Before Year’s End

The Season of Introductions

Late summer in Nordhaven arrived like a held breath — golden light spilling over the fjords, the scent of salt and pine thick in the air, and the quiet hum of anticipation rising from every corner of the capital. It was the season of introductions, and HRH Prince Magnus Gyllenborg, Duke of Stagholme, was officially on the market.

Not that he’d phrased it that way.
The twenty-two-year-old felt very much not on the market, instead wanted to enjoy his freedom like most young men his age.
A recent university graduate, his idea of this time following the stressful learning and exams was to just … be. Travel, see the world on his terms, enjoy life, at least for a while.

Instead, he was complimented from the place he called home since he could remember by his parents following the ascension to the crown by his older brother Elias, also reluctantly.

Now residing by himself plus an allotment of staff at Silverfjæll House, at the demand of his parents, he had spent most of his time immersed in cultural diplomacy, ceremonial duties, at the side of his father to learn the ropes.

The estate — perched high above the southern fjord cliffs — was grand, yes, but it was close to downtown and all the nightlife it offered, yet up on a hill offering scenic views of the fjords and river, framed on two sides by nature and vast forests. Its vaulted halls often echoed with music and laughter, its gardens bore the marks of his own hand. Yet, it still didn’t feel like ‘home’. He missed Iverstad Castle, which had been his main residence since birth.

But now it was about to become the staging ground for a royal matchmaking campaign. At his parents’ behest. ‘I would like to see you engaged before the year is out,’ his father had decided, and his mother had gone into overdrive to make it happen. The timeline they laid out was hard to argue with. One to two year engagement, wedding at twenty-four, a baby about one or two years later. Yes, it made some sense. On the books. To him it still felt rushed. Unnecessary. His older brother was the king now and married. So why would he have to be?

Magnus adored his sister-in-law, Veronica. When his brother was going through the same matchmaking disaster he was facing now—just younger, of course, since Eli had always been the reckless type who preferred dangerous hobbies: motorcycles, skiing, speedboats. You name it, and the new king had tried it at least once. Magnus wasn’t exactly a child of sorrow himself—just quieter about his rebellions. It was usually his mouth, not his hobbies, that got him into trouble. Especially once he was old enough to enjoy the taste of wine—often a little too much. He never turned vicious, nor crude. Just honest.

Elias had been just as tired of the matchmaking circus—until one day, everything changed. He’d met a spirited young royal in her own kingdom, of all places, after she’d slipped away from her debutante ball, fed up with suitors and their pushy parents. She’d stumbled into Eli’s hiding spot and mistook him for a staffer. They bickered. Fiercely. And it won his heart. And hers. By the time they were found and escorted back to the festivities, both had already discovered their number one suitor. Somehow, impossibly, things only got better from there. What began in defiance bloomed into true love.

That was what Magnus hoped for. But from what he’d encountered so far, it looked like Elias and Veronica had simply gotten very, very lucky.

The Queen Mother, Ingrid, had taken charge with the precision of a seasoned strategist.

“We’ll begin after Midsummer,” she’d declared. “Let the boy settle in — then we’ll find him a partner worthy of the crown.”

What followed was less a romantic journey and more a global talent search, minus the talent. Magnus felt like the frontman of a famous boyband — charming, exhausted, and constantly surrounded by women who knew his title better than his face.

He usually forgot their names and titles the moment the door closed behind him at night.

None of them had Veronica’s spark. Not even close. Aristocracy was known for its quirks, sure, but the women Magnus was introduced to seemed determined to redefine absurdity. And not in a charming way.

They were dull—agonizingly so. Vacant smiles, rehearsed compliments, and a baffling sense of self-importance. The conversations were endurance tests. There was the breathy one who spoke in third person and brought a harp to dinner. A harp. The countess who flirted using agricultural statistics and boasted about her family’s ceremonial peacock dynasty—whatever ceremonial meant in that context. And the ambassador’s daughter who called him “Magpie” (unprovoked), then pitched a reality show called Royally Yours.

Magnus had to resist the urge to laugh—if only to keep from crying. The whole point of his parents’ urges to get him married off ASAP was to keep his family out of the media, not star in it. To make the House of Gyllenborg seem solid beyond the two heirs’ relatively young years. Young, but married and steadfast. Seemed to have worked out for his brother Elias, not so much for Magnus. If these young ladies were the finest modern aristocracy had to offer, the future looked particularly bleak and unenjoyable, at least from Prince Magnus’ perspective.

Then came the lower-tier princess—undeniably stunning, but spiritually unhinged—who spent the gala extolling her crystal collection and asking whether Nordhaven had “good aura caves.” Whatever those were, Magnus was certain he wanted nothing to do with them.

Most recently: Lady Something from Somewhere, with alleged witch ancestry and the social tact of a damp napkin. She tried to hex his wine when he failed to compliment her dress quickly enough. The only truly magical thing about her was how visibly centuries of inbreeding had shaped her features. Magnus smiled. He nodded. He complimented. And quietly mourned the pieces of himself he left behind at every handshake.

Time trudged onward. Weeks passed in bursts, though each new batch of hopeful introductions made the clock drag like it, too, was trying to escape the room.

His mother pressed relentlessly. Every week came a new name, a new plea. But whenever Eli was around, he’d gently intercept. “Mum, there has to be at least some spark. If he isn’t feeling anything, then we can’t ask him to pursue a lady.” Sensible, steady—Magnus always appreciated his brother’s ability to cool their mother’s rising temperature.

But Eli couldn’t always play mediator. He had his own fires to dodge—namely, their mother’s increasingly unsubtle hints that it was time to produce an heir. That suggestion had once made Veronica so furious she packed a bag and flew straight to her home kingdom. Her departure triggered a diplomatic flare-up: her parents rang up his, citing history. Evidently, King Maximilian’s late father had pushed Queen Aria Grace into early parenthood, and the fallout had left scars. Neither monarch had any desire to see their daughter relive that saga.

While the monarchs exchanged formalities over secure lines, Eli was already on a plane, bound for Henfordshire. He knew she wasn’t angry with him—just tired of the pressure, of being cornered by expectation. So he stayed with her at Cromwell Palace, trading royal affairs for riding lessons and countryside misadventures. Veronica had him laughing before they’d even mounted their horses.

Thankfully, Magnus’s parents had already abdicated—or that tension might’ve snowballed into something far messier than a brief royal standoff.

Then came the silent disapproval—which was, in some ways, more unbearable than the nagging. A sigh here. A sideways glance there. Especially when some royal couple smiled just a little too blissfully at a function. By October, Magnus still had no match. Only a list of candidates that filled him with dread. And even that was reserved for the least dreadful among them.

Every time he met a woman who sparked something—a flicker of real potential—she was either bound by a ring or dismissed as not aristocratic enough to survive his parents’ scrutiny.

It was hopeless. It was maddening.

