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The stone walls of the castle, marked by centuries of history, had never seemed so cramped to Leone. The air in the throne room, thick with the smell of incense and old scrolls, froze in his chest. But all that faded away when his gaze fell on the person sitting on a small but exquisite throne next to the king.
Prince Pannacotta Fugo.
The sun's rays shining through the stained glass played in his hair, giving the blond strands shades of honey and pure gold. His posture, though youthful, was full of unshakeable dignity, and his pale pink lips were pressed into a thin, serious line. But his eyes... Large, clear violet eyes, reminiscent of a starry night sky, watched the ceremony with curiosity that barely broke through the mask of aristocratic composure.
Leone, kneeling on one knee before the throne, was barely breathing. The words of the oath, memorised by heart, suddenly seemed empty and meaningless. He heard his own voice, low and hoarse, echoing under the arches, but his mind could not focus on anything but the image of the young prince.
"I, Leone Abbacchio, swear by my sword and my honour to serve you, Prince Pannacotta, to protect you from all harm and to be faithful to your commands until my last breath."
He did not dare to raise his eyes, fearing that his gaze would betray the storm that had suddenly broken out within him. But when the ritual was over and he was forced to step back, standing among the other knights, his eyes automatically sought out the one who already occupied all his thoughts.
Fugo was listening to something his father was saying, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as if in a grimace. And that barely noticeable movement was enough to make Leone's heart beat faster. He was beautiful. An unearthly, unapproachable creation, forged from sunlight and ice. And Abbacchio, a hardened warrior who had never been interested in anything but his own business, suddenly felt a previously unknown desire. A desire to protect, to serve, to stand by his side. To watch.
He knew it was pointless. Even crazy. He was just a squire, and Fugo was the heir to the throne. Between them lay a chasm wider than any canyon. But when the prince's blue eyes paused on him for a moment, measuring, assessing, a wild, irrational hope arose in Leone. There was no cold indifference in that gaze. There was curiosity. Perhaps even a very similar curiosity.
The ceremony ended. The king rose, followed by the entire royal family. Leone, like the others, bowed. But his thoughts were far from protocol. He no longer belonged to himself. His oath, given for the sake of destiny, was no longer just words. It had become the deepest truth he had ever known. He belonged to this beautiful, fragile prince. And let it cost him his life.
***
The sun played on the white marble columns of the gallery as Leone walked around the castle grounds. It was his turn to stand guard, and he moved steadily, automatically noting every shadow, every sound. The air was filled with the scent of blooming roses and something else sweet, barely perceptible.
It was this sweet smell that caught his attention. He turned the corner towards the royal greenhouses and froze on the threshold.
Kneeling among the thick greenery of the strawberry beds was Prince Fugo. His slender fingers quickly and carefully picked the red berries hidden under the broad leaves and placed them in the folds of his expensive blue cloak. He wore neither royal regalia nor even a light headdress — only a simple but elegant shirt, which further emphasised his youthful, almost childlike vulnerability.
He was focused, even serious, as if he were on a mission of the utmost importance. The corners of his mouth were turned down gloomily, but his eyes burned with excitement. One berry, particularly large and ripe, slipped from his fingers and rolled across the ground straight to Leone's feet.
Fugo instantly raised his head, and his gaze met that of the knight. His violet eyes widened in bewilderment and horror, and a pink blush appeared on his white cheeks. He tensed, like a bird caught in a trap.
Leone slowly bent down, picked up the berry, and kept his eyes on it. He expected the prince to stand up, throw back his head, and give a cold order that would confirm the gulf between them. But Fugo only gasped for air, his gaze darting from Leone's face to the strawberry in his hand.
"This..." he began, his voice melodious and unbroken, sounding quiet, almost a whisper. "This isn't for me. It's for... the birds. They love sweet things."
The lie was so naive and clumsy that Leone felt an unusual softness. He straightened up, holding the berry in his palm.
"Of course, Your Highness," his own voice sounded unusually calm. "Birds have a weakness for sweets. Like many others."
He cautiously reached out his hand, offering to return what had been lost. Fugo timidly extended his, and their fingers touched again. This time, the touch was deliberate. Leone felt a slight tremor in the prince's hand.
"You... you won't tell?" Fugo said, looking away. His ears were bright red. "I shouldn't be here." But they smell so good..."
"Your secret is safe with me," Leone said firmly. It was his first promise, made not as a knight to the kingdom, but as a man to this particular boy. He looked at the cloak filled with berries. "But I suppose the birds will be very full today."
A genuine, nervous smile flitted across Fugo's lips. It warmed his face, making him unbearably beautiful.
