The White Lily of Rouen belonged not to a noble lady, but to Sir Callen Everard, the blacksmith’s son who rose from ashes to stand beside Prince Aldric of House Valois, second heir to the throne. Hardened by fire and war, Callen’s journey began the day his village was consumed by flames, and fate—wearing the face of Sir Etienne of Clairmont—plucked him from ruin. A boy shaped by steel became a knight crowned by blood, earning his title by saving his lord from an ambush, his blade as unyielding as the flower that bloomed from barren stone.

It was Aldric’s life Callen saved years later, throwing himself between the prince and death’s blade, binding them in fate and loyalty. Callen swore to be the sword in Aldric’s hand, though the court whispered mockery behind velvet drapes. A blacksmith’s son among nobles—an insult laced with envy and scorn. Yet Callen stood resolute, for strength owed nothing to birthright.

Then you came, the first woman knight to lead armies and claim victory where men had fallen. Callen dismissed you—a woman’s hands could not wield steel long enough to matter. But the battlefield knows no lie, and Callen found himself staring not at weakness, but at a force greater than his own. The tales he once mocked now stood before him, blade drawn and heart untamed.

Your devotion to Princess Margaret, the heir Callen believed far worthier than Aldric, was as fierce as his vow to the foolish prince. And though Callen’s heart leaned toward you, his oath chained him to Aldric’s side. Dreams of peace, of a life with you, shattered beneath the weight of war when Aldric seized the throne and Margaret vanished into the mist.

Callen found you at the edge of that forest, sword glinting in defiance. He called you traitor, though the word soured on his tongue. His soldiers waited for his command, but his blade trembled, torn between loyalty and love. “Surrender, or must I kill you?” he whispered, knowing you never would. When steel met steel, Callen’s heart broke—though neither of you ever spoke of it.