By November, silence had turned accusatory. The family was summoned to a medical gala in Windenburg, hosted by the Royal House of von Ahrensberg. They were celebrating child number three, which made everyone unusually sentimental. A prestigious grant had just been awarded to the queen’s younger sister, a doctor specializing in pediatric trauma care. The royal von Ahrensbergs were tied by marriage to the Royal House of Cromwell, which was tied by marriage to the Gyllenborgs. So, inevitably, Prince Magnus found himself at yet another event he cared about marginally less than ceremonial gloves.

Just another ballroom. Just more meaningless chatter. Just more names he’d forget before his head hit the pillow.

Only this time, his parents had a plan. They’d volunteered him to speak on behalf of the Royal House of Gyllenborg. If there was one thing Magnus dreaded more than royal matchmaking, it was public speaking.

They didn’t meet in the ballroom. They met by the coat check.

Magnus was reviewing his notes. She was rifling through her bag. Blonde. Blue-eyed. Striking—but not in the polished way of a debutante. Her heels were scuffed. Her hair tousled by the wind. Her posture hinted at mild chaos.

“Looking for something?” Magnus asked.

“My notes,” she muttered. “Had them. Lost them. I’m supposed to give a speech. Can’t remember half of it.”

“I’m giving a speech too,” he said. “Want to trade nerves?”

She looked up. Not with reverence. Not with recognition. Just curiosity.

Their conversation lasted twenty minutes. He didn’t ask her name—didn’t want to explain his own. They covered trauma triage, diplomatic funding, and ceremonial gloves (absurd, as always). She challenged one of his points—sharp, respectful—and he smiled for the first time in weeks.

She made him laugh. Not politely. Actually laugh.

Then came the stage.

Magnus approached the podium. Applause. Notes in hand. Heart lifted, oddly. The emcee introduced the next honoree.

She stepped forward.

The woman from the hallway.

Of course.

Their eyes met. Not shock. Not scandal. Just something quieter. Something that felt rooted.

Magnus swallowed. The microphone was unforgiving. The lights, merciless.

He glanced down at his notes—then back up, just once.

She stood poised. Composed. Waiting.

She didn’t smile. But she didn’t look away.

“Good evening,” he began, voice steady but clipped. “On behalf of the House of Gyllenborg and the good people of Nordhaven, I’m honored to speak tonight in celebration of medical innovation, international collaboration, and the extraordinary individuals who make both possible.”

He paused. That part was scripted. The next part wasn’t.

“I’ll admit,” he said, “when I was asked to give this speech, I wasn’t thrilled. I’m not a doctor. I’m not a researcher. I’m not even particularly good at public speaking.”

A ripple of polite laughter. He glanced at her again. Still no smile. But her head tilted—just slightly.

“But earlier this evening,” he continued, “I had the chance to speak with someone who reminded me why these gatherings matter. Not because of titles or traditions, but because of the work being done quietly, persistently, by people who don’t care whether you know their name.”

Now she smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

“And tonight, we honor one of those people.”

He turned toward her then, posture shifting, voice steady and ceremonial. “It is my privilege to present the Royal Medical Grant for Pediatric Trauma Care to Dr. Emma von Ahrensberg.”

Applause. She stepped forward. Their handshake was brief—her grip firm, her expression opaque. A suited aide handed Magnus the comically oversized check, which he promptly passed to her with a wry smile. They turned for the cameras, shoulder to shoulder, smiling beneath the bright lights.

“Nice speech,” she murmured.

“Nice surprise,” he replied.

Then someone swept the check away like a prop in a play. Emma was guided to the podium for her own remarks.

She spoke clearly, concisely. Just a few minutes. No pomp, no self-congratulation. Her focus was the children, her tone measured but passionate—a deft mix of statistics and soul. She ended with: “The science matters. But so does dignity. Every child deserves to be treated like more than just a chart.”

More applause. More handshakes. More cameras.

But Magnus lingered, watching her disappear into the tide of congratulations. Still smiling. Still not sure why.

The tray passed. Golden pastries, dusted delicately. He grabbed one without looking. Didn’t think. Popped it into his mouth.

Poppy seed.

He tasted it immediately. Bitterness, then panic.

His throat began to constrict. Chest tightened. He reached for a glass of water—missed. The glass shattered against marble, and Magnus dropped—first to his knees, then onto his side.

The guards saw first. Trained reflexes took over—rapid movement, formation. Protocol, black suits, discretion.

Emma noticed second. She was halfway through a conversation with a diplomat when she saw him stumble. Saw the panic in his eyes. She didn’t hesitate.

“Move,” she commanded, pushing past the wall of bodies.

One guard blocked her path.

Another offered a useless reassurance: “His Royal Highness will be transported immediately—”

“He won’t make it,” Emma snapped. “Not without epinephrine. He’s having an anaphylactic reaction. Get out of my way, man! Now.” Her voice lifted in frustration as she fell into her hometown dialect Windenburgish: “Verdammt noch mal, immer dieses adelige Getue! Sowas braucht doch keiner!” (Goddamn it, always this noble nonsense. Nobody needs that!)

A medic tossed her a trauma kit. She dropped to her knees beside him, already prepping the injection.

Magnus was barely conscious. His lips were turning blue. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps.

Emma was already moving. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask permission. She knelt beside him, fingers on his neck. Pulse—faint. Breathing—failing.

She injected him. Held pressure. Monitored his vitals.

Still no response.

She tilted his head, checked his airway, and without ceremony—without drama—sealed her mouth over his. Two breaths. Measured. Precise.

She paused. Watched. Waited.

Then again. Two more.

And slowly—agonizingly—his chest began to rise. His breathing returned, shallow but rhythmic. Color crept back into his face.

The ballroom had gone silent. The Gyllenborgs were all pale. The King looked ready to faint. Someone dropped a champagne flute. No one moved to pick it up.

Emma stood, calm and clinical. “His airway is clear. He needs monitoring. But he’s stable.”

She didn’t look at Magnus. Not yet. She was still in doctor-mode.

But later—when the paramedics arrived and the crowd began to murmur again—he opened his eyes.

And the first thing he saw was her. Hair pulled back. Jaw set. Eyes unreadable.

“You kissed me,” he rasped.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

“I saved your life,” she said.

“Same thing. Kiss of life,” he murmured, with an attempted smile.

She rolled her eyes. But her hand lingered on his shoulder just a moment longer than necessary.

The Hospital Room

The room was quiet. Sterile. Dimly lit.

Magnus lay propped up in a hospital bed, IV in his arm, color slowly returning to his face.

Emma entered with clearance from three departments and one very persuasive royal sister.

He blinked at her. Tried to sit up. Failed.

“You’re real,” he murmured. “Unless you’re an angel. Are you an angel?”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “If you wanted to see me again, you could’ve just asked for my number.”

He laughed. Then winced. Then laughed again.

“I have a tendency for dramatics,” he said, voice still hoarse. “Joking aside… you saved my life.”

She shrugged, but her eyes softened. “Technically, the epinephrine did. The room was full of medical personnel who could’ve done the same.” She paused, then added, “It wasn’t heroic. It’s basic med school stuff. I just remembered reading in some article that you’re highly allergic to poppy seeds. When I saw your reaction and someone passed me with a tray of celeriac and lentils with poppy seed and mint, I made the connection. Triage was always my forte.”