"Yes," he whispered. "I suppose they will."
He didn't know what to do next. Protocol did not provide for such situations. Standing in front of the heir to the throne, who, like a teenage thief, sits in the dirt, his pockets full of stolen berries, looking at you with a plea in his defenceless eyes.
"You should return to the palace, Your Highness," Leone said, his voice sounding rougher than he had intended. "You might be seen."
Fugo frowned, and this childish grimace suddenly made him look like an ordinary boy rather than an unattainable icon.
"They're all there..." He waved his hand towards the palace. "Always planning something. Lessons in etiquette, history, politics. Even after lunch. I just wanted... some air.
He stood up, carefully holding his cloak filled with strawberries.
"Here," Fugo said suddenly, and his hand reached out again. He gave one berry to Leone, their fingers touching again for a moment. "Take it. As... payment for your silence.
He said it with feigned seriousness, but his eyes flashed with the absurdity of the situation. Leone took the berry. It was warm from the sun and his touch.
"Thank you, Your Highness."
They stood in an awkward silence, separated by status but united by this strange, intimate conspiracy. Leone couldn't take his eyes off him. He saw the sun shining golden threads in his hair, long light eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
"I've heard of you," Fugo said suddenly, absentmindedly twirling a strawberry between his fingers. "Abbacchio. They say you're the strongest of the young knights. And the most stubborn.
Leone felt his jaw clench. He hadn't expected the prince to know his name.
"I was taught not to give up, Your Highness."
"Me too," replied Fugo, a hint of bitterness in his voice. He nodded goodbye and turned to leave, but after a few steps he stopped. Without turning around, he said, "Are you on duty tonight? Near the west wing?"
Leone's heart began to pound again.
"Yes."
"Good," Fugo said simply and walked away, quickly disappearing among the living hedges of the garden.
Leone remained standing, clutching the single strawberry in his palm. It seemed to burn like hot coals. He slowly raised it to his mouth. The taste was sweet and sour, rich and delicate. Just like the one who had stolen it. He ate it whole, without even thinking about the seeds.
***
The night air was cold and clear, each breath freezing into a light mist. Leone stood motionless, like a statue, leaning his shoulder against the cold stone wall of the west wing. The moon, large and silvery, flooded the courtyard with pale light, making the shadows deep and impenetrable. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a habit that had become second nature.
When a figure emerged from the darkness, he instantly tensed, but in the next moment he recognised the light, slender figure. It was Fugo. He was without a cloak, wearing only a thin white shirt that seemed ghostly in the moonlight. His bare feet treaded timidly on the cold stone.
"You're here," whispered the prince, his voice a quiet, barely perceptible disturbance in the night's silence.
Leone straightened up. "Your Highness. You shouldn't be here. The night is cold."
Fugo ignored his words. He moved closer, his violet eyes, bright even in the darkness, fixed on Leone's face. He looked different — not like the serious heir to the throne, not like the confused boy in the garden. There was something new in his gaze: a determined, tremulous resolve.
"I couldn't sleep," he said simply, standing so close that Leone could smell the faint scent of soap and honey on his skin.
"You should go back to bed," Leone tried to say firmly, but his own voice sounded muffled.
Fugo closed his eyes as if gathering his courage, then made a quick, sudden movement. He rose to his toes, grabbing the folds of Leone's cloak to keep his balance, and pressed his lips to his cheek.
It wasn't gentle or experienced. It was quick, clumsy, dry. Just a childish, impulsive touch of lips to rough, weather-beaten skin. But the effect was explosive.
Leone froze. The world stopped for a moment. He felt that touch—instantaneous, burning, like the trail of a falling star. He felt the warmth of Fugo's breath, the slight tremor of his body.
The prince retreated as quickly as he had approached. His face was pale, his eyes huge, filled with horror and admiration for the imperious boldness. He said no more. He turned and ran away, disappearing into the dark corridor leading into the palace, leaving behind only the slight rustle of his clothes and a ghostly imprint on Leone's cheek.
Leone remained standing. Slowly, almost mechanically, his hand rose and his fingers touched the place where Fugo's lips had left their mark. His skin burned as if it had been burned. He stared into the darkness where the prince had disappeared, but saw only the echo of that fleeting image: wide purple eyes, fair hair in the moonlight, desperate courage.
He spent the rest of the night there, motionless, feeling how that one awkward kiss had changed everything. The wall between them was still there, tall and impenetrable. But now there was a crack in it, and something impossible, something dangerously beautiful had seeped through. And Leone knew he would never be the same again.