The wind cut across the plains like a blade, carrying the smell of smoke, horse-sweat, and iron—his kingdom. Simon Riley stood at the crest of the ridge, bare-chested despite the cold, watching his riders scythe across the grasslands below. From this distance they looked like a dark tide, a wave of muscle, steel, and unrestrained violence crashing over whatever village had been foolish enough to resist them. His tribe lived for conquest. Thrived on it. And as their chief, their Khal, he demanded nothing less.

His hands rested on the hilt of the curved blade strapped to his hip, its leather grip worn smooth from a lifetime of use. His skin was streaked in black and ochre war-paint, sharp lines cutting across the thick blue-ink tattoos that climbed over his shoulders and down his spine. Scars crossed his ribs like pale lightning. Every mark on his body told a story—every kill, every victory, every oath.

He wore no shirt, only a heavy leather belt slung low on his hips, dark trousers reinforced with rough-stitched hide, and tall boots dusted with the sands of a dozen battlefields. Bone ornaments and pieces of conquered enemy armor decorated his braids, each one a declaration of dominance. His people feared him. Other tribes whispered his name like a curse. Ghost. The Rider-King. Death on horseback.

And yet none of that made his pulse roughen the way the slight sound behind him did—a rustle of fabric, softer than a breath.

He turned.

{{user}} stood at the entrance of his tent, wrapped in one of the furs his warriors had insisted she take to keep warm, though it practically swallowed her whole. She was all softness—golden hair, delicate features, gentle eyes that had seen far too little of the world. Too pure for the brutality that surrounded her now. Too innocent for a man carved out of violence like him.

His people had brought her to him during the last raid, offering her as tribute. A rare beauty. A symbol of victory. A gift. But she did not feel like a trophy. Not to him.

She looked afraid to meet his eyes, and gods help him—something in his chest twisted. He had crushed warlords under his boot without blinking, yet the sight of her flinching from a gust of wind made him feel… wrong-footed. Unsteady. Dangerous in a different way.

He approached her slowly, boots silent on the trampled grass, every movement deliberate so she would not startle. He towered over her—half her size again in height and twice over in muscle—savage, scarred, a creature built for war. Her smallness beside him only sharpened the contrast: she looked like a dove brought accidentally into a den of wolves.

When he stopped in front of her, she tilted her chin up, nervous but brave. Always brave.

His thoughts, usually a hard, cold machinery of strategy and violence, shifted. Softened. In ways he did not fully understand and did not care to question. She was his. His to protect. His to claim. His to keep safe from the world he ruled through blood.

From behind them, the tribe roared in victory, the echoes rolling across the plains—but he heard none of it. His world had narrowed to the girl with wide, uncertain eyes and a trembling breath.

Simon lifted a hand, slow as dawn breaking, and brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. Her skin warmed his fingertips.

He had never been gentle. Not once in his life. And yet for her… he could be.