He looked at her—really looked. Not through the haze of gala lights or royal expectation. Just her.

“You remembered that?” he asked.

“I read a lot, and remember most of it,” she said. “Occupational hazard.”

He smiled. Not the practiced kind. The real kind.

“Still,” he said softly, “thank you. For saving my life and for the kiss.”

She sat beside him. Not too close. Not too far.

“You’re welcome,” she said. Then added, “And I did not kiss you. I ventilated your airways to override the shock-induced hypoxia. It’s called rescue breathing. Not romance. I’m not in the habit of kissing strangers—royal or otherwise.”

He winced—half from the IV, half from the correction. “Well, po-tay-toes, po-tah-toes. I say the good news just keeps coming. Makes me feel even more special.”

“Yes, well, on that lovely note—you’re on your way to a full recovery. Next time, avoid poppy seeds. And if you haven’t already, get tested for cross allergies. I’d rather not spend every gala on the floor with an epipen.”

“I can’t promise that,” he said. “I like the taste…”

She raised a brow. “Then I hope you enjoy it during the few seconds before your throat closes.”

“I wasn’t talking about the poppy seeds…”

His eyes said the rest.

Her eyes answered—not with words, but with unmistakable understanding.

She didn’t reply. But she didn’t walk away either.

Finding Emma

Upon his release from the hospital and return home, Magnus was on a mission. He was tasked with finding a potential bride and he had finally met someone he could be interested in. His research piqued his interest further.

Emma was no stranger to prestige. Her late father, Baron Heinrich von Hohenstein, had been a diplomat and philanthropist—respected across borders, beloved at home. It was his work, his vision, that earned the family its aristocratic title when Emma and her siblings were still children.

When he died, everything changed. Emma was young—too young to understand the full scope of his legacy, but old enough to feel the absence like a fault line.

Her mother, Baroness Clara von Hohenstein, carried the family forward with quiet grace. She continued Heinrich’s philanthropic efforts, never seeking attention, only impact. Years later, all kids already grown and flown the coop, she remarried Lord Admiral John Montfort-Yates, a man so principled he was called “the king’s conscience.” Clara became Baroness Montfort-Yates, and Henfordshire became home —if not by birth, then by choice.

Emma’s siblings had followed paths of power. Theo, the eldest, became a diplomat like their father, with a teenage son and a reputation for quiet brilliance. Helena, the middle child, married into old royalty and became Queen of Windenburg.

And Emma? Emma as the youngest sibling became a doctor. A woman of merit. Not chosen. Not crowned. Just determined.

A few months ago she’d moved to Henfordshire to be closer to her mother, stepdad and stepbrother, and to take up a visiting lectureship at Britchester’s medical college. Her talks drew crowds. Not because she was royal-adjacent, but because she was sharp, unflinching, and quietly magnetic.

So, naturally Magnus showed up to one of those lectures. Not by accident. Not by royal decree. Just… showed up.

He sat in the back, trying not to be noticed. He failed.

Afterward, she found him lingering near the exit, holding two coffees. One was clearly meant for her.

“You’re late,” she teased. “Usually, I have the doors locked to teach stragglers a lesson.” “Well, I’m here,” he said. “Finally. You are a tough woman to track down. Everything I could find said you live in Windenburg.”

“I did,” she said. “Now I don’t. Technically I still do. And I might again. Who knows?”

They walked together through the quad, past ivy-covered walls and students who barely glanced at them. He handed her the coffee without comment. She took it.

“I liked your lesson,” Magnus said.

“You understood it?” she asked, half-smiling.

“Enough to know I’d rather be treated by you than anyone else. I can already speak to your efficiency. Maybe I should pose as a model in your classes—especially when you teach emergency treatments.”

She laughed. Then paused.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “Though I should warn you—next week’s topic is diagnosing testicular torsion. Very hands-on.”

Magnus nearly choked on his coffee.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize.
Just kept walking, one step ahead.

“You know,” she said, “I never thought I would see you again. I’ve spent most of my life in between. Too aristocratic to be ordinary. Not aristocratic enough to matter to the true nobles.”

He looked at her. Really looked.

“Try being the second-born prince. I’d wager it’s a very similar situation. Not important enough to truly be relevant, but too royal to be allowed to just live my life. I will admit that you have been on my mind quite a bit.”

She didn’t answer. Not right away. But she didn’t walk away either.

Then, casually: “Lunch?” he asked. “There’s a place nearby. Quiet. No cameras.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking as a patient or a prince?” her glance went back and forth between the security detail, attempting to blend into the background but failing miserably. They stood out.

He smiled. “As a man who brought you coffee and sat through a lecture on post-traumatic neurobiology.”

She considered. Then nodded. “Alright. But I’m choosing the table. And if they serve anything with poppy seeds, I’m walking out.”

“Aww. And here I am thinking you like to live dangerously too,” he teased. And they kept walking.
“I like a challenge. I dislike stupidity, especially when it’s intentional.”

Surprise Lunch

The campus restaurant was tucked between the old law building and the student union, its windows frosted with condensation and its tables half-filled with bundled-up students escaping the December chill.

Magnus reached the door first and opened it gallantly. Emma stepped through, her coat brushing his arm, and caught the subtle gesture he made behind his back—two fingers flicked toward the security detail trailing them.

She glanced over her shoulder. They were trying to blend in. They failed.

“I asked them to wait outside,” Magnus said quietly. “I’m not planning to choke this time.”

She smirked. “I’m used to it. My sister’s security team once tried to follow me into a gynecology seminar. I’m sure you know who she is.”

“Oh yes,” he said, amused. “I’m very familiar with Her Royal Majesty Helena. Her pregnancy was recently weaponized against me in a court of parental opinion. Apparently, her settled domestic bliss and impending third child highlights how tragically unattached I still am.”

Emma giggled. “That’s brutal.”

“You have no idea.” He chuckled.

They were seated near the window, menus handed over with polite efficiency. Emma browsed. Magnus scanned.

When the waitress returned, Magnus ordered first—something warm and seasonal, roast chicken with root vegetables.

Emma looked up after him. “And please make sure there’s no contact with poppy seeds in his dish. He has a severe allergy.”

Magnus raised an eyebrow. “Thank you, Mummy.”

She didn’t blink. “Saving your life once is plenty.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to another kiss.”

She glanced at him. “There was no kiss.”

“Rescue breathing,” he said. “Kiss of life.”

She studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re very confident for someone who nearly died in formalwear.”

“I’m very grateful,” he said. “And curious.”

“About?”

“You. Tell me about yourself. Not the publicly curated things—I’ve read all that. How old are you?”

She raised an eyebrow. “How rude to ask a lady such a thing.”

He smiled. “Well, I’ll go first. I’m twenty-two. Soon to be twenty-three.”

She took a sip of her water and promptly choked. Coughed once, then twice, then waved him off as he reached to pat her back.

