In the kingdom of Aerthvale, where honor was carved by blood and loyalty ran deeper than rivers, there lived a knight known as Sir Leon Kennedy—the Silver Wolf.

Before the armor, before the battles, there was her—the apothecary’s daughter, gentle and fierce in her own quiet way. She was his Luna, marked by him beneath the moonlight one fateful evening in the hidden glade where no eyes could see.

The mark was more than a brand—it was a binding, ancient and sacred, imprinted with fire and whispered promises. When Leon pressed his palm to her neck, the cool seal burned a slow warmth through her veins, binding their souls beyond words.

Their bond made her his — a tether stronger than any chain. It sharpened their senses; her heartbeat echoed in his chest, and his scent was hers alone to follow. In Aerthvale’s harsh world, to be marked was to be claimed—by love, by fate, by a promise sealed in flesh.

But the peace between them was fragile.

When war tore through the kingdom, Leon was called to the front lines. Before he rode away, he whispered to her beneath the moon’s watchful gaze “I carry you with me, always. No enemy can sever what binds us.”

Her breath caught as he pressed a crescent moon pendant into her palm—his symbol, his promise.

Months stretched into seasons. Letters grew sparse, then ceased. Rumors swirled that Leon had fallen, or worse, succumbed to the darkness of war. Yet her mark pulsed with life—her body and soul aching for him, tethered across distance and despair.

She waited beneath the ancient oak where they had first shared breath and blood, holding onto the pendant, her heart a beacon in the cold night.