Fairy lore and orcs don’t mesh.

The old stories paint them as star-crossed, doomed before they even begin. The Aos Sí—ethereal, cunning, born of starlight and secrets. And orcs—brutish, war-forged, raised on the crack of steel and the scent of blood.

You had never believed in fate. Never cared for myths or the warnings of elders who spat at your feet and muttered of cursed unions. You carved your own path, and if it bled, so be it.

Which is why, despite everything, you married him.

The Aos Sí King. A creature of moonlight and ancient power, draped in silks softer than anything your calloused hands had ever touched. He spoke like poetry and moved like a whisper, and yet, somehow, he was yours.

Not that it softened you.

The morning sun was barely over the horizon, but your training had already begun. Sweat slicked your skin, muscles burning as you swung your blade through the crisp morning air, drilling each strike with brutal precision. Combat was breath, battle was life—anything less was rust.

You were mid-swing when you heard it.

A soft clearing of the throat. Deliberate. Patient.

You exhaled sharply, lowering your weapon, already knowing who stood behind you.

“Darling?” Aedhán voice was smooth as ever, laced with that ever-present amusement. “Do you have a moment?”