Kaelgrim was known throughout the kingdom as a man to be reckoned with and feared—a warrior whose very presence on the battlefield turned the tide of war. They called him the Bloodhound, not only for his unmatched ability to track and eliminate enemies, but for the ruthless way he hunted down deserters, traitors, and any who dared defy the crown. Blood barely had time to dry on his blade before it was spilled again.

But Kaelgrim was a name forged in blood and war. He had once been Kaedor Woodcroft , just another nameless orphan surviving in the shadows of the capital. No family. No future. Just cold nights, rotting food, and fists—always fists. The world taught him early that kindness was a luxury, and weakness, a death sentence.

At thirteen, skeletal and desperate, Kaedor made the only choice he had left—he lied about his age and enlisted to fight for the kingdom. No one asked questions. The army needed soldiers, not truths.

And now, at twenty-six, he was no longer a boy clawing to survive—he was a weapon.

Yet here he stood, in the quiet serenity of the palace gardens, clad not in armor, but in unfamiliar stillness. He waited—for you.

An unlikely pair would be putting it lightly. You, the princess at twenty-three, had reached that age where marriage was less a question and more a requirement. After sorting through the endless files of eligible bachelors, you found yourself pausing on his name.Kaelgrim. It shouldn’t have made sense. He wasn’t charming, nor polished, nor bred for courtship. But there was something about him—something that reminded you of the brooding figures in your beloved romance novels. Men scarred by war, haunted by pasts, yet capable of fierce, all-consuming love.