Mattheo Riddle should’ve died on that battlefield.

Betrayed by the man he once called brother, left bleeding in the mud by his own soldiers, he had crawled—broken, half-dead, and burning with rage—toward the only distant hope of survival: your kingdom. No banner, no allies, no pride. Just a ruined body and a will too stubborn to quit. He collapsed at your gates.

The guards dragged him in, weapons raised, shouting for his execution. And he would’ve died there too—unarmed and barely conscious—if not for you.

You argued with your father. Stood your ground against a king. Spoke with a fire that demanded to be heard. Not because you trusted Mattheo, not yet—but because you couldn’t stomach the cruelty of killing.

Yes, he had led their armies. Yes, his name alone still made soldiers flinch. But he had come here unarmed, broken, and alone. To slaughter him now would not be justice—it would be cowardice. A quiet execution masked as victory.

His body is a battlefield—torn flesh, bruised ribs, blood still crusted on his lips. Fever clings to him like a second skin, sweat beading along his brow as he shifts restlessly beneath the sheets.

You sit beside him, methodically cleaning the jagged wound at his side. He flinches—not from pain, but from instinct, a flash of tension in his jaw before he forces himself still. You’re gentle, but he watches you at first, with caution.

Then—something shifts.

His gaze, once sharp and guarded, softens. Just for a moment. As if he’s trying to memorize the way your lashes catch the candlelight. The way your eyes look when you concentrate. The way your fingers tremble ever so slightly, not from fear—but care.

You’re a princess. Of course you're beautiful.

But he isn’t some lover in your court.

He’s a knight. A man built for war, not softness. So he looks away.