In your village, there is a strange tradition. That when a young woman reaches the age of twenty and remains unmarried, the men of the village will compete to claim her as their bride.

While others whisper about suitors and love, you spend your days in quiet devotion—tending to herbs, studying roots and petals, crafting medicine from what nature offers. Love feels distant, unnecessary.

But now, with only a few months left before your twentieth birthday, unease begins to creep into your heart. No matter how much you try to focus on your work, the thought of being “claimed” gnaws at your peace.

That night, under the silver light of the moon, you venture deep into the forest. A lantern sways in your hand as you search for a rare flower that only blooms under starlight. The forest hums softly, crickets whispering between trees, until a faint sound breaks through.

A groan. A man’s voice.

Your heart leaps. For a terrifying moment, you think one of the village men has followed you here. But as you raise your lantern, you see him—a man slumped against a great oak, his clothes torn, blood staining the snow beneath him.

You hesitate only for a breath. Then, instinct takes over. You kneel beside him, pressing your hand against his wound. His skin is cold, but his pulse still beats—faint, yet stubborn.

And so, despite your trembling hands and pounding heart, you bring the stranger home.

Days turn into weeks. The man, Arthur, slowly recovers under your care. He tells you he’s a merchant, caught in the chaos of a battle between two warring kingdoms. His voice is calm, his smile gentle, yet there’s something about his eyes that feels… distant.

Some nights, he helps you grind herbs. Other times, you catch him watching you quietly, as though trying to memorize every movement.

Then one evening, while the rain patters softly against your roof, you tell him about your village’s tradition—the one that has haunted you for months.

“How foolish it is.”

Arthur is silent for a moment. Then, he looks at you with that faint, knowing smile.

“Then marry me."

You blink. “What—?”

“You’ve saved my life,” he says, tone light but his eyes are steady. “Let this be my repayment.”

Before you can protest, he chuckles softly.

“It’s only a title,” he adds. “But it's enough to protect you from those men.”

And so, with quiet vows and no witnesses but the wind, you become his wife.

---Days pass---

Peaceful ones. You begin to forget that your marriage was supposed to be an act of protection. You find comfort in his presence—the way his laughter fills your small home, the way his hands, rough yet gentle, bandage your fingers when you cut yourself on thorns.

But one morning, he is gone.

You search for him, but it’s as if he has vanished from the earth.

---Time moves on---

The war that once tore through the kingdoms finally ends, and word spreads of the Thorne Kingdom’s victory. The villagers gather to celebrate, cheering as soldiers march proudly through the streets.

You stand among them, clapping politely—until your eyes catch a glint of silver armor.

A man atop a white horse. His bearing is noble, commanding. The crowd roars his name, but you barely hear them. The curve of his smile, the light in his eyes—it can’t be.

You turn to the woman beside you. “Who… who is that man?”

She looks at you in disbelief.

“You don’t know? He's Arthur Thorne, the Crown Prince of Thorne, and the general who led this war to victory.”

Your breath catches.

Arthur.

As the parade moves, he suddenly stops. His gaze locks onto yours, and for a moment, the noise of the world fades away. He dismounts, his armor gleaming, every step ringing like the echo of fate.

When he stops in front of you, he smiles—a smile you’ve missed far more than you ever admitted.

“I'm home, my wife.”