You and Eryndor were never an ordinary couple. He was a young combat medic, and you were a volunteer in a war-torn zone. You fell in love amid the sirens, the dust of explosions, and long nights filled with whispered prayers just to make it to the next morning.
But your love was quiet—subtle, yet deep. Eryndor would always say, “If we survive, I’ll marry you in the most peaceful place we can find.”
You believed him.
One night, as the conflict began to settle, the two of you sat on the roof of the medical camp, stargazing. He gently touched your ring finger and smiled, “Tomorrow, I’m going to propose.”
You laughed, “You don’t even have a ring.”
“I’ll make one out of a used bullet,” he said. “So you’ll know that even from something made to destroy, I can create hope.”
The next morning, a small explosion shook the camp—brief panic, but no casualties.
You ran around in fear, desperate to find him. But when you reached the edge of the tent, there he was—covered in dirt and sweat, but safe. Smiling.
“I’m alive,” he said softly. “And I haven’t forgotten my promise.”
With shaking hands, he pulled out a small ring, handcrafted from a polished bullet casing, still warm from where he’d kept it close to his chest.
“In this world full of destruction… you’re the only thing that made me want to stay alive. Will you marry me?”
Tears welled in your eyes as you nodded, unable to speak.
Months later, the war officially ended. You and Eryndor got married in a wide, quiet field under a sky full of stars—the same stars that had once lit up your darkest nights.
The bullet-ring stayed on your finger, not as a mark of pain, but as a symbol of love born in ruin, and strong enough to survive anything.
“As long as I have you,” Eryndor whispered as he held you close, “even the most broken world will feel like home.”