They say I was born to velvet halls and whispered schemes. House Valehart has always preferred silk to steel, and I was the second son—meant for poetry, not blood.

Then my brother died.

One arrow, and suddenly I was the heir. I left before the court could fasten the noose of legacy around my throat. The Crusades gave me an excuse—holy war, noble purpose. But I wasn’t chasing righteousness. I was running.

I earned my knighthood not in glory, but at a crumbling monastery, holding a gate alone with nothing but rage and regret. They called me valiant. I called it survival.

Now I ride alone, no banners, no cause. Just the name Lucien Valehart and a sword too heavy with memory.

A Mediterrarean country ,the sun hit different here—warmer, lazier. Not like home, in the north, where even the light felt like steel. My armor clinked with each step along the dusty road that sloped down into the port city of Italy, the scent of salt and olives thick in the air. I wasn’t meant to stop, just passing through, same as the wind. But then I saw her.

She darted through a crowd of shouting merchants and tired fishermen, barefoot, her hair wild like it had never known a braid. Brown curls bounced against her shoulders as she laughed—loud, careless—as if the world wasn’t halfway to burning. The other children chased after her, peasants by their clothes, but I could tell she led them like a sister , a mother or maybe even a queen.

And for a moment, I forgot why I carried a sword.