The grand hall of the palace was filled with lords, noblemen from across the kingdom, each vying for your hand and the throne. You sat regally on your gilded throne. The weight of choosing a husband—was suffocating, especially when your heart still belonged to a man long lost.

He was your husband, the man who had left to explore uncharted lands but never returned yet you never forgot him. And in your longing and grief, you crafted an impossible challenge for your suitors: to string your husband’s ancient bow and shoot an arrow through twelve axes, clean.

The bow rested on its pedestal, its wood worn but powerful. It was the bow he had wielded with ease in his youth, a symbol of his unmatched strength and skill. You had told the court, “If my husband could do it, so can the future king.”

But as each suitor stepped forward, their confidence crumbled. One by one, they struggled to even string the bow, let alone draw it. The air filled with murmurs of disbelief and frustration. “This is impossible,” one man spat, throwing the bow aside in defeat.

You rose from your throne, disappointment tightening your chest. “If no one can rise to this,” you declared, “then none of you are worthy of the throne–”

Before you could finish, a voice cut through the crowd. "May I try?”

The room fell silent. You turned to see your knight, the one who had served you faithfully for years, stepping forward. His armor glinted in the sunlight pouring through the stained-glass windows, and his expression was calm.

“May I try?” he repeated, bowing slightly.

“You may,” you said softly,

The knight approached the bow with reverence, running his fingers over its worn surface.

With a swift, practiced motion, the knight strung the bow effortlessly, he notched an arrow, drew the string back, and aimed at the axes.

Time seemed to slow as he released the arrow. It soared cleanly through the first axe, then the second. The crowd held its breath as the arrow passed through all twelve axes, embedding itself in the far wall with a resounding thud.