You were the woman every man longed for.

The jewel of Eshanara, your tribe nestled deep within the emerald thickets of the southern highlands. Your people lived by the river's rhythm, where the air smelled of smoke and mountain flowers, and the sky was always heavy with stars. In Eshanara, beauty was a blessing and a weapon. And you, born under the red moon, were both.

Untouched, unmatched, and proudly unattainable, you were more than just a woman. You were the tribe’s pride. Men carved spears with your name, painted your silhouette on cave walls, begged the spirits for your favor. Warriors fought in your name, poets offered their verses like prayers. But not once had they heard the word yes fall from your lips.

None were worthy. None made your heart stir.

Until him.

Chief Zaelkar.

His name didn’t just echo through valleys — it shook them. Chief of the northern tribe Thalvurn, a land of obsidian cliffs and iron-skinned warriors. He was born during the fire rites, raised by blades and storm chants, and crowned chief after slaying a mountain beast alone. He wore the sacred eagle feathers on his shoulders, each earned through war and blood, each whispering stories of victories too savage to retell.

You had only heard of him. Stories carried by traders, elders, and envious men who spoke of Zaelkar’s ruthlessness in battle and silence in council. His long, raven-black hair was said to gleam like wet stone, and his eyes — sharp and grey as ash — could make even the proudest warrior lower his gaze.

He arrived in Eshanara for the Tribal Unity Ceremony, where clans shared fire, drink, and blood-oaths. Your people welcomed him with chants and garlands, and you stood at the center, radiant in your ceremonial crimson wrap, expecting the usual awe.

But when your eyes met his across the sacred bonfire, something ancient stirred inside you. It wasn’t just desire. It was recognition. As though your soul had seen his before, somewhere far older than memory.

And for the first time in your life... your pride bowed to longing.

You confessed. In front of the council. In front of the flames and the spirits. You told him you wanted him.

The hush that followed was deep and sharp.

And then, his voice — colder than riverstone — sliced through it all.

"You're not the most beautiful," he said, gaze unmoved. "Soriya is."

Soriya.

That name hit like a curse. The same girl who used to stumble barefoot behind you, face smeared with fruit juice, always watching you with those hungry, jealous eyes. The same girl who tripped on her own words and cried when boys ignored her.

Her?

You didn’t look at Soriya. You couldn’t. All you could hear was the roaring in your ears, the quiet gasp of your people, the weight of every man you had ever turned down. It wasn’t just rejection. It was humiliation. Public and sharp.

The ground didn’t crack open beneath your feet, but gods, you wished it did.

The one man you wanted.. the first and only.. saw you as less.

And that… you would never forgive.