingdom had sent an obsidian chessboard inlaid with diamonds and rubies the size of blueberries. Another, a carved dragon’s spine from the Northern ranges, polished until it gleamed like ivory. There were crates of rare silks from across the sea, sealed urns of aged spiced wines, falcons with silver-gilded talons, caged songbirds that sang in perfect harmony.

And the people.

Gods, the people.

Est had grown up in a small, windswept province, where even the local lord wore the same worn velvet cloak for five years running. But here – here he was surrounded by gods dressed as men. Cloaks embroidered with moonlight. Tunics sewn with real pearls. Rings on every finger, some glittering with family crests, others with polished opals that caught the sun like fire.

It was beautiful. And it was terrifying.

He kept his head bowed, as always – watchful, alert, focused – but part of him couldn’t help but feel the awe rising with each new day. These people weren’t just powerful; they were untouchable. They moved through the palace like they owned it. Like it was their right to have the world unfold beneath their feet.

And yet, beside them, William stood just as tall.

If anything, more so.

The prince was resplendent – dressed each morning by a cadre of attendants, his hair neatly styled, his voice warm and regal as he welcomed dignitaries in half a dozen languages. Est saw a different William in these moments – the one born for this. Not just the flirt who kissed him breathless or the man who whispered apologies in the dark, but His Royal Highness in full.

And Est…

Est was just the man standing behind him.

The guards had doubled – now four stationed with every royal at all times. The security was subtle but unyielding. Every route was pre-scouted. Every corner watched. Est moved with the other guards like a shadow – silent, precise, untouchable. He never spoke unless addressed. He never left William’s side.

But even still, they barely saw each other.

There was no time.

Between official welcomes, strategy meetings, and political dinners, William was constantly surrounded. Even in the rare moments they were technically alone – in the back halls between events, in the carriage between sites – there were always guards ahead, guards behind. Too many eyes. Too many ears.

So Est stood.

And watched.

And swallowed the ache each time William looked at him and didn’t smile.

He understood it. This was duty. This was exactly what he had signed up for.

But still…

He missed the quiet touches and the soft teasing in the dark. He missed the scent of bergamot on skin, the low rasp of William’s voice in his ear. He missed belonging – even if only for a few hours at night. Even if it was all temporary.

Now, William wore a different mask.

The prince looked untouchable now – composed, regal, a perfect host. His laugh was smooth, his posture impeccable. He danced, he dined, he charmed kings and queens alike.

Est wasn’t sure anyone even knew who he was in relation to the prince.

A bodyguard. A shadow. That was all he was supposed to be.

And yet, even as the golden corridors buzzed with music and perfumes, even as princesses in jewels turned their eyes to William and smiled, Est stood at his post, jaw clenched tight, eyes trained forward – feeling something he didn’t dare name twist in his gut.

He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t.

He had no right to be.

But it hurt.

And that was the part that scared him most.

—–

The celebrations had begun in full.

Days blurred into nights. Music never stopped. Laughter echoed off the grand pillars of the palace. There was never a moment of stillness. Royalty, nobility, dignitaries, and their entourages flooded the halls like an endless, glittering tide – men and women draped in velvet and adorned with jewels, bearing gifts and expectations and eyes that lingered just a little too long.

And William, Prince of the Realm, stood at the center of it all, along with his royal siblings. Brilliant. Effortless. Untouchable.

Est was never more than a few feet behind him.

As one of William’s personal guards, he stood at his right or slightly behind, always just outside the golden circle of conversation – visible, but never part of the world unfolding in front of him. And from that vantage point, he saw everything.

The way William greeted the Princess of Tiranos – young, clever, all sharp green eyes and honey-blonde hair. She wore a silk gown in a color that almost matched William’s eyes, and when she curtsied low and looked up at him through her lashes, Est felt the first hint of it – a sharp twist just below his ribs.

William only smiled. A soft, smooth “Welcome, Your Grace,” as he took her hand and kissed it – but the smile lingered a fraction longer than Est liked.

Still, it was nothing. Diplomatic courtesy. Standard behavior.

Est told himself that.

But the ache didn’t go away.

The next evening, Est watched from his post as William entertained a delegation from the Eastern Coast – high-ranking nobles with too many titles and too few manners.

