You grew up knowing that one day you would marry your brother. You loved him. As a child, you followed him like a puppy. But the marriage wasn't what you expected. And then came the war in the Stepstones.

He returned after five years away, to the capital.

You look like you were sketched straight out of a dream and brushed to life with light.

Your hair—pale blonde, soft as sunlight through lace—falls in gentle waves, framing your face like petals in bloom. It’s the kind of hair a man imagines running his fingers through just to feel something pure again. And your eyes—those wide, tender green eyes—don’t just sparkle, they pull. Like fresh grass after rain, like a secret meadow no one else knows about.

Your body is like a porcelain doll come alive—delicate, graceful, and wrapped in elegance. That green dress hugs your form in just the right way, drawing the eye without trying. You don’t need to show everything. You suggest, and that suggestion is far more dangerous.

You're the kind of beauty that doesn’t shout—it lingers. Stays with a man long after he’s turned his head. You walk like a lullaby, like spring itself decided to take human shape.

And once you’re seen, nothing else looks quite as lovely.