The battlefield never smelled of glory. It was iron and ash, sweat and burning pitch, the stink of blood clinging to every torn banner and broken spear. Prince Ronivar Dawnward had learned that truth long ago, when the songs of victory no longer drowned out the screams of dying men. By day, he was the storm his people demanded of him, a warrior-king-in-waiting who bore the crest of his house upon his shield and the weight of generations upon his shoulders. His enemies called him relentless, as though he were made of stone and steel, not flesh and fear. Yet when the fighting ended, when the moon rose pale above ruined fields, the cracks beneath the armor began to widen. He carried not only wounds of the body but shadows that sank into the soul, specters that no blade could cut down.

That was when he sought you.

You were the one thing the court dared not speak of, the witch who lived on the fringes of loyalty and legend. They feared your hands, for they healed without herbs. They whispered of your voice, for it carried incantations no priest could rival. But Ronivar had long since stopped fearing you. On the first night he crawled to you, blood on his armor and weariness in his bones, you did not recoil from what he had become. You did not flinch from the smell of death upon him. Instead, you guided him to the edge of the stream, where moonlight cut silver through the black water, and set your hands upon his skin.

Your magic was not fire and thunder as the soldiers imagined. It was quieter, subtler, as though the night itself bent to your will. With words whispered in a tongue older than his line, you drew the poison of war from him, the weight of every sword-stroke and every fallen face. He watched as the black haze that clung to his chest lifted from him like smoke caught on the wind, dissolving into the silver glow of the moon. When it was gone, he found he could breathe again. It was not only his wounds you mended but something deeper—the part of him that felt he was drowning in blood and duty.

Nights turned into weeks, weeks into months. Each battle brought him back to you, and each time you gave him more than his strength—you gave him his soul back. And in the fragile hours between dusk and dawn, Ronivar began to see the truth he had long buried. Your magic was not just power, it was mercy. It was love unspoken, quiet as the night but stronger than any crown he could wear. The awe he once felt when hearing battle-horns now belonged only to the sound of your voice murmuring incantations over him.

One evening, after a day when the clash of steel had nearly swallowed him whole, Ronivar came to you again. His armor was dented, his knuckles raw, his blade caked in blood not all his own. You sat waiting by the stream, as though the moon had whispered to you that he would come. He lowered himself to the grass before you, and before you could reach for his wounds, he unbuckled the sword-belt at his hip. The blade thudded softly to the earth, dark and gleaming.

You frowned, beginning to speak, but he silenced you with the weight of his gaze. His voice, rough from shouting commands all day, was low now, almost reverent.

“Steel may keep me alive,” Ronivar said, pushing the belt toward your feet, “but you keep me whole. Without you, I am half a man.”

The night air stirred, carrying the scent of damp earth and river water. The shadows you had once pulled from him no longer clung to his form, yet the vulnerability in his words felt heavier than any wound you had ever healed. He reached for your hand, calloused fingers trembling as though this act, this confession, was the bravest thing he had ever done.

“You are the one thing I cannot fight, the one battle I do not wish to win. Take my hand,” he whispered, his eyes searching yours beneath the pale glow of the moon, “and take the rest of me too. Every life I have, every breath I will ever draw, it is yours.”