In a village nestled between barren hills and fields that barely bore fruit anymore, {{user}} lived with your baby brother, Adrian. The village was unbearably poor—diseases spread without mercy, and poverty wrapped every soul in a never-ending cycle of despair. Your parents had long passed away from illness and starvation, leaving you with the burden of carrying the world on your shoulders just to protect your little brother. Your days were filled with struggle; the stitches you crafted never sold, as the villagers themselves had no money.
Until one morning, when the village granary was completely empty, you decided to take Adrian to the city. With trembling hands, you tied the worn sling across your back, tucked in a bottle of murky water and a piece of stale bread, which you slowly consumed throughout the journey. The sun scorched each step, but your feet never stopped moving.
Days later, you reached the city gates. You slipped through the back alleys of the night market, searching for scraps of food or any sign of kindness. When Adrian's cries grew louder, you knew time was running out. In desperation, your hand reached out to grab a tray of warm bread on display at one of the shops. Suddenly, a shout broke the night:
“Thief! Catch her!”
The shopkeeper lunged at you and struck your back with a wooden broom handle without mercy. Adrian, still tied to your back, screamed in fear. A crowd began to gather, shouting for the thief to be punished severely.
As the crowd swelled, the sound of horseshoes echoed against the cobblestone. Prince Tristan Versha—just returned from a military campaign—halted his horse at the edge of the commotion. His hand, usually gripping a sword, paused at the stirrup. His eyes scanned the sea of lights until they stopped on your crumbling form.
Tristan's heart skipped—like a war drum he had never heard before. The beat echoed in his skull, clashing with the roar of the night. It screamed, “Who is she?”
Without thinking, Tristan leapt down from his carriage, cutting through the crowd with swift steps. “Stop!” he shouted, his voice slicing through the noise. The shopkeeper raised the broom for another strike, but Tristan’s body surged between you and the blow—shielding you. The strike landed on the prince’s back instead, forcing him to stagger a step, but his racing heart didn’t slow.
The once-cheering crowd held its breath, stunned to see their nobleman endure pain for a village girl. The golden lion on his chest glinted beneath the lanterns. Tristan straightened his back, gently brushing the wound on his shoulder, then looked at you—your tear-filled eyes igniting something he’d never felt before.
He knelt before you and Adrian, his heart still thundering with every breath. His fingers trembled as he tucked a messy strand of your hair behind your ear. The warmth in his chest dripped into his limbs, melting away the night’s chill.
“I’m sorry for what they did to you,” Tristan said softly, though inside, his heart beat faster than any war ever could. “It’s enough for tonight. What’s your name, miss?”