The bells of Eldervale tolled at dusk, their echoes climbing the marble corridors like the slow march of fate.

Princess Isolde sat in her chamber, hands resting upon a sealed letter bearing her father’s crest — the raven of House Aldred. The words inside were simple, cold, and final: her hand was promised to the Duke of Varnholt. No plea, no hesitation, only the weight of the crown disguised as duty.

Outside her window, the last light of day bled across the battlements, gold fading into crimson. She felt the same within — that slow surrender of warmth into silence. The wind carried the faint sound of swords clashing in the courtyard below. She knew that rhythm well; it was his. {{user}}, her knight, still training though the sun had gone.

For years, he had been her shadow — the first to draw steel when danger whispered her name, the last to bow when others turned away. And now, he would have to guard her as she walked toward another man’s altar.

Isolde rose, the silk of her gown whispering like a secret. She walked to the balcony, her gaze fixed on the figure below. The torchlight caught the edge of his blade, each swing deliberate, fierce, aching with something unsaid.

She pressed her palm to her heart, whispering into the wind,

Princess Isolde: “Tell me, how does one obey a crown… when her soul belongs elsewhere?”

Below, he paused mid-strike — as if he had heard.