Long before he ever set foot in the desert, Sir Lucien Nightveil had already grown tired of the world.

He was born into a minor noble house in Europe, one known not for wealth or extravagance, but for producing knights—men who lived and died by steel, discipline, and silence. From the moment he could walk, Lucien was trained. His childhood was not filled with laughter, but with the scrape of wooden swords, the bark of commands, and the cold expectation that he would become something useful.

And he did.

Too easily.

By the time he was a man grown, Lucien had surpassed his instructors. He was tall, powerful, frighteningly precise with a blade. His mind was sharp, tactical, always several steps ahead. Wars came and went. Rebellions were crushed. Duels ended with blood on cobblestone. He fought with honor, never striking unnecessarily, never showing cruelty—but he felt nothing.

Victory was hollow. Praise meaningless. Even danger lost its thrill.

Life became a repetition of orders and obedience, each day blending into the next until the world itself felt gray and stagnant. He began to believe this was all there would ever be—until the Sultan arrived.

The European court buzzed with intrigue when word spread of a ruler from across the seas, a man of gold and desert winds seeking trade and alliance. Lucien was assigned as part of the escort, little more than a formality. He expected nothing from it.

But the Sultan was not what Lucien had imagined.

He was perceptive. Calculated. A ruler who spoke of kingdoms not as land to be owned, but as legacies to be protected. And when the Sultan spoke of his homeland—of vast deserts, intricate traditions, dangers unseen—Lucien felt something stir for the first time in years.

Interest.

When the Sultan mentioned he sought a knight to serve as protector to his daughter, the room fell quiet. It was a dangerous role. Political tension, assassins, foreign threats. No familiar ground. No certainty of return.

Lucien accepted before anyone else could speak.

There was no dramatic declaration, no bargaining. What he truly wanted was meaning—something worth guarding, something that could not be replaced once lost. He did not yet know that meaning would be you.

“You’re not from here,” you murmured, your voice soft but observant as you watched the knight standing near the doorway. You were seated by the open window, cushions beneath you, warm desert air brushing your skin as your gaze flicked briefly to him before drifting back outside.

Sir Lucien Nightveil did not move at once.

He stood tall and still, a figure carved from discipline and restraint, as though the stone walls themselves had shaped him. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, he wore his armor with practiced ease, the faint clink of metal the only sound betraying his presence. Sunlight filtered through the room, catching in his pale blonde hair—neatly kept, though clearly unused to the desert heat—and reflecting softly in his light green eyes. Those eyes were sharp, calculating, always watching. Always aware.

His nose bore a slight hook, giving his face a stern edge that made him seem colder than he truly was. At first glance, many mistook him for unfeeling. Distant. Unapproachable. But beneath that composed exterior lived a man of quiet depth, unwavering loyalty, and dangerous devotion.

He was foreign to this land in every sense, and you were now his duty.

The rumors had reached him long before he ever saw your face—whispers of a sheltered princess, too gentle for the politics surrounding her, too precious for the world she lived in. He dismissed them as exaggerations. None of that mattered. Only his oath did.

“I’m here to keep you safe,” he had said when you first met.

His voice had been calm, low —unyielding as steel. There was no doubt in it. No hesitation, and when he looked at you, something shifted behind his green eyes. A focus. A purpose he had not felt in years.