One of the princes, a striking man with jet-black hair and a mouth full of gold, leaned in far too close during the toast. He said something low – something just between him and William. William laughed, tossing his head back slightly, the sound bright and charming.

Est’s jaw tensed.

It wasn’t just the laugh. It was the way William touched his arm afterward – casually, like they’d been friends for years. Like they shared some private understanding.

Est’s hands were clasped behind him, knuckles white against the grip.

He couldn’t say anything.

Wouldn’t.

But gods, he wanted to rip that jeweled bastard’s throat out.

By the third day, the smile on William’s face felt like a knife.

Not because it wasn’t real. But because it was. Effortlessly real. Beautiful and warm and genuine – offered freely to everyone but him.

And the worst part?

William wasn’t doing anything wrong.

He wasn’t acting differently than expected of a royal prince. He was doing his duty, being diplomatic, charming, gracious. He offered small compliments and careful flirtations, just enough to leave people flattered but not misled. A perfect game of politics and poise.

But to Est, watching it all unfold felt like a slow death.

He shouldn’t have cared.

He shouldn’t have felt anything.

But feelings didn’t follow logic.

They grew in the cracks – in the stolen moments, in the way William had once kissed him in the dark like it meant something, in the warmth of his arms wrapped around Est’s chest, whispering tired affection into his skin.

Now? Est was just a guard again.

A guard with a front-row seat to every glance, every soft laugh, every private moment William shared with people far more appropriate than him.

People who belonged in his world.

Princess Marielle, draped in sapphires and moonlight, who danced with William at the twilight masquerade and held him close like they’d always been meant to.

Prince Aldren of Faros, who sparred with William in the courtyard and touched his shoulder afterward, both of them laughing, flushed from the fight.

Duchess Linora, who whispered something into William’s ear as they passed through the garden, earning a slow smile from him that Est had thought was his.

Est told himself it was fine. That it was duty. That he had no claim. That William had warned him from the beginning – that this wasn’t love, that it couldn’t be.

But knowing and feeling were two different beasts.

He could barely sleep at night now. Not because of the noise, but because of the ache – of lying alone in his quarters, still tasting William on his tongue from a week ago, wondering who was making him laugh now. Wondering if the prince ever thought about him when the music slowed and the wine hit too hard and the dances ended.

Wondering if he’d already been forgotten.

He hated how much he noticed everything.

How he remembered the color of William’s cuffs.

How he watched his mouth when he smiled.

How his eyes always strayed, even when he tried not to look.

He hated the jealousy.

But he hated the fear more – the growing, hollow fear that what they had, if it had ever been real, was already fading behind silk veils and courtly smiles.

And he hated that he still wanted more.

Still wanted William’s eyes on him – only him.

Still wanted that voice whispering his name when no one else could hear.

Still wanted to be more than a shadow behind him.

But all he could do was stand still. Back straight. Eyes forward.

Watching. Burning. Silent.

—–

The ballroom glittered like a dream.

Every inch of the grand hall had been transformed for Princess Hansa’s birthday. Candles floated in crystal orbs above the polished floors. Chandeliers sparkled with a thousand stars. Musicians lined the far wall, playing waltzes and mazurkas that wrapped around the swirling dancers like silk. The scent of rosewater, wine, and spiced cakes lingered in the air. Every noblewoman shimmered, every prince gleamed – a feast of color and finery, a parade of poise and power.

Est stood against the marble column by the edge of the room, dressed in formal guard uniform – his polished black coat crisp, blade at his hip, shoulders straight.

And he watched.

The royal family, gathered at the heart of it all, dazzled like a constellation. Crown Prince James stood tall in sapphire velvet, a silver sash across his chest, his presence as commanding as ever. Princess Hansa – radiant in violet and gold – floated from guest to guest like she owned the stars themselves, her laughter echoing like bells. Prince Hong, as always, wore his charm like armor, surrounded by noble daughters clinging to every word. Little Princess Mia was the only one allowed to misbehave – running to the dessert table and sneaking sugar-dusted fruit while her attendants looked on helplessly.

The King and Queen presided at the head of the ballroom, each flanked by admirers and dignitaries – kings and generals and ancient lords hoping for just a moment of their attention. Praise flowed like wine. Toasts were made in their honor. Nobles knelt for blessings. The crown gleamed above them all.

