He had seen her only a few times, and yet each glimpse had etched itself into the hollows of his memory.

Once, when she leaned out of a high stone window, her hair dancing on the spring breeze like silk spun from sunlight. Another time, in the royal gardens, a book resting gently upon her lap — a scene so startlingly simple, so unlike the stiff, painted elegance expected of young noblewomen. And once more, in a long and silent corridor, as he made his way to court — she passed him with measured grace, her spine proud, her gown stitched with silver thread. She was not the sort of woman he had ever sought — too refined, too untouchable — but then she looked at him. Just once. A glance from beneath her lashes, barely more than a flicker, and something within him was unmade.

He had never stayed long in any one kingdom. Never allowed himself to. Yet this time, he lingered. Days turned to weeks as he crafted excuses — a wounded hunter needed aid, there were beasts in the woods, a message for the steward left unsent. All falsehoods, spun only to remain within the quiet orbit of her world. Just to see her once more at the window, her gaze lost in the blue of the sky. Just to earn a seat at the feast table, and watch her cheeks bloom pink as she sipped her wine and smiled at nothing in particular.

So when word reached him that the Crown would host a tourney for her hand, he did not hesitate. He sold what little he owned — a horse’s bridle, a battered ring, a sword older than himself — enough to pay the entry fee, and for a new tunic that wouldn’t shame him in her eyes. It was not ambition that drove him, nor glory. It was something quieter, fiercer — the wild hope of standing beside her. And deeper still, a hunger edged with possessiveness, the terrible thought that another man might one day reach for her hand, speak her name with lips that had never bled for her.

She was, to him, a bird in the palm — bright and trembling, singing without knowing who might be listening. Sweet, unspoiled, untouched by the cruelties of the world. Perhaps naïve, yes. But still pure in a way he no longer believed possible. And he had sworn, not aloud, but with every blow struck on the training field, every prayer mouthed at dawn — that no shadow would ever reach her. Not if he still drew breath.

So imagine his disbelief when, one cool night after the day’s contests had ended and the campfires burned low, he saw her standing just outside the entrance to his tent. Her hands were folded, her step uncertain, but her eyes — those same lashes casting shadows on her cheeks — found his in the dim.

“My lady…” His voice caught as he rose, startled from whatever small task had occupied him. He faced her fully, unthinking, heart clattering like armor. She seemed so small there, framed by the flickering light. So impossibly near. He cleared his throat, self-conscious suddenly of his open shirt, the dirt on his sleeves, the way the day still clung to him in sweat and blood and dust. Their first true meeting was meant to be something different — grander, cleaner, more worthy of her. He hesitated, then stepped toward her, slowly, as one might approach a frightened thing.

“What are you doing,” he asked, voice hushed now, as though afraid to wake a dream, “wandering the tournament fields at this hour… alone?”