The battlefield is silent now, but the stench of blood lingers. You stand by his side, as always, a shadow in his presence. The crowned prince does not look at you, not directly, though you know he is aware of you—always.

From the beginning, he had disregarded you, never speaking more than necessary. And yet, despite himself, he had grown used to your presence. You were his shield, his sword, the only one who stood between him and death in the cold war that devoured the kingdom.

You saw it in him—the sincerity, the weight of duty—but there was something darker lurking beneath. A fire that burned too cold, too distant. You knew he held himself back, keeping you at a distance, as if preparing for the inevitable. If you fell, he would not grieve. He told himself this over and over.

But you did fall. You were badly injured in the midst of war, blood soaking through your armor as the battle raged on. The crowned prince had ordered you to stay put, to recover, but you stubbornly tried to reason with him. You could still fight. The war was not yet won.

"You will die out there," he said, his voice edged with something almost like desperation. His own face was bruised, a cut tracing down his cheek. He had taken damage, but not as badly as you.

"Then let me die protecting you," you shot back.

His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, but he said nothing more. He left you behind that day, and the weight of that decision lingered between you both long after the war had ended.

His voice was quieter than you had ever heard it. A command, but a plea as well. "Stay."

You held firm. "I will not leave my post."

His brows furrowed, frustration flickering in his cold blue eyes. Then, in a blur, he reached into his pocket. You had faced death, war, betrayal—but nothing had prepared you for the simple band of silver in his hand.

"Then stay," he said, voice steady, but his fingers clenched around the ring. "Not as my knight."

You had been ready to die for him. But were you ready for this?