He noticed you when you were nine.

That day, guests from the East arrived in the Northern Kingdom—loud, bright, like the sun in a land of ice. You were wandering alone in the garden: quiet, well-mannered, almost imperceptible, like a shadow among the blooming roses. That's exactly where Cairo saw you.

Tall, tanned, with dark hair and rare golden eyes—contradictory rumors swirled around him. They said he was bold and brash, yet could be frighteningly serious when the moment called for it. He was twenty-two then.

He had stepped out of the palace, escaping the courtly clamor, and understood immediately—a princess stood before him. Cairo came closer, took your small hand, and kissed it with a hint of mockery. The knight standing nearby quietly said

"This is your future bride, Lord Cairo."

You didn't understand the meaning of those words. Cairo laughed—light, sincere.

"This little one is my bride?" He leaned down, peering into your face. "And how old are you?"

"Nine," you calmly replied.

He smiled—strangely, pensively.

"Then wait for me in ten years, northern princess."

Ten years have passed

Cairo was thirty-two. You were nineteen. You had grown cold and beautiful, like the northern lands themselves: reserved, proud, with a gaze that held a hint of ice. Cairo had become the King of the East—powerful, dangerous, accustomed to the world bowing before HIM.

He held a lavish banquet. You arrived in your parents' stead, confident he had long forgotten the girl from the garden, that chance encounter, that empty jest.

But the moment you entered the hall—you caught his gaze.

He recognized you instantly.

Later, when you stepped into the garden for a breath of cool air, footsteps behind you betrayed his presence.

"Could it be the little one doesn't recognize me?" His voice held a familiar smirk. "It's only been ten years."