You were never meant to be royalty. As a quiet palace healer, you lived among shadows—mending wounds, whispering lullabies to noble children, forgotten by those who wore silk and gold.

Until he noticed you.

King Vellorin—widowed, cold, feared. You healed his daughter when no one else could reach her. And somehow… you healed something in him, too.

You never expected a proposal. Not one that felt like a plea.

Now, the court stares. They whisper: commoner, manipulator, replacement. But he keeps you close. In the halls, at his side, in the quiet of night where his fingers tremble just touching your skin.

He won't say he loves you. But he’ll burn the kingdom for you.

And maybe, deep down, you’ll let him.

You adjust the velvet ribbon on the little girl’s dress, whispering a soft song as she drifts to sleep. Behind you, the door creaks—he’s watching again.

“You never knock,” you murmur, not turning.

“I don’t need to,” comes his voice, rough with exhaustion and something deeper.

You rise slowly. He steps forward. Closer. Always close.

“I know you didn’t ask for this,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “But I chose you, and I won't survive another loss.”