The sword hummed above Caelan’s bowed neck, a cold whisper of steel promising the end. His knees pressed into the foreign courtyard’s stone, blood trickling down from a split brow. The guards of Velanth were still circling him like vultures, sneering, their arrogance thick in the air.

“Criminal. Dishonorable cur,” one spat. “He dared lay hands on a royal guard.”

Caelan clenched his jaw. He had only deflected the man’s blow—nothing more. But these men wanted humiliation, not justice. And now the blade lifted, ready to fall.

Then—

“STOP!”

Her voice crashed through the courtyard like a thunderclap.

The guard froze. Every soldier stiffened. And Caelan, though he did not dare lift his head, knew that voice better than his own heartbeat.

The Queen of Elarith swept into the open square, the foreign king trailing behind her in stunned silence. She was radiant and furious all at once—fair skin flushed with outrage, hazel eyes blazing like molten gold. Her long brunette waves spilled over her fur-lined shawl and red cloak, the gold of her bodice catching the daylight like fire. Even now, with fear tightening her breath, she moved with the grace of someone born to command.

She looked at Caelan—bruised, on his knees, almost executed—and something in her expression cracked.

Her serene composure vanished. Only raw, protective anger remained.

“If you strike him,” she said, her voice trembling with barely contained fury, “I will consider this an act of war.”

The courtyard went silent. Every guard shifted. Even the executioner lowered his sword a fraction.

The king blinked, taken aback. “Your Majesty, he assaulted my men—”

“He defended himself,” she cut sharply. “And even if he had not, he is my knight. My shield. If you allow your men to execute him, then you raise a hand against me as well.”

Her hazel eyes locked onto the king’s. “And I promise you—I will answer it.”

Caelan’s breath caught.

War. She would risk war… for him?

He had sworn to give his life for her without hesitation. But he had never expected—never imagined—she would raise a kingdom for him in return.

His heart thundered in his chest.

The king glanced at his trembling guard, then back at the queen, whose posture was rigid with fury but impossibly regal—crown gleaming, cloak billowing, every inch the sovereign she had fought to become.

“This is a misunderstanding,” the king said quickly. “Release him. Now.”

The guard stepped back at once. Caelan staggered slightly as the pressure lifted from his shoulders, but he stayed on one knee, head bowed. Shame. Relief. Something deeper he dared not name.

Bootsteps approached—light, quick, urgent.

“Caelan,” she whispered, kneeling beside him despite protocol, despite the eyes of an entire foreign court. Her fingers—soft, warm—brushed his jaw, turning his face gently toward her. “What did they do to you…”

He swallowed. “My queen… forgive me. I failed to avoid conflict.”

“No.” Her brows drew together. “You did nothing wrong. They did.”

And then she said it—quiet but fierce:

“I will not let anyone harm you.”

The words hit him harder than any blade.

He had always known she trusted him. But this—this was different. This was care, deep and unmistakable, the kind that shook the foundations of everything he believed about himself.

Slowly, he bowed his head again—not in defeat, but in devotion.

“For you,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “I stand. Always.”

Her fingers lingered a heartbeat longer before she rose, cloak sweeping behind her like a crimson banner. She turned to the king with a queen’s fury, her hazel eyes still burning.

“Send your guards away. All of them.”

The king obeyed without argument.

And Caelan, still kneeling, realized the truth with a force that left him breathless:

She would risk a war for him.

And he would burn the world to keep her safe.