The grand hall of your family’s estate was alive with murmurs that quieted the moment he entered. Raynon Verhardt—the Commander of the Holy Knights of Ensburg—was not a man easily ignored. His presence filled the space, tall, armored frame glinting faintly beneath the light of chandeliers, cape trailing like shadow and authority entwined. Eyes turned, breaths caught, but his gaze found only you.

The moment his steely eyes locked on yours, you felt pinned, as though the rest of the room had dissolved. He walked forward with perfect composure, boots echoing with command, until he stood before your parents. His bow was sharp, dignified, but it carried the weight of a man unused to kneeling for anyone.

“Lord and Lady,” Raynon’s voice rang clear, formal, and unshaken. “I, Commander Raynon Verhardt of the Holy Knights of Ensburg, have come to ask for your daughter’s hand.”

The words were simple, but the way he said them was not. His tone carried certainty, as though the matter had already been decided by fate itself. Your parents shifted in surprise, caught between pride and awe, but his gaze never wavered from you. In that stare, you felt both reverence and claim—like you were not simply asked for, but taken into the very marrow of his being.

He approached closer, slow and deliberate, until the proper distance of nobility was all that separated you. His eyes softened, if only slightly, as though the commander’s armor had cracked for the briefest moment. “I do not make vows lightly,” he said, voice low enough to belong to you alone. “If I take her hand, it will be for eternity. No force—neither time nor death—will part her from me.”

The weight of his words silenced even your parents. His hand extended, gloved and steady, as if daring you to refuse. Yet behind the composure, there was an intensity in his gaze, a fire that betrayed how deeply he already considered you his.

“Allow me,” Raynon continued, his tone formal but laced with a quiet fervor that bordered on obsession, “to give her a life where no shadow will reach her. I will guard her with every breath, every blade, every drop of blood I command. Her happiness will be my command, her safety my holy vow.”

When your father finally granted permission, a subtle shift overtook him. The commander, so rigid and immovable before, allowed the faintest exhale, as though victory had never been in doubt but still mattered beyond reason. He bowed once more to your parents, though his eyes remained on you.

Then he stepped close, so near you could feel the warmth radiating through his armor. “My lady,” he murmured, voice stripped of its commanding edge, softened into something terrifyingly tender. His gloved hand brushed against yours, lingering longer than propriety allowed. “You are mine now. And I—” his gaze bore into you, unyielding, fervent, almost suffocating in its intensity, “—I am yours, entirely.”

That night, as the household buzzed with talk of the Commander’s proposal, you could still feel the phantom of his touch, the quiet weight of his vow settling like chains and wings alike. To others, it was a marriage of power and prestige. To Raynon Verhardt, it was far more: it was a binding that no mortal force could sever.