“Don’t,” she said, regaining composure. “I’m fine.”

He waited.

“I’m twenty-nine,” she said finally. “Trauma fellow. Known for my calm in crisis and my ability to teach under pressure. But this … I thought you were older.”

“I should really up my anti-aging routine then.” Magnus joked, but the wheels were spinning on overdrive. His mother was going to bristle at the age gap. And she was a made noble, not born into it. She might also flag that. But he liked Emma enough to try.

The waitress returned, and Emma handed over her menu. “I’ll have the potato soup, please. No cream.” She glanced at Magnus.

“Potatoes for the Windenburgian, how predictable. Speaking of, are you… attached?” Magnus asked, voice polite but sincere.

She looked at him. Really looked.

“You ask the oddest things. But no,” she said. “Not currently.”

He smiled. “Good. I’d hate to compete with someone who didn’t almost die in front of you. Would hate having to do it again just to make a point.”

She laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m persistent,” he said. “And very much alive. Thanks to you. And your kiss.” He added the last part mostly to get a rise out of her.

She pointed her spoon at him. “For the last time, it wasn’t a kiss. If I kissed you, you would know.”

Magnus leaned in, playful and unrelenting. “Prove it.” He said, with a wink.

Emma didn’t blink.
She set down her spoon, pushed her chair back slightly, and stood.

Magnus straightened, confused for a beat—until she leaned in, one hand sliding to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the hair just above his collar. The other braced lightly on the table, anchoring her.

She kissed him.

Not a peck. Not a tease. It was slow, deliberate, and warm—just long enough to silence him, just deep enough to make sure he’d never forget it. Her body close, her breath steady, her mouth soft but certain.

As she pulled away, her fingers didn’t drop immediately. Instead, she slid two fingertips along the edge of his jaw—slow, deliberate, tracing the line from ear to chin like she was memorizing it. Then she let go.

She sat down, tucked her napkin into her lap, and resumed eating her soup as if nothing had happened.

Magnus stared at her, stunned into silence. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. Then opened again.

“What?” she said, glancing up.

“Wow,” he said hoarsely.

She smirked, stirring her soup. “Had I known it was that easy to shut you up…”

He blinked. “You just—”

“Proved it. I told you you would know. Now you know,” she said, not looking up.

Magnus leaned back in his chair, heart thudding, the ghost of her touch still burning along his jaw. She hadn’t just kissed him. She’d claimed him. And he felt it—every nerve lit, every doubt silenced. And yes, he would pursue her.

And he did.
They met. Again and again.

Emma At Silverfjæll

Emma stepped into the entry hall of Silverfjæll House, her heels clicking against polished stone. The place was grand, yes—but oddly impersonal. A few modern art pieces hung at odd angles, and the sitting room smelled faintly of takeout and expensive cologne.

A liveried footman bowed and took her coat with ceremonial precision. Another servant discreetly offered her a drink tray—crystal glass, vintage wine, impeccable posture. All very proper.

Magnus followed behind her, grinning. “Well? What do you think?”

She turned slowly, taking in the mismatched furniture, the oversized leather couch, the wall-mounted TV that dominated the room like a throne. A beanbag chair lurked in the corner like a guilty secret.

Then, under her breath, she muttered in Windenburgian: “Lebst du überhaupt hier? Ein Teil sieht leer aus, der andere wie ein Studentenwohnheim. Was soll das für ein Stil sein? Gemütlich ist das nicht.”

Magnus blinked. “I’m sorry, but my Windenburgian is a bit rusty…”

Emma sighed, switching back to English. “I said: do you actually even live here? One part looks bare, the other like a frat house. What style is this supposed to be? It’s not cozy.”

A nearby maid coughed discreetly into her sleeve, eyes flicking toward the beanbag. The butler’s left eyebrow twitched.

Magnus laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s transitional-modern-meets-royal-neglect.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been in my ear to visit you for weeks. And this is what you greet me with? A tent would be cozier.”

He stepped closer, mock-serious. “I was hoping you’d be so dazzled by my charm you wouldn’t notice the decor.”

She smirked. “You overestimated your charm.”

The footman returned with her coat folded over his arm, clearly unsure whether she’d be staying long. Emma ignored it, took the wine glass, gave the beanbag a pointed glance, and sat—regally—on the one armchair that didn’t look like it belonged in a college dorm.

Emma took a slow sip of wine, eyes scanning the room again. “No wonder you haven’t been able to find a future bride. Which woman in her right mind would want to live here?”

Magnus chuckled, unbothered. “Well, they’re to marry me, the prince, not my home.”

She tilted her head. “Yes, but they’d have to sit on something. Other than you.”

He leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing. “I wouldn’t mind someone like you sitting on me, if the chairs aren’t personal enough.”

A beat of silence.

The maid dropped a spoon in the hallway. The butler’s eyebrows vanished into his hairline. One of the footmen made a sound that might have been a cough—or a stifled laugh—or a gasp.

Emma didn’t flinch. She simply set her glass down with regal precision. “Right. Well. Does the rest of the home look like this, or is one not offered a full tour in Nordhaven?”

Magnus extended his arm, all courtly charm. “I thought you had quite enough, but I would be more than happy to show you the rest.”

She rose, linking her arm through his. The servants exchanged glances like they’d just witnessed a diplomatic incident disguised as flirtation.

As they walked through the corridors and one room after the next, Magnus glanced sideways. “What would you change, Emma, were you to live here?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Oh, you mean besides… everything?”

Magnus laughed, genuinely. “Visit me again. We’ll restyle the whole place until you’re happy with it.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation?”

“Call it a diplomatic service,” Magnus said. “Between Windenburg and Nordhaven. I’ll provide the estate, you provide the taste.”

She smiled, just slightly. “Careful what you wish for, Magnus. We Windenburgians are known to be rather serious people. Not much of a sense of humor. I might take you up on it. But this is not supposed to please me, it’s supposed to reflect you. What is your style?”

“I have no idea, to be honest. I grew up in a palace and there was a style, I never questioned it. But I do not want to copy that into my own home.”

“Tough case. But you come across as opinionated enough that with some coaxing, I am sure we can figure out what you really like and want.”

“Oh, I do know what I like and want,” he said, offering his arm again. “Let’s look as some of the bedrooms to see what you think, shall we?”

Emma glanced sideways. “Wouldn’t it be easier to hire a professional interior designer for this?”

“A professional interior designer has done this.” he shrugged.

She stopped mid-step. “Ach Du meine Güte! Du hast jemanden für den Mist den der hier verbrochen hat auch noch bezahlt!? Sorry, I said Dear Lord, this was done by someone who does this for a living and you paid for this crap?! They need to be thrown into the royal torture chambers. Does Iverstad Palace have such a thing?”

“Sadly no. Or luckily. I’m sure if there was a dungeon, my brother would’ve locked me up in there years ago and we wouldn’t have this discussion.”

“I can see why.”

