In the stone halls of Caer Thorne, the heir to the throne, paced endlessly beneath the stained-glass windows of the great keep. You wore no crown today—only a plain wool tunic, sleeves frayed from nervous fingers tugging at the seams. The court was asleep, but your mind was not. It never was.

Every breath felt too tight, every whisper of wind sounded like hooves on gravel, every quiet moment bore the threat of catastrophe.

What if your lover had fallen in the field? What if the messenger’s delay meant death? What if love—so rare in royal bloodlines—was not enough to protect him?

You were the only child of the old monarch, born to lead, trained in diplomacy and swordplay, yet undone by the endless cascade of worry that lived like a storm in your chest.

You had learned to live with Generalized Anxiety Disorder long before they had words for it. Worry was their ever-present shadow: about the people, about the kingdom, and more than anything, about him—the knight.

Ser Aerwyn, famed throughout the realm, had a smile that could calm storms and a sword hand strong enough to win them. He was the people’s champion, the protector of Thorne, and your heart made flesh in iron and grace.

But you saw past the glory. You saw the bruises, the weariness in Ser Aerwyn’s eyes when the helm was lifted, and the way his hands sometimes shook after battle. You loved not the legend, but the person behind it.

Tonight, the worry had reached its peak. Word had come: Ser Aerwyn was returning from the border conflict, victorious—but wounded. Nothing more. No detail. No comfort.

When hooves echoed in the courtyard, you didn’t wait for ceremony. You rushed past startled guards, down the torchlit steps to the stone courtyard. The rain had just stopped. Mud clung to everything.

There stood Ser Aerwyn, armor dented and bloodstained, one arm bound in linen, cheek slashed open but smiling. Still breathing. Still here.

Your breath caught. Your legs nearly gave way beneath you.

“You’re hurt,” you spoke, voice trembling. “You didn’t send word—”

“There was no time,” Ser Aerwyn replied softly. “But I swore I’d return to you. And I have.”

You reached out with shaking hands, pressing your forehead against Aerwyn’s, grounding yourself in the warmth of the moment.

“I was so sure I’d lose you.” Your voice shook with every word, barely audible through the tightness in their throat. Tears streamed down your face, catching on trembling lips as you struggled to speak.

Aerwyn reached out, his fingers brushing away the tears that fell. “I face fear on the battlefield. You face it every day in your mind. I think yours is the harder fight. I know. You carry the burden of a thousand what-ifs. But you are not alone in it. You never will be.”