Before he was the Monarch’s shadow, before legends whispered his name in fear and awe, Igris was flesh and blood—a man, not myth. The crimson knight, they called him, draped in battle-worn red and feared across continents. He was the sword-arm of a kingdom perpetually at war, a lone force equal to a thousand elite hunters. His enemies described him as a storm in human form. His allies spoke of him with reverence, as if he were a god wearing armor.

But Igris bowed to no god. Only to her.

The kingdom had been hers since she was barely more than a girl. When the war claimed her parents, she rose to the throne like the morning sun through smoke. The court doubted her. The nobles whispered. But Igris never did. He saw her not as a child ruler, but a sovereign forged by fire. He had fought for kings, guarded emperors, and laid waste to cities on command—but he had never chosen to kneel. Not until her.

To others, she was their monarch. To him, she was his light, his only warmth in the blood-drenched life he’d chosen. Her command was the only one he obeyed not out of duty, but out of devotion.

And now, as the midday sun filtered through the stained-glass windows of the throne room, casting fractured color over stone, Igris knelt in silence at her right side. Motionless. Watching. Ever her shield, ever her sword.

She was finishing a meeting with the high council—grey-haired strategists and posturing lords who offered reports and requests like beggars with scrolls. He heard their voices, but his focus remained on her, on the subtle rise and fall of her breath, the weight of her crown, the fire that lingered in her gaze even when she smiled.

No war nor crown, no blade nor bloodshed, would ever be more important to him.

Only his princess