It was a scene out of a fairy tale.

And yet, Est saw none of it.

Not truly.

Because at the center of the room – surrounded by light, music, royalty – stood Prince William.

In ivory and gold, he looked nothing short of untouchable. His coat shimmered with embroidered suns, and a cloak of pale silk fluttered from his shoulders like a banner. His hair was swept back, neat, regal – a faint curl behind his ear the only imperfection. His posture, as ever, was impeccable. Every gesture was precise. Every smile, easy and warm.

People flocked to him.

They always did.

Princesses vied for dances. Dukes leaned in to whisper. Ministers from faraway lands laughed too loudly at his jokes. Wherever he moved, the crowd shifted – orbiting him like he was the sun and they, helpless moons.

Est stood still, hands clasped behind his back, jaw clenched tight.

He told himself to look away. To focus. To remember his training.

But gods, it was impossible.

Because William didn’t just shine.

He drew Est in – whether with the way he held a wine glass, the casual tilt of his head when speaking to someone, the way he danced like he was born to it – not too perfect, never too practiced, but just graceful enough to charm.

Est swallowed hard.

He’d stood at attention through a hundred ceremonies. Had seen William in silks, in leather, in nothing at all. But tonight – with candlelight dancing on his cheekbones and a calm confidence radiating from every motion – he looked devastating.

And unattainable.

So close.

And yet miles away.

Est barely felt the music anymore. The notes drifted past him like smoke. He barely noticed the flirtation around him, or the glances from ladies who wondered if the stoic guard could be tempted from his post.

He only saw him.

William – smiling at another princess now, laughing as he bowed to take her hand, leading her to the dance floor. She curtsied, demure and glowing, and they stepped into the waltz, his palm at the small of her back.

Est’s throat tightened.

She was beautiful. Of course she was. A crown princess from the lush southern territories – young, poised, important. Her hair gleamed in soft waves, her neckline dipped low, and her every movement seemed choreographed to lean closer to William. A touch on his chest. A hand grazing his jaw as she laughed. Her head dipping to whisper something into his ear, her lips far too close.

And William…

William smiled. Said something that made her laugh. His hand stayed on her waist, fingers spread slightly. His head dipped lower to respond to her murmur – close enough that it looked like he kissed her ear.

Est’s stomach twisted.

He told himself it was diplomacy. A performance. He knew that.

But that knowledge did nothing to quiet the ache rising in his chest – a bitter, burning thing, tight and sharp, swelling with every passing second.

This wasn’t the first time William had danced with someone. It wasn’t even the first time someone had flirted with him so blatantly.

But it was the first time Est couldn’t look away.

He tried.

Gods, he tried to keep his eyes forward, to scan the crowd like he was supposed to. He reminded himself of every rule. Every line he wasn’t supposed to cross. Every warning William had given – that this could never be more than what it was.

But his gaze kept pulling back.

To the way William smiled – not the soft, private one he gave Est in the quiet of early mornings, but the polished, public one. Charming. Dazzling. Convincing.

To the way the princess looked up at him – like he was already hers.

And to the way William didn’t stop her.

Est felt it all at once.

The weight of it. The finality.

This is what he was born to do.

To charm and dance and marry into power. To laugh politely and let women with royal bloodlines touch his face. To offer his hand – and maybe, eventually, his name – to someone who would secure peace and prosperity for the kingdom.

And Est…

Est was just a man who had fallen too deep into him when he wasn’t supposed to.

His fists clenched behind his back, hidden beneath his coat. He forced his face into stillness. Years of training made it easy. But inside – inside, he was shaking.

Every whispered word between them felt like a slap.

Every soft laugh – like a door closing.

Est’s jaw ached from how tightly he held it shut.

He hated how badly he wanted William to look at him. Just once.

To glance his way and offer a look that said, I see you. I haven’t forgotten you.

But the prince didn’t look.

He danced, and laughed, and played his part.

And Est stood in his place – silent, invisible, forgotten.

It was then that the truth really hit him.

He was in too deep.

He had let it happen slowly – allowed every kiss, every sleepless night wrapped around William, every whispered secret, every moment of softness to blur the line between role and reality.

