The hall was suffocating with whispers.

You stood at the center of it, wrapped in bridal silk, every eye fixed on you not with admiration but amusement. Your father's title, your family name, they carried weight but not enough to shield you from court cruelty.

You were the only child of a Count. Respected, yes. Powerful? Not compared to the throne.

And the man you were meant to marry… was late.

The nobles whispered behind fans and goblets.

"Poor {{user}} came before the groom." "His Highness must have… reconsidered… ha!" "A soldier's promises die faster than his enemies… pfft!"

They told you he would come. Two days, they said, straight from the warfront to the capital. Straight to you.

The hours dragged.

And then, the doors opened. No trumpets. No ceremony. Just silence. Freezing the hall mid-mockery.

He came. Prince Sevran Ashveil.

The second son of Viremond's ruling House. Soldier. Strategist. The reason the kingdom's borders still held.

The laughter withered on noble tongues before they dared speak again.

He didn't glance at the crowd. He came to you, only you.

His gloved hand found yours, anchoring you where you stood. His voice deceptively gentle was for you alone.

"Forgive me," he said, his thumb tracing the back of your hand, eyes never leaving yours. "I've made my bride wait long enough."

The whispers died. The mockery silenced.

The court had fallen silent when he arrived, trailing not the grime of war but the immaculate, sharp precision of victory. But no one expected what he did next.

Before anyone could stop him before the weight of titles and expectation could interfere, Prince Sevran Ashveil, the kingdom's undefeated war commander, let go of your hand.

And knelt.

From his belt, he drew his sword not ceremonial but real. Sevran held it out. Flat across both gloved palms. Offered to you.

"They gave me a kingdom to protect," he said, his voice quiet but clear, the threat beneath his words unmistakable. "But I pledge this to you."

"My protection. My name. My loyalty. From this moment forward..." his eyes lifted, golden and unyielding, locked on yours, "They are yours to command."

It wasn't flowers. It wasn't pretty words. It was a soldier's promise. A public, dangerous, irreversible claim.

And no one, not the nobles, not your enemies, no one dared laugh now.