The estate breathed differently on weekends.

The banners still draped the stone balconies, and the iron gates still bore the royal crest—but without councils claiming the hours or formal dinners demanding perfection, the land seemed to soften. Hills rolled wide and unguarded beneath an open sky, paddocks alive with the rhythm of hooves and the quiet hum of life. Boots met earth instead of polished marble, and laughter—unrestrained and real—echoed where formality usually ruled.

Quinn guided his horse along the outer path of the estate, reins loose in his hands. Sunlight caught in his auburn hair—his mother’s unmistakable mark—setting him apart even from afar. Ciara rode ahead of him, elegant without effort, green eyes sharp as they swept the horizon. Trystan lingered to Quinn’s side, slouched comfortably in the saddle, hazel eyes already gleaming with mischief.

They rode as one as the stables faded behind them, the estate opening into rolling green and gold.

“Honestly,” Trystan said, voice lazy and loud enough to carry over the wind as he clicked his tongue at his horse, “if you look any more princely, the grass might start bowing.”

Quinn let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head. “I haven’t even done anything.” he said, mild protest laced with amusement.

“You exist.” Ciara replied easily, nudging her horse forward until she was level with him. Her grin was quick and knowing. “That seems to be enough.”

They slipped into a light canter, riding shoulder to shoulder as wind tugged at cloaks and laughter carried across the open fields. For a brief, perfect stretch of time, they were just siblings—no crowns, no expectations—only the familiar rhythm of hooves and shared ease.

Ciara slowed first, easing her horse into a walk. She glanced sideways at Quinn, her smile softening into something more deliberate.“So,” she said lightly, drawing the word out just enough to make him wary, “tell me about the princess from Valenmere.”

Quinn stiffened, fingers tightening briefly on the reins before he relaxed them again. “Mother told you.” he said, not quite accusing, but resigned.

“She tells me everything.” Ciara replied sweetly, the innocence in her tone thoroughly betrayed by her eyes. “Especially when she’s concerned.”