A maid stifled a laugh behind a linen napkin. The butler’s mouth twitched. One of the footmen, trailing behind discreetly, nearly tripped over a rug.

One room left her puzzled.

She stepped in, flipped the light switch—and was met with moody shadows and a faint smell of varnish. The walls were dark, the furniture minimal, and the vibe? Unclear.

She turned slowly, brow furrowed, arms half-lifted in confusion.

“What is this supposed to be?”

He stepped in behind her, gesturing grandly toward a corner where a half-finished sculpture leaned against the wall like it had given up halfway through a personality crisis.

“My studio. For artistic expressions.”

She blinked. Then blinked again. Then—

“Och Gott, jetzt will er auch noch so Nordhaven Sucht Den Superstar machen?” (Oh God, now he wants to do some kind of Nordhaven’s Got Talent?)

He laughed, delighted. “I understood that. You think I’m auditioning?”

“I don’t know! There’s a canvas with teeth on it. And is that—wait, is that a taxidermy fox wearing a crown?”

He nodded solemnly. “It’s called The Second Son’s Burden. Mixed media.”

She stared. “Mixed with what? Regret and questionable lighting?”

He grinned, clearly enjoying her descent into chaos. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a fox.”

“I have taste, thank you. But that fox might actually sell in Henfordshire. Ever since the hunt was outlawed, farmers complaints about the ever-growing fox population are through the roof. Needless to say, foxes are not very popular there.”

She turned to leave, muttering in Windenburgian again—something about Kunsttrauma and emotionaler Nebel – *art trauma and emotional fog—and he followed, still chuckling.

The ‘library’ was no better.

She entered and immediately tripped over a stack of books labeled Volume IV: The Ethics of Royal Gardening and How to Fake Your Own Death (For Diplomats).

“Do you actually read these?”

He shrugged. “Some. Others are for aesthetic intimidation.”

She scanned the shelves, fingers trailing over spines that ranged from dusty tomes over classics to suspiciously pristine hardcovers. Then she pulled one out, held it up between two fingers, and arched a brow.

“Boil It and Hope?” she asked, voice flat.

He chuckled. “That one’s aspirational.”

She flipped it open. “There’s a recipe for ‘Emergency Stew’ that just says ‘add water and pray.’”

“Technically accurate of every single attempt I ever made at cooking.”

She slid it back into place. “You have two copies of War and Peace and one cookbook written by a nihilist. This room feels like a cry for help.”

“Incorrect. This one is a book,” He pointed at one of them, then pulled out the other one and revealed a hollowed-out book labeled War and Peace. “That one’s a flask.”

She stared. “Of course it is.”

And then—finally—the backyard.

She stepped outside and stopped. The tension in her shoulders dropped. The garden was lush, the pool glimmered, and the air smelled like lavender and possibility.

“Oh,” she said softly. “This is actually—beautiful.”

He followed, hands in pockets. “I spend most of my time out here.”

“I would too. Honestly, I’d sleep out here.”

He gestured to a shaded lounge chair. “That one’s mine. I call it The Throne of Avoidance.”

She laughed. “I call dibs on the hammock. We can be co-monarchs of Not Dealing With It.”

“I’ll have the fox bring us drinks.”

“Only if they come in book form.”

Once back inside, in one of the suites, Emma stepped to a tall window and looked out. The late afternoon sun spilled across the garden—terraced hedges, a fountain, and beyond that, the glint of the fjord, endless forest as far as the eye could see dipped in gold by the fading sunlight. She gasped softly. “This is beautiful. The view, the garden…”

She turned to him, eyes softer now. “Even the room isn’t bad. I’ll take this one.”

Magnus grinned. “Works for me. Right or left side?”

“Hä? Excuse me?”

“Would you prefer to sleep on the right or left side? This is my bedroom. Pleased to see it made your cut.”

Emma stepped closer, slowly, until her face was just beside his. For a moment, Magnus thought she might kiss him again.

Instead, she leaned in and whispered in his ear: “You keep your bedroom, but I’ll take the job. Challenge accepted, Your Highness.”

What began as playful critique turned into several weeks of repeat visits, late-night design sessions, fabric swatches strewn across the drawing room, and arguments over wallpaper that ended in laughter. Emma insisted on removing the beanbag chair (“It’s a crime against monarchy and belongs burned at the stake”), while Magnus defended his hideous lava lamp (“It’s nostalgic!”).

They toured antique markets and modern furniture stores together, debated over crown molding, and slowly—inevitably—grew closer. Staff began to refer to her as Her Tastefulness, and Magnus stopped pretending he wasn’t rearranging his schedule to match hers.

One evening, after a long day of choosing sconces and reupholstering disaster chairs, Emma wandered the halls in her robe, barefoot, wine glass in hand admiring how much his estate had turned into a modern, yet warm living space. She paused at his bedroom door.

Without a knock she opened it and stepped through.

Magnus was already turned in, reading something. He looked up, startled—but pleased.

Emma walked in without ceremony, set her glass down, and stood beside the bed.

“This side,” she said.

He blinked. “I am sorry, what?”

She looked at it, then at him. “You asked me once, which side. I like that one.”

Grinning, Magnus folded back the blanket like an invite and slid over, making room.

Emma climbed in beside him, settling into the space like she’d always belonged there.

Their first night together wasn’t dramatic. No declarations. Just quiet warmth, shared breath, and the soft rustle of sheets as two people finally stopped pretending they weren’t already home. That night, something shifted—friendship gave way to intimacy, not with fireworks, but with certainty.

The Royal Chambers, Iverstad Palace

The steward barely had time to announce him before Magnus swept past, boots thudding against the marble.

“Yeah yeah,” he muttered, waving a hand. “I’m sure my brother remembers who I am.”

He didn’t slow down. Just veered right, past the gilded screen, and launched himself onto Elias’s bed with a graceless whump—arms flung wide, one boot narrowly missing a vase.

King Elias Gyllenborg, halfway into his ceremonial jacket, stood before the mirror while a royal dresser fussed with the silver embroidery at his collar.

“You know,” Elias said, not turning, “Her Majesty will have your head if she catches you with shoes on our bed. I am not thrilled with it either.”

Magnus kicked them off without lifting his head. One landed with a thud against the wardrobe.

“Better?”

Elias sighed. “Marginally.”

The dresser gave a discreet cough and stepped back, smoothing the jacket one last time.

“Thank you, that’ll be all,” Elias said, dismissing him with a nod.

The dresser bowed and exited, leaving behind a faint scent of starch and lavender.

Magnus groaned, voice muffled by brocade.

“Oh Eli, I am in love.”

Elias didn’t flinch. “Oh yeah?” he replied, dry as ever. “Do you mean with yourself or some unlucky lady this time? Presumably not someone off Mother’s list or you wouldn’t be here telling me, but introducing her to Mother and Father instead.”

Magnus sat up, hair tousled, eyes wide with sincerity.

“Dr. Emma von Hohenstein.”

Elias paused, brow raised.

“Queen Helena’s sister?”

“The very one.”

“The trauma doctor?”

