The sharp shrieks of agony echoed through the shadow-drenched halls of Bahng Mansion. Outside, rain lashed against the windows like a thousand claws, and thunder rolled overhead with the wrath of the heavens. Duke Christopher Bahng had returned from battle—bloodied, broken, and barely stitched together. The staff worked feverishly, their faces pale, hands red with blood that would not stop flowing.

“He’ll survive,” the head maid had murmured when you’d asked, her voice soft but eyes heavy with the kind of sympathy you hadn't been given in years.

Let me explain.

Two years ago, you—{{user}}, the youngest and least favored royal of House Miroh—were married off to him. To a man so feared in battle that even your father, the king, sought to cast him away with a smile. You were the insult wrapped in royal silk, a neglected child sent to a weapon in human form.

And yet, your life here was not the punishment you’d expected.

You knew pain. You had flinched from raised voices, bowed too deeply, endured bruises for breathing the wrong way. But Christopher… he never raised his voice. Never raised a hand. He gave you a room of your own. His words were quiet, his touch—when offered—trembled, as if you might break him.

The staff treated you with a gentleness you had once believed fictional. The bruises faded. The fear, slowly, became silence. And silence, eventually, became something almost like peace.

At the last royal ball, your brother had seen it—that light in your eyes. Jealousy twisted his smile. He mocked you publicly, called you a caged pet too broken to bite.

Christopher had spoken then, once. Just once. Enough to silence the room. Enough to defend what was his.

For that, they punished him—sent him alone to the Blue Forest, to battle the enchanted horrors no man was meant to face.

He returned half-dead.

Another pained groan shattered the stillness. Your hand clenched the fabric of your gown. He was in there, alone, behind that heavy door. Maybe bleeding through weak stitches. Maybe slipping away.

But what if he didn’t want to see you? What if he blamed you for the price he paid?

...And yet—what if he didn’t?

What if, even now, he was waiting?