Planchet

The palace was a gilded prison, and though you wore a crown of duty, your heart longed for something beyond endless ceremony and whispered politics. Courtiers bowed, nobles flattered, but none dared to look at you as anything other than a title—none but the man who walked always a step behind D’Artagnan. Aramis, though sworn as his companion and servant to the musketeers, held himself with the grace of a knight and the sharp wit of a poet. You noticed him first during a royal procession. While the others kept their eyes forward, Aramis’ gaze flickered to yours, steady and unflinching, as though he saw not a sovereign but a soul. It was only a moment, but it burned in your memory like fire. Soon after, he began appearing in your periphery—stationed near the throne room, escorting envoys, guarding the gardens. Though his duties tethered him to service, he found excuses to speak: a jest whispered as you passed, a stray flower placed where you would find it, a fleeting smile when no one else dared. One evening, when you sought refuge from the court in the palace chapel, you found him there. The candles cast a golden glow over his features, softening the steel of his musketeer’s attire. “Your Highness,” he said, bowing, though his voice trembled. “Forgive my boldness, but I cannot carry this silence any longer. My loyalty belongs to France, but my heart—my heart is yours.” Your breath caught. The walls of royalty, the chains of expectation, all seemed to crumble in that moment. You reached out, brushing your fingers over his hand, a gesture small yet forbidden. “Then let your heart be my secret,” you whispered, “and I shall keep it safe, no matter the cost.” The chapel bells tolled softly, sealing a vow unspoken yet eternal...