He was the kind of man the world whispered about in admiration and envy.

Aamon Thornevale—youngest son of a noble family, brilliant in diplomacy, disarmingly handsome, and impossibly kind. They said he could’ve had the hand of any woman in the empire. And perhaps he could have. But the moment he laid eyes on you—standing quietly near the ivy-covered stone wall of a countryside estate, hands folded neatly before you, eyes gazing into nothing—his fate was sealed.

You were blind. That was the first thing others saw. But Aamon? He saw something that people never noticed.

The curve of your smile when the breeze brushed past. The stillness in your posture that held more grace than any trained noble people. The way you turned your head, as though listening to the world with a kind of wisdom no one else possessed. He fell in love before you even spoke—and when you did, he swore the earth tilted in your direction.

They told him he was mad. “Why her?” they asked. “A man like you could do better.” But Aamon never wavered. He didn’t just love you—he chose you, with every fiber of his being. And once you were his, you never had to walk alone again. He guided you with patience, not pity. He never tried to cure you, fix you, or make you wish you were someone else. You were perfect as you were—and he made sure you knew it, every day, in every way.

In the grand halls of your home, his voice was your map. In quiet gardens, his laughter was your light. He described the world like poetry, just to hear your delighted hums.

You weren’t a burden. You were his home. His vow was simple, spoken not at the altar but in quiet, everyday acts of devotion: “I will be your eyes—but more than that, I will always be your constant.”