He had convinced himself that maybe – maybe – it meant something more.

But it couldn’t.

And it wouldn’t.

Because princes didn’t keep their bodyguards.

And no matter how tightly William held him in private, no matter how reverent his voice when he whispered his name in the dark – this was the world he belonged to. A world full of polished tiaras and whispered alliances and women who could stand beside him in public.

Est never could.

And that hurt more than he could admit.

Still, he stood there, back straight, shoulders squared, watching the man he cared for – maybe even loved – hold someone else like she might be his future.

And Est told himself it didn’t matter.

Even as it broke something quietly inside him.

—–

The morning after Princess Hansa’s birthday ball, the palace halls were still buzzing.

Est stood just behind Prince William’s right shoulder, quiet as ever, while the king and queen sat in the council chamber with Soraya’s parents – the visiting royals from the kingdom of Lathor. Conversation flowed in practiced diplomatic tones, everyone polite, smiling, sipping tea from cups rimmed in gold.

It was almost too easy to miss when it happened.

“We’ve arranged for our daughter to join His Highness for a quiet dinner this evening,” said the Queen of Lathor, her smile perfectly smooth. “It’ll give them a chance to… get to know each other without distractions.”

“How lovely,” Queen Anya replied, her hand resting gently atop her husband’s. “I’m sure they’ll enjoy each other’s company.”

Est didn’t move.

But the words lodged like a splinter in his chest.

There was no hesitation from William – no protest. He simply nodded once, gracious, as he always was. “I’d be honoured.”

And just like that, it was done.

That evening, the hall outside the private dining room was dimly lit and silent. Est took his post at the door, as ordered. Two footmen passed him carrying covered trays. Then the door shut.

And he waited.

Inside, there was quiet laughter. Soft clinks of glasses. The scrape of plates.

He couldn’t hear the words – not clearly – but he could hear the cadence of William’s voice. Smooth. Warm. Charming.

The same voice he’d once heard whisper his name into the hollow of his throat, half-asleep in bed.

Est stared ahead. Still. Cold.

It was fine. He told himself it was fine. This was diplomacy. This was strategy.

But gods, it ached.

Every moment dragged.

He shifted only once – when the door opened, and he saw them.

William, walking her back to her chambers. Her hand lightly on his arm. Her laugh melodic, her steps slow, like she didn’t want the night to end.

Est watched them – from the shadows.

William was saying something soft. Soraya giggled, tilted her head to the side, then took his hand. Gently. Sweetly.

She leaned up, kissed his cheek.

William smiled.

And just as he turned to go – she caught his hand again and pulled him toward the door.

Est didn’t realize he’d clenched his fists until his gloves creaked.

The chamber door closed with a click.

The guards standing nearby made no comment, and neither did Est. But his heart was thudding in his ears. The silence screamed. His chest felt tight, too tight.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. A minute? Two? Five?

When the door finally opened again, William stepped out.

His jacket was wrinkled. His hair slightly mussed. There was colour in his cheeks – not quite flushed, but noticeable. His collar askew.

William paused.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment, something flickered across the prince’s face – guilt? Regret?

But Est didn’t give him a chance to speak.

He lowered his gaze and bowed – perfect, composed, unreadable.

“Your Highness.”

William opened his mouth. But then closed it again. And started walking.

Est followed with the rest of the guards.

—–

That night, Est didn’t return to his quarters right away.

He wandered the far end of the west wing – quiet and empty at this hour, save for the soft flicker of torches lining the halls and the occasional murmur of distant footfall. The cold stone beneath his boots, the way the shadows clung to the tall arches – it all grounded him. Anchored him, when the rest of him felt like it might burst apart.

His hands were still clenched from earlier.

He could still see it.

The way William had walked her back to her chambers, ever the perfect prince – charming, attentive. His hand on the small of her back. The smile on his face when she giggled softly at something he said. The way she paused outside her doors and leaned into him, brushing his sleeve like she didn’t want him to leave.

And then –

That door.

Est had felt it in his gut. The way it slammed shut behind them.

Just silence.

Until several minutes later, when William had emerged again – lips parted, breathing just slightly harder than usual. Hair tousled. Jacket unbuttoned. Cheeks flushed in a way Est had come to recognize far too well.