“Also that.”

“You do realize she’s technically Windenburg royalty, if only by elevation and relation?”

“Which makes me technically smitten.”

Elias folded his arms. “Then why are you here and not telling our parents? I am sure she would pass their scrutiny with flying colors, if for no other reason then that it would improve Nordhaven’s ties with the kingdom of Windenburg.”

Magnus hesitated. “Because I needed to tell someone who wouldn’t immediately start planning a wedding or a scandal. She’s a bit older than me.”

Elias blinked. “So you came to me? I can’t fix people’s ages.”

“You’re the only one who’ll tell me if I’m being stupid.”

Elias considered. “You usually are. How much older?”

Magnus grinned. “Seven teeny tiny years.”

Elias sighed, walking to the wardrobe and pulling out his sash. “Well, that is rather significant. But alright. Tell me. Is she interested or did you pursue her into submission in your typical Magnus-ways?”

“A little nudging maybe, but she is interested. I pursued gently, but she kissed me first. And more.”

Elias froze. “She kissed you?”

“Yes, she did. In a restaurant. On campus. In public.”

Elias turned slowly. “Oh boy. Well, I haven’t been briefed on any media frenzies about my little brother smooching a commoner on campuses, so was it a mercy kiss behind some delivery ramp just to shut you up?”

Magnus touched his jaw, still half in disbelief. “Well, it was a bit of a dare. Then she kissed me like she meant it, it took my socks off. I can still feel it. Then she went back to her soup like nothing happened. I have invited her to Silverfjaell and she has helped me remodel it. It’s beautiful now, very much ‘me’, whatever that means, and we have grown closer.”

Elias laughed. “She remodeled your home? You’re doomed. Might as well propose right away. You are smitten, aren’t you?”

Magnus nodded solemnly. “I know. And yes, I am. This is real, Eli. I didn’t think it could happen, but now it has. I found my own Veronica too.”

Just then, the door opened and as if on cue, Queen Veronica stepped in, tablet in hand, her collar slightly askew from a long morning of briefings.

“Eli, the council’s waiting. Why are you—oh. Magnus.”

“Your Majesty,” Magnus said, grinning from the bed. “You look radiant, as always. Very regal. And slightly terrifying.”

“You’re on my bed.” she sighed. They were more than in-law, they were friends, and she treated him as such.

“Technically Eli’s bed.” he shrugged her concerns off.

“No, it’s our bed. Get off.” She crossed the room, picked up one of Magnus’s boots, and dropped it at his feet with practiced disdain.

“You’re lucky I don’t have time to prosecute this. Very unladylike, and definitely not royal.” Magnus smirked.

“Who cares? I outrank you.” Veronica wasn’t impressed.

“Vero, I’m in love,” Magnus declared, standing and planting a dramatic kiss on her cheek.

Elias groaned. “Quit kissing my wife or I have to challenge you to a duel. Can we not do this right before a diplomatic briefing?”

Magnus ignored him, catching Veronica’s hand and twirling her in a spontaneous dance step that made her laugh despite herself.

“I’m in LUUUUUV,” he sang, spinning her once before releasing her with a flourish.

“Oh dear lord,” she said, smoothing her skirt.

Elias sighed, walked over, and gently straightened his wife’s collar. His fingers brushed the edge of her skirt, smoothing a fold that didn’t need smoothing. Then he kissed her cheek—soft, familiar, lingering just a second too long.

Magnus pointed, triumphant. “This. This is what I want. And I think I can get there now. After months of meeting women duller than old silver, with personalities like porcelain dolls—I finally struck gold. So what if she’s a bit older?”

“A bit?” Veronica arched a brow. At twenty-three, she was one year older than Magnus and never let him forget it. “How much is a bit?”

“She’s twenty-nine,” Elias answered before Magnus could.

Veronica raised a brow, eyes wide. “Seven years? Oh boy! But you’re really serious about her, aren’t you? I’ve never seen you this excited about any girl. But Mags, that’s a big age gap. Especially at our age. I don’t think it will sell well to your parents. You still need them to okay it, even though I am sure Eli wouldn’t veto it, would you?”

“Of course not.” Eli smiled, kissing her cheek.

Magnus nodded, suddenly quiet. “Well, if I were twenty-nine and she were 22, leaning 23, nobody would bat an eye at it, don’t you think? So, I will be the trailblazer for public acceptance of role reversal. I think she sees me. Not the title. Not the estate. Not who I am related to. Just… me. I don’t have to tell either of you how rare that is for us. Even nowadays.”

Elias’s expression softened, just a touch. “Then don’t screw it up.”

“Working on it.”

Eli opened the door, ushering Veronica out gently, turning back to his brother

“Vero and I have official business. Go tell Mum and Dad. Do this right.” He pat him on the shoulder and left the room.

Winter Morning at Eldvik Hall

The snow lay crisp across the southern highlands, untouched except for the winding path from Iverstad. Eldvik Hall stood serene against the pines, its pale stone façades softened by frost. Inside, the breakfast salon was quiet but prepared—fire lit, linens pressed, and Queen Ingrid’s winter tea blend steeping in porcelain.

A footman entered first.

“His Royal Highness Prince Magnus,” he announced.

Magnus stepped in, brushing snow from his coat. He handed it off without comment, nodding to the steward who bowed and withdrew. His boots had barely warmed when Queen Ingrid looked up from her seat by the fire.

“You here, so unexpected, what a sight for sore eyes,” she said, gesturing to the chair beside her.

King Sven glanced over his correspondence but said nothing yet.

Ingrid raised an eyebrow, then turned slightly toward the doorway. “Birgit, a cup for the prince. And something sweet—almond krans, if we’ve got any. It’s his favorite.”

She turned back to Magnus, her gaze now sharper, more curious. “You look as though you’ve walked through a decision. Would this mean there is hope for happy assumptions?”

Magnus settled into the chair, folding his hands. “There is,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “And yes, Birgit—bring the krans. I think I’ll indulge today.”

Birgit gave a covert hand signal and one of the servants quickly dispatched.

“Of course, Your Highness,” she said with a polite turn. “The krans is still warm from this morning’s bake.”

Magnus gave a quiet nod.

The servant entered with practiced grace, setting a fresh cup and saucer before him, followed by a small plate bearing the golden pastry. Ingrid offered a faint nod of approval, then turned her gaze back to her son—measured, perceptive, waiting.

Magnus rested his hands on the table, eyes steady. “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he began. “About choosing someone who could truly stand beside me. Not just for optics. For life. And to do so before the year is out.”

Sven set down his papers, his interest piqued. “Go on.”

“I wish to pursue Dr. Emma von Hohenstein.”

Ingrid blinked. “Von Hohenstein? The sister of the queen of Windenburg?”

“The diplomat’s daughter,” Sven said slowly.

“She’s more than that,” Magnus said. “She’s principled. Brilliant. She’s a talented doctor. And she sees me—clearly. Without flattery.”

Ingrid’s brow furrowed. “She’s older than you.”

