He knew he was not allowed to look into the eyes of the princess, but he couldn’t help himself.
The command had been clear: keep your gaze lowered, never meet her eyes, never speak unless spoken to. Every servant who worked in the royal court understood it. To look directly at Princess Serenya was said to be dangerous—not for her, but for the one who dared.
Rowan thought it was superstition at first. The old nursemaids whispered that her eyes held a kind of spell, woven in her bloodline for generations, a blessing that had twisted into a curse. One look, and you would see not the princess herself but the life you most desperately wished for, a vision so powerful it could unmoor your soul.
Rowan didn’t believe any of it. He believed in sweat and stone, in the ache of carrying water buckets from the well, in the blisters that formed on his palms from sharpening swords he would never wield. He had no time for fairy tales.
But when the princess passed through the training yard, her golden slippers barely touching the earth, Rowan’s head rose against his will. Just a fraction. Just enough.
And then his eyes met hers.
The world fell away.
He saw himself standing in a sunlit hall, dressed not in a servant’s rags but in a knight’s armor gleaming with silver. The princess’s hand was in his, her eyes soft and unafraid. The king himself bowed to him. Rowan felt a heat in his chest that was not just pride—it was belonging.
The vision snapped as quickly as it came, leaving him gasping like a man pulled from deep water. His knees buckled. The water bucket toppled, spilling across the stones.
The princess had stopped walking. She looked at him—no, into him—with an expression neither cruel nor kind, but knowing.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered, so softly that only he could hear.
And then she smiled.
That smile was more dangerous than any vision, for it promised that what he had seen was not just a curse—it might also be a possibility.
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