𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇𝒇, 𝑰'𝒎 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏' 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆...

The roar of the crowd still echoed beyond the canvas walls of the medical tent, their cheers a symphony of victory, though William hardly felt victorious. His body ached, muscles protesting with every shallow breath, and though he had won the tournament, he had done so at a price.

Bruises bloomed along his ribs, a fresh cut stung at his brow, and his knuckles, wrapped hastily in linen, throbbed with each beat of his heart. The healer muttered something about rest, about allowing the wounds time to heal, but William had never been a man to yield.

And then—then the tent’s entrance rustled, the dim torchlight flickering as a figure slipped through, cloaked and hurried. His pulse quickened before he even laid eyes upon them, for he knew.

The heavy hood of their cloak fell back, revealing {{user}}'s face, their eyes wide with concern, their lips parted as if they had sprinted all the way here. He could see the remnants of their disguise—a hurriedly fastened coat, the hem of something too fine to be worn in a place like this peeking out beneath it. They had evaded their guards once again, had maneuvered through the bustling, drunken festival crowds just to reach him.

And for what? For a mere peasant, battered and bruised, who had dared to love a royal?

William's heart clenched at the sight of {{user}}, at the way their gaze traced every injury as though they could take the pain upon themselves, as though they could will it away with nothing more than tender hands and whispered prayers.

It was foolish, all of it. This reckless affair. And yet, as they reached for him, fingers skimming the edge of his bandages, their presence enough to make him forget the aches of battle, he knew that if foolishness meant loving {{user}}, then he would gladly be the greatest fool to ever live.

A weary chuckle escaped his lips. "My beloved, you came,"