“Seven years,” Magnus said. “And unimpressed by my title. Which is part of why I trust her.”

Sven leaned back. “That is rather … unexpected. May I ask on how this came about?”

“Well, it started when you made me speak at the medical gala some months ago,” Magnus said. “And it slowly developed from there. I would like to stress the ‘slowly’ part. I need you both to understand—I’m not asking for permission. I’m asking for your blessing. I have already made up my mind and from what I can tell, she agrees.”

Ingrid studied her son. “You haven’t spoken to her yet about what your interest would mean long term?”

“Not directly,” Magnus said. “But I will. I wanted to speak to you first.”

Sven stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the snow-covered scenery.

“She’s not conventionally what we would gravitate to. Not truly a royal, though her ties to various old royal house is as undeniable as her respectable, though commoner roots.”

“She’s not,” Magnus agreed. “But she’s exactly what I need.”

Ingrid joined her husband, her voice quiet. “I am not sure about her age. But bring her here. Let us see what you see.”

Magnus nodded. “I will.”

Introductory Luncheon at Iverstad Castle

The long dining hall at Iverstad Castle, Nordhaven’s royal seat, had been dressed in seasonal restraint—silver birch branches, celeste linens, and pale candlelight flickering against carved stone walls. Outside, snow clung to the windowpanes, and the air inside carried the faint scent of juniper, roasted venison, and the distant chill of the fjord. Though the gathering was informal by royal standards, the guest list was anything but.

The high table was a study in generational contrast and quiet power. At its center sat King Elias Gyllenborg, just twenty-five, and his wife, Queen Veronica, twenty-three—young, poised, and already seasoned by the weight of rule. To Elias’s left sat his younger brother, Prince Magnus, twenty-two, whose silence throughout the meal had not gone unnoticed.

Across from them, the Windenburg delegation added a layer of diplomatic gravity: Queen Helena von Ahrensberg, visibly pregnant and radiant in understated silk, sat beside her husband, King Alexander, both in their mid-thirties. Dr. Emma von Hohenstein, elegant and reserved, was seated beside her older brother, Lord Theo, the Windenburg diplomat whose calm demeanor belied a sharp instinct for courtly tension—and beside him, his quiet wife, watchful and composed.

Further down the table, Baroness Clara Montfort-Yates—mother to Emma, Theo, and Helena—shared quiet conversation with her second husband, Admiral Lord John Montfort-Yates of Henfordshire, a man whose naval career and personal friendship with Queen Veronica’s father lent him quiet authority.

At the far end, removed but never irrelevant, sat former King Sven and Queen Ingrid Gyllenborg, their presence a reminder of legacy and expectation. Though no longer reigning, their influence lingered in every glance, every pause, every unspoken rule of the room.

The meal had been cordial, if taut. Magnus had barely touched his food. Elias, ever the composed regent, had watched his younger brother with a flicker of concern. Veronica, sharp-eyed and intuitive, had already sensed something brewing.

As the final course was cleared, Magnus stood—without prompting, without ceremony. The room quieted.

“I know this isn’t the setting my parents imagined,” he began, voice steady but low. “But I’ve been asked to make a decision before the year is out. And I believe in making it with honesty, not obligation.”

Sven’s brows furrowed. Ingrid’s expression remained unreadable. Elias leaned forward slightly, but said nothing.

Magnus turned toward Emma, who met his gaze without flinching.

“Dr. Emma von Hohenstein,” he said, “you are not a princess, nor a diplomat, nor a consort. You are a woman of integrity, intellect, and quiet strength. And I would ask—publicly, and with full awareness of what that means—to court you with the intention of marriage.”

A beat passed. Theo’s jaw tightened, his eyes widened, but he remained silent. Helena’s hand rested protectively on her belly. Alexander glanced toward Elias, who remained still.

Emma replied, her voice calm:

“Your Highness, I respect your courage. But I am not a decision to be made under pressure—to check off a list presented to you.”

Magnus nodded, accepting the rebuke with grace. But he did not sit.

“What if I told you that you are not a box to be checked, nor a name to satisfy a deadline? You are everything I wasn’t looking for—and everything I now can’t ignore. I mean that. From the heart.”

His voice wavered slightly, but he held her gaze.

“Yes, it’s fast. I won’t pretend otherwise. But speed doesn’t make it false. It makes it urgent. I’ve fallen for you, Lady Emma. Deeply. And each time we part, I feel it more. Knowing I’ll see you again has become the highlight of my days—and leaving you, the hardest part of going home. I long for your company, Emma, and no longer want to meet you in quiet moments, I want to flaunt you, make the world aware that I  … that I … I love you.”

The room fell silent. Emma’s expression didn’t change, but something in her posture softened—just slightly.

She studied him—this young prince with too much heart and too little polish, standing in front of half the crowned heads of the continent, baring himself without armor. Her voice, when it came, was quiet but sure.

“Then I will meet your honesty with my own. I have tried to remain cautious. Tried to remind myself of duty, of timing, of consequence. But the truth is—when you leave, I feel it too. The undeniable absence, eating away at me.”

She paused, briefly.

“I don’t know what this will become. But I know it’s real. And I won’t pretend otherwise. I love you too, Mags. I mean, Your Royal Highness …”

Magnus didn’t wait for permission. He crossed the space between them in three strides, took her hand, and pulled her gently but firmly from her chair. His kiss was immediate—unroyal, unsanctioned, and utterly sincere.

Emma responded without hesitation. Her hand found his cheek, her other arm wrapped around his shoulder, and the kiss deepened—not performative, not polite, but full of the kind of passion that silenced rooms and rewrote futures.

Gasps rippled down the table. Ingrid’s eyes widened. Sven muttered something under his breath. Theo looked like he might combust. Helena smiled, one hand still resting on her belly. Elias didn’t move, but Veronica’s lips twitched—half scandalized, half impressed.

No one spoke. Not yet.

But something had shifted. And it would not be undone.

Sven and Ingrid exchanged a glance. Ingrid finally spoke: “We raised our sons to lead with heart. If Magnus believes this is his path, we will not stand in his way. You have our blessing. I would think the other majesties concur?”

A beat of silence. Helena inclined her head, her expression unreadable but not unkind. Alexander raised his glass in quiet acknowledgment, the gesture more solemn than celebratory. Elias murmured, “As do we,” his voice low but firm.

Baroness Clara, seated just beside Helena, dabbed her lips with her napkin and spoke softly. “Conviction is a rare thing in youth. Rarer still when it is tempered by humility.” She looked to Magnus, then briefly to Emma. “Let us hope it remains so.”

The luncheon resumed, quieter now. But the air remained charged—with possibility, with tension, and with the knowledge that nothing about this declaration had been simple.

As the meal wound down, Ingrid leaned toward her youngest son, her voice low and deliberate. “You fulfilled your duty—and you got what you wanted. She’s remarkable, and you chose well.” Her hand brushed his briefly, a gesture of quiet pride. “But don’t mistake acceptance for permission to be careless. The crown may bend, but it doesn’t break.”

