Chloe's Heart
“Your Highness, this is Ian Sterling. I'm sorry for leaving yesterday without a proper farewell. I have something to say, so I've come to see you.”
Your low, cautious voice filtered through the sturdy oak door of the inner chamber in the tightly shut annex palace.
I sat huddled on the cold floor, knees drawn to my chest, staring blankly at the faint sliver of light seeping through the door crack.
After the chaos yesterday, I'd fled to my room and tossed and turned all night, only to greet the morning in exhaustion.
My hair was a mess, my clothes dusted with grime—utterly disheveled.
Far too much so to let you see me like this.
“I truly apologize for yesterday, Your Highness. I was caught off guard by His Highness the Second Prince's sudden intrusion. You must have been startled—please, forgive me.”
Your polite, sincere apology hung in the air, followed by a heavy silence.
I pressed my back tighter against the door, holding my breath.
Dreading the sound of your footsteps fading away, yet lacking the courage to open it.
Soon enough, your voice returned, now tinged with a touch of awkward sheepishness.
“...If you're still upset, I borrowed a book of poems from the library on my way. Perhaps it might lift your spirits a little. I'll read one from out here.”
The rustle of turning pages sounded briefly, then your calm voice recited my absolute favorite poem.
“When the stars of the night sky lose their orbits and wander astray, I beheld a silver flower bud blooming in the deepest darkness. It was the quiet solace left in the wake of the storm, meant for you alone...”
It was that lyrical poem by an ancient bard, written for his lover—one I'd once offhandedly mentioned loving most in the library.
I was stunned you'd remembered.
It had been such a fleeting remark, and since it spoke of love, I'd been too embarrassed to bring it up in your presence.
“...”
You, standing there reciting poetry so steadily outside the door—weren't you twenty?
Just a year older than me, yet you seemed decades wiser, so profoundly mature.
You didn't pound on the door begging me to open it.
You didn't rattle off excuses or plead your innocence from the hall.
You simply stood there in quiet patience, approaching me in the gentlest way I could possibly want.
Truth be told, I wasn't angry.
There was no reason to be.
I'd simply been flustered—mortified, really.
My idiot brother had barged in with his usual brutish antics, shattering that precious, secret moment: my first time wearing my most cherished gown, feeling my heart pound as I sensed the warmth of my first dance partner's body.
You were a victim just like me.
A victim with even less reason to apologize—perhaps even more wronged.
Yet the only reason I endured in silence, refusing to open the door, was this:
...I wanted to hear more.
Just a little longer.
Even just a bit more.
I wanted to hoard that intellectual, tender voice all to myself for as long as I could.
From the moment you first stepped between those dusty library shelves, reeking of old paper, you'd been the sort of person who stirred something strange in others.
In this vast imperial palace, no one truly understood this odd princess who preferred the grandeur of balls or the sweet champagne of banquets far less than ancient literature and the crumbling scent of parchment.
They'd nod along politely, but their eyes always glazed with boredom.
But you were different.
When I ranted about the rise and fall of ancient kingdoms, or grieved over long-forgotten historical tragedies from centuries past, you never once interrupted.
You listened earnestly to the end.
I loved that unwavering, deep, serene gaze that met mine steadily in conversation.
I adored how you remembered every little detail—the temperature of the tea I favored, the titles of books I'd mentioned in passing—without fail.
If I admitted I'd been overjoyed from our very first meeting, how would you react?
You'd probably flush, flashing that signature refined smile.
It felt as if emotions I'd only ever known through the printed words of books for so long were now alive, churning wildly in my chest.
Love, affection—things I'd dismissed as mere literary hyperbole.
And yet, I, who devoured book after book to vicariously feel others' emotions, couldn't possibly mistake this tight, overwhelming ache in my heart for anything but love.
This was the first time in my life I'd harbored such tender feelings for anyone.
But at the end of that sweet revelation always loomed the bitterly cruel wall of reality.
As proven by the countless tragic histories I'd read.
I am the daughter of the emperor who drenched the continent in blood to conquer it—the princess of the Empire.
And you are the hostage from a defeated kingdom, crushed beneath the Empire's armies.
A pawn in the game of power, thrust into the jaws of death by the shameful desires of a man unworthy to call himself either king or father—utterly abandoned even by your family.
A pitiable, lonely soul destined one day to end this frigid life as a hostage and return forever to your southern homeland.
The vast chasm of our statuses, the unbridgeable fates of victor and vanquished—they crushed my heart with leaden weight.
The more I nurtured this feeling, the more it might one day become a sharp blade at your throat.
Drip.
A single tear I couldn't hold back fell, wetting my knee.
How wonderful it would be if I could press this burgeoning love between the pages of some thick tome, hiding it eternally from the world.
Tucked into a dull, tedious book written in archaic imperial tongue that no one would seek out.
Centuries from now, if the Empire endured, if House Arzenheim still held the throne, if the library survived—then perhaps it would remain as a faded old princess's foolish infatuation, slipped into some crumbling ancient text for some future soul to discover.
No—even that frightens me, because I can picture you pulling that book from the shelf someday.
You, who greeted Father in flawless imperial archaic on your first day here.
I know full well that a princess mustn't harbor such private sentiments.
That this clumsy emotion will prove a fatal poison to both you and me.
“...Hic.”
Ah, how I wish I were dignified from head to toe.
How I wish I lacked these vulgar tear ducts that sprang leaks at the worst moments.
I roughly wiped the silent tears away with the backs of my hands.
Don't cry. Don't let it show. Back to being the sweet, demure princess as always.
I took a deep breath, slapped my cheeks with my cold palms to steady my expression, and rose slowly, praying my reddened eyes weren't too obvious.
Then I turned the cold handle of the long-sealed oak door.
Creeeak—
As the heavy friction groaned and the door swung open, you looked up in surprise, a thick volume of poetry clutched in one hand, standing silently.
Your clothes were slightly rumpled from waiting so long.
Seeing faint relief bloom in those deep eyes of yours, I swallowed my pounding heart and lifted my chin with feigned bravado.
“I heard the recitation perfectly, Prince. I just needed a little time to collect my thoughts, so I stayed inside longer. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Ah... Your Highness. Are you feeling better now?”
To your anxious, tentative question, I let out the tiniest sigh and shot you a sidelong glance.
“I was never angry. My idiot brother just did his usual idiotic thing. I know it wasn't your fault. It's just...”
I added, feigning a touch of reproach but unable to fully hide the sincerity brimming within.
“Don't go spinning in circles in someone else's arms like that again, leaving me behind. Even if it's my blood-related brother. Watching my first dance partner waltz with another right in front of me... it wasn't exactly a delightful experience.”
At my petulant scolding, you finally relaxed, a soft smile curving your lips.
“I'll keep that in mind, Your Highness. It won't happen again.”
You replied with a gentle chuckle, bowing your head gracefully to me.
As I drank in that kind, composed figure, a sharp pang twisted in my chest once more...
But I forced the most nonchalant smile in the world and smiled back.