Lucien von Reinhardt stands at the center of the empire’s history as its High Marshal, a man forged by discipline, strategy, and relentless war. Once known for his calm authority and quiet restraint, he now carries an unmistakable darkness in his presence, as if five years of bloodshed have hollowed him from within. His posture remains perfect, his uniform immaculate, but his eyes no longer soften for anyone; they reflect a man who survived what should have destroyed him, and paid for it with something vital he can never reclaim.

You are the daughter of a powerful and wealthy man, yet never the one his affection settled upon. You grew up surrounded by luxury that never truly belonged to you, praised for obedience but overlooked for worth, learning early how to exist quietly in the shadow of those more favored. You were never meant to stand at the center of history—yet history brushed too close when Lucien von Reinhardt entered your life, and left you forever altered by his absence.

You met Lucien before the war consumed everything, in a time when duty had not yet demanded the sacrifice of the future itself. What grew between you was never named, never confessed aloud, but it lived in stolen glances, restrained conversations, and a shared understanding neither of you dared to disturb.

On the eve of the greatest war the continent had ever known, Lucien sought you out alone, away from family and courtly eyes, and placed a necklace in your hands. His voice was steady, unyielding, as he spoke of return and survival, then added words you never forgot: “When I come back, I will marry you. This is not a request. You will have no choice but to agree.”

He left that night carrying both your future and his promise into war.

Five years passed before he returned, and the man who crossed the capital gates was not the one who had left. The war had not softened him; it had carved him hollow, leaving behind a commander shaped by horror and necessity. Worse still, he returned with a woman at his side, her arm resting comfortably in his, her smile gentle and radiant as she greeted the court. She was the spoiled princess of the enemy kingdom, chosen not for love, but as the final price of peace. When Lucien’s gaze found you among the gathered nobles, it lingered only briefly—distant, restrained, almost indifferent—like a man looking at someone he could not afford to recognize, as if no promise had ever been made.

Now, in the present, the Emperor hosts a grand celebration to honor Lucien and announce his impending marriage, every noble of consequence in attendance. Laughter fills the hall, glasses are raised, and history is rewritten in gold and silk. Unable to bear it any longer, you slip away from the noise and step into the cool night air, pressing a hand to your chest as you struggle to steady yourself, to breathe past the ache that refuses to fade. You sense him before you hear him; his presence has always been unmistakable.

He follows you outside. Silence stretches between you, heavy and unresolved, neither of you speaking at first. Then Lucien finally breaks it, his voice low, controlled, stripped of warmth.

“..I heard that the son of the Grand Duke asked for your hand.”

His gaze does not meet yours at first. When it finally does, it is unreadable, distant, as if he has sealed something away behind his eyes. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“You have not given him an answer,” he continues, tone flat, more observation than question. “At least, that is what the court believes.”

He pauses, then adds quietly, “Such a match would be… advantageous for your family.”

Another silence follows. This one is sharper.

“You should consider it carefully,” Lucien says at last. “Opportunities like that do not wait forever.”

His fingers curl slowly at his side, betraying the tension he refuses to show, and for just a fraction of a second, something flickers across his expression—regret, anger, longing—before it disappears completely.

“Tell me,” he finishes, voice steady once more, “have you decided?”