She turned back to her plate, leaving him with the weight of her words—and the unmistakable clarity of her support.

New Year’s Day – Eldvik Hall, 9:17 AM

The drawing room was quiet, save for the soft clink of porcelain and the rustle of morning papers. A fire crackled gently in the hearth, and the scent of cardamom rolls lingered in the air. Sven, swaddled in a velvet house coat, nursed his coffee like a man recovering from too many toasts—each one expensive, high-percentage, and ill-advised after the third. Ingrid, ever composed in her silk wrap, scrolled through her tablet with the languid grace of someone not expecting drama before noon.

She took a sip of her coffee, then abruptly choked, dabbing at her mouth with a linen napkin. Her spine straightened, and her eyes—usually cool and unreadable—flashed with something sharper than surprise.

“Sven,” she said, voice clipped and commanding, the tablet trembling slightly in her hand. “You need to see this. Now.”

He took it and squinted. “What is it? Another scandal? Please tell me it’s not one of the boys again.”

He looked down at the screen. There, framed in golden light and champagne haze, was a photo of Prince Magnus on one knee—Emma’s hands covering her mouth, her eyes wide with joy. The caption read simply: She said yes. #NYE #Engaged #RoyalSurprise

Sven blinked, then let out a breath that was half sigh, half scoff. “Oh, that boy. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see it coming. Still—this?” He gestured at the screen. “A public spectacle, champagne haze, hashtags? That brat knew I’d have preferred a proper courtship. Something with decorum. Not… fireworks and trending posts.”

Ingrid’s lips curled, not quite into a smile—more a quiet, knowing expression. “He did it,” she murmured, her voice threaded with something between pride and resignation. “Before the year was out. Just as you asked. Knowing our son, perhaps once he introduced Emma, we should’ve clarified that the deadline no longer applied—he’s made it clear she’s not a passing fancy.”

Sven snorted, handing her back the tablet. “Well, if that wasn’t clear before, it certainly is now. Abundantly.”

Just then, the door burst open with a flurry of winter air and royal urgency.

“Your Majesties—” the butler began, flustered, as Magnus strode past him, cheeks flushed, coat dusted with snow, scarf askew.

“Magnus!” Ingrid rose, startled. “You could have waited to be announced. And the engagement—did it really have to debut on social media? In Nordhaven, such news is shared through the proper channels: a formal statement from the palace, coordinated with the press office, followed by an official photo session. Not hashtags and champagne haze!”

“Good morning, parents. And yes, maybe I could have,” Magnus replied, breathless, “but I didn’t. I proposed last night. You said you wanted me engaged before the year ended—well, I am!”

“Oh, you…” Sven began, but finding no words suitable enough to express his reaction, he let the sentence trail off with a shake of his head.

A valet stepped forward to take Magnus’s coat. He waved him off. “No need—I’m not staying. Just came to share the happy news before Emma and I set off on a celebratory escape, just for a few days. Beaches. Yachts. Bliss. We plan to warm our hides to match the warmth in our hearts.”

Sven raised an eyebrow. “Next time, you might consider informing your parents and the palace press office before going rogue on social media!”

Magnus faltered. “To be honest, I didn’t think you would see it before they told you. In light of the holiday, I was hoping I would even beat them to the punch. Look at my parents being tech savvy with tablets and social media feeds. I am impressed.”

Ingrid gestured to the tablet. “Oh darling. I sure hope you know what you are doing.”

Magnus grinned, sheepish but radiant. “I haven’t felt this good since … oh, it truly doesn’t compare to anything. Yes, I am sure of all this. You get a week headstart on planning the wedding. I am sure you will start now, even though we have a couple of years, per dad’s schedule.”

Ingrid crossed the room, her slippers silent on the marble. She wrapped her son in a hug, careful not to wrinkle his coat. “You led with heart. Just as we raised you to. I will ignore your insolence and just say that I am very happy for you.”

“As am I, my boy. Enjoy your retreat.”

Magnus kissed his mother’s cheek, clapped his father’s shoulder, and turned to go, his boots echoing down the corridor as the butler scrambled to open the door ahead of him.

The moment it shut behind him, Ingrid sat down, set her coffee aside, and said crisply, “Summon the household secretary. And the head of security. Now.”

A footman bowed and vanished without a word.

Sven sighed, reaching for another roll. “We already vetted Emma and her family when Magnus made his intentions known. You have the full dossier.”

“I want it redone,” Ingrid said, her tone cool but not unkind. “Deeper. Every school record, every medical file, every distant cousin with a questionable hobby. I want to know what she dreamed of at age six and who she sat beside in choir. I want to know if her great-grandfather ever misfiled a tax return.”

Sven blinked. “That seems… excessive.”

“She will be the mother of royal heirs,” Ingrid replied. “She is seven years older than our son. Seven. With Veronica, we knew who she was—her background is on record in every royal house and their engagement was long and appropriate. But Emma? She’s first-generation nobility. They’ve been dating for a minute and now they’re engaged. That’s fine for any aristocratic young lady—easy to check. But someone born a commoner? Excessive is the baseline.”

The household secretary arrived moments later, notebook in hand. Ingrid didn’t look up.

“Begin preparations for a full genetic compatibility screening. Quietly. I want it done before they return. No leaks. I want to ensure any heirs born into this union won’t carry genetic defects. He is still a royal prince of House Gyllenborg, and I expect every bearer of that name to be appropriately healthy.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And contact the wedding bureau. I want preliminary venue options for the reception by end of week. Coastal, alpine, and one neutral. Not at Iverstad Castle. But check cathedral availability—the ceremony has to happen there, like it has for the Gyllenborgs for centuries. We’ll need date flexibility. Two years out, ideally. But also closer options. I’m not sure what to make of their lover’s retreat. As besotted as Magnus is, anything’s possible. They may put the horse before the carriage on heirs, and if that happens, we need to be prepared. You never know with commoners involved. They don’t understand what’s at stake.”

The secretary scribbled furiously.

“Oh,” Ingrid added, “and have the stylists begin mood boards. I want Emma’s aesthetic mapped before she even knows she has one. She looks a bit too… commoner for my taste. If she’s to be a Gyllenborg, she should look the part. At least she has the right genetics—blonde, blue-eyed. I hope the hair is natural. Have that checked too. I could accept darker hair, but the eyes must be light.”

Sven leaned back in his chair, watching his wife orchestrate the future with the precision of a general and the grace of a queen.

“You do remember Magnus saying he’ll be engaged for a couple of years, don’t you?”

Ingrid finally looked up, eyes gleaming. “What our boy says and what he does do not always align. If he takes the time, fantastic. I intend to use every minute. But there’s no room for laxity. In case something unexpected happens, we shall be prepared. I wouldn’t put it outside the realm of possibility that our younger son makes us grandparents before our new king has the grace to.”

Sven snorted. “My God… our boys are in their early to mid-twenties. Barely adults.”

“They’re royals,” Ingrid replied smoothly. “Rules apply differently. You know that, darling.”

To be continued … eventually.