Their eyes had met.

Only for a second.

William’s expression was difficult to read – somewhere between guilt and apology, lips slightly parted as if to speak.

But Est looked away.

Because if he hadn’t, something inside him might have cracked right there in the hall.

Now, hours later, he sat alone in the dark corner of the small practice courtyard near the guards’ quarters – somewhere no one would come looking for him.

The moon was high above, casting silver light over the stones. His sword leaned beside him, untouched. His coat was folded beside him, too warm for the night. But Est felt cold.

Gods, he thought bitterly, running a hand down his face, what am I doing?

He had no right to feel like this. None.

This wasn’t betrayal.

It wasn’t even disloyalty.

It was… expected. Inevitable. Political. Necessary.

He knew what William was. Knew what he was. He’d known since the beginning. There had never been a promise. Never a future. What they shared existed in quiet hours, behind closed doors, whispered in the safety of night.

But the image –

William’s flushed face. The intimacy of it. The absence of him in that room –

It clawed at him. Jealousy and shame rising together, burning at the back of his throat.

And worse, what twisted the blade deeper – was knowing that William had looked back. That maybe a part of him had felt something, wanted to explain, to reach for Est.

But there were limits to even William’s recklessness.

And Est? Est had already crossed too many lines.

He leaned back against the cold stone wall, exhaling harshly.

You were supposed to be better than this, he told himself. Smarter.

He wasn’t supposed to ache.

He wasn’t supposed to feel.

It had started as desire – a slow-burn lust that he could control, a privilege granted behind locked doors. But somewhere between all those quiet mornings, the laughter, the heat of William’s body under his, the way he whispered Est like it meant something more –

Est had slipped.

He’d let himself fall.

And now this… this pain? This jealousy? He’d brought it on himself.

He dropped his head into his hands, breathing through the tightness in his chest.

It was the look on William’s face that haunted him the most.

Not lust.

Not pride.

Guilt.

Which meant he knew.

And that only made it worse.

Because it meant William cared – just not enough.

Not enough to stop.

Not enough to choose him.

Not enough to even explain.

Est sat there for what felt like hours – until the torches burned low and the wind picked up and the stars shifted in the sky. And still, he said nothing. Did nothing. Only stared ahead.

—-

Later, in the quiet of his chambers, Est sat on the edge of his bed, unblinking.

He hadn’t changed out of his uniform. The moonlight slanted through the window, painting long silver lines across the stone floor.

His stomach churned.

He hated this.

Not William. Not really.

But the feeling – the awful, gnawing realization that maybe, just maybe, he’d let himself slip too far.

He’d never intended to get this close. Not when he signed that damn contract. Not when he first followed the prince into the privacy of his rooms. Not even when he kissed him the first time – lips dry, fingers trembling, heart hammering.

But now… now it felt like he was drowning.

Because this was never meant to be permanent.

And tonight – watching William with her, seeing him let her pull him in – it had reminded Est of something he should’ve never forgotten.

William was not his to keep.

He wasn’t even his to want.

And yet, every part of him ached.

He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. His chest felt too full, like something inside him had cracked.

He knew what this was. He knew the prince was charming by necessity, flirty when it suited him, diplomatic to his core. That night might have meant nothing.

But the hurt didn’t care.

It still lodged deep.

The jealousy – it wasn’t the heat of rage. It was quieter, more poisonous. It made him question everything – every glance, every kiss, every whispered word in the dark. Did they mean the same to William as they did to him?

He didn’t know.

And that uncertainty, that helplessness… it carved through him like a blade.

His fingers dug into his thighs. He breathed deep. In. Out. In.

He couldn’t ask. He had no right to ask.

He was a soldier. A consort. A man bought by contract.

And still, somewhere along the way, his heart had tangled itself in the prince’s hands.

And now it was starting to break.

He lay back, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t cry.

But gods, he wished he could.

Because maybe then it would hurt less.

——

The drama is here. The heat, the jealousy, the hurt. And it’s going to keep heating up.  How will William make this up to Est? Or will he even try?

How will Est navigate these feelings??- Keep reading to find out.

Anyway, hope y’all enjoyed the chapter. Do leave your thoughts in the comments.