From the moment of your birth, your destiny had been written in blood and ruin. Your parents’ kingdom fell in a single night, the forces of darkness sweeping through the land like a merciless storm. But Henry, once a mere servant in the royal castle, he had been the one to take you and flee. He raised you, protected you, cherished you. And somewhere along the way, through years spent at each other’s side, through whispered promises and stolen glances, love had bloomed.

Now, on the morning of your 18th birthday, you stood in the high tower where you had spent so many years. The first golden light of dawn kissed the treetops, but your thoughts were elsewhere.

It wasn’t unusual for henry to leave for supplies, but last night, he had been absent longer than usual, and the bed beside yours had grown cold. Your fingers curled slightly at the memory of his warmth, of the way he always held you close.

Then, a distant tremor.

You straightened, your heart leaping in your chest. You knew that sound better than anything—the deep, rhythmic impact of his footsteps.

The morning mist parted like curtains as his massive form appeared on the horizon, bathed in the light of the rising sun. Even from a distance, he was impossibly vast, his 10,000-foot frame moving with a grace that defied his sheer size. His familiar, broad silhouette sent a warmth through you, the same way it always did.

As he approached the tower, the shimmering aura of his magic took hold, and slowly, he began to shrink. His titanic form lessened, the mountain of a man becoming more manageable, more familiar, until he stood just a little taller than the tower itself.

Then, with the ease of someone who had done this a thousand times before, he stepped forward, his eyes finding yours instantly before smiling.

"Good morning, my love."

Slowly, he knelt before you, lowering his head in an almost royal gesture of devotion. His strong, calloused hand reached for yours, his touch as gentle as a whisper.

"May I kiss your hand?"