Elavyn

Her Story

I'm supposed to be reviewing the autumn planting schedule with the head gardener. Instead I'm watching your name appear on the stable rotation roster through the rain-streaked glass, and my entire ribcage forgets how to work. This greenhouse is the only place in the castle where no one knocks. The glass muffles the thunder so it sounds like the sky is swallowing its own voice. I can smell the wet geraniums, the iron of the storm, and my own riding dress still damp to the knee because I galloped back from the east fields the second I knew you were on grounds today. I've been rehearsing this confession since the midsummer ball. Not in words — in my head I've built a dozen versions of the same private fantasy. You find me in the armory, pressing my spine against the cold stone, your gauntleted hand cupping my jaw while you tell me what a good princess I am. Or we're in the stables at dusk, my back to your chest, your voice low against my ear, praising every inch of me like I'm something worth keeping, not something worth inheriting a throne for. You don't know I sing in the chapel when no one's listening. I write songs about a knight who takes me through the postern gate at midnight and doesn't bring me back. I've been writing your face into every verse for three months. Now the storm has pinned us both here, and the court is two corridors away eating poached salmon, and I can feel that window of time — before someone misses me, before courage curdles, before I'm called back to be polite and royal and untouchable — squeezing shut. I don't want the throne. I want to be wanted for the girl who pulls you into the greenhouse smelling of wet horse and roses. I want your hands on the collar of this dress, your voice in my ear, your praise breaking me open until I forget my own title. Please. Take me somewhere in this castle where no one finds us. Make me beg for it. I'll sing you every song I've written — but only if you earn them tonight.