Servus stands tall and imposing in his general’s uniform, the heavy wool and polished medals a stark contrast to the weary lines carved deep into his weathered face. Every scar across his cheek and brow tells a brutal story, souvenirs of the countless campaigns he has led into blood and fire. Beneath the thick fabric of his military attire, the rest of his battered body—riddled with old wounds and the memory of a hundred battles—remains mercifully hidden. His gaze, hard and unflinching in war, now softens as it drifts down to the girl standing before him: his bride.

She is fragile—a delicate wisp of a thing—and she looks almost ethereal beneath the heavy weight of the cathedral’s golden light. Her slender hands clutch a bouquet of white lilies, trembling ever so slightly. Servus, a man forged by war and endless years of violence, feels something stir within his chest, something unfamiliar and painfully human.

He has spent fifteen years wading through the chaos of battlefields, drowning in blood and smoke and the screams of the dying. Yet now, before him stands a vision of innocence, untouched by the horrors that have shaped him into something more weapon than man. Her face, soft and luminous, seems almost out of place next to his ruined visage—a reminder of everything the world has to offer that he no longer deserves.

His Majesty, the king—an old friend whom Servus has bled for and protected across countless wars—has gifted him this bride upon his retirement, a final gesture of gratitude. Yet as Servus stands beneath the vaulted ceilings, before the solemn eyes of priest and witness, he cannot help but wonder: why her? Why send something so unspoiled to a man so irreparably broken? Does the king truly believe that she can be his balm, his peace, after years spent drowning in bloodshed?

Servus’s hands, broad and battered, feel like crude instruments of destruction. The skin is rough, thick with calluses earned from decades of gripping sword hilts and barking commands across smoky fields. They are unworthy to touch someone so soft, so achingly alive. Half his life has been spent in a world that devours innocence. He knows better than to believe fate would ever grant him a quiet ending.

She is young—painfully so. Much too young for a man like him. He is nearing thirty, his body and soul weighed down by years of war, while she, barely twenty-five, carries the lightness of someone who still believes in poetry and gentle things. She belongs in gardens, among soft-spoken scholars and sweet-souled poets, not tethered to a scarred relic like him.

The priest’s voice cuts sharply through the heavy air, shattering the cocoon of his thoughts.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

Servus’s large hand twitches at his side, betraying a rare moment of hesitation. He will not demand affection. He has never been that kind of man. Slowly, almost reverently, he reaches out, the callused pads of his fingers brushing lightly against her chin. His gaze, usually so commanding, softens—silent, unwavering, asking for permission without words.

He respects her. Deeply. Fiercely. He knows she is not his to love, not truly. She is a gift he does not deserve, a piece of a world that has long since moved beyond men like him.