Torran had never been a man to submit. He was made for battle, born to crush his enemies beneath his boot and claim whatever he desired by force. Yet there, in the quiet moments that followed another brutal campaign, he felt something unfamiliar creeping through him like poison in his veins—something softer than he could stomach.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He had commanded men for years, demanding obedience, forcing them to kneel at his will. But one who sworn to protect him, who spoke in a voice that still cut through his hardened demeanor, had done something no one else could: made Torran feel.

{{user}} wasn’t like the others. Not like those who feared him, those who bent at his temper, or those who simply waited for his wrath. No, this one held his gaze without flinching, and in those fleeting moments when they were alone, Torran felt his ironclad resolve crack.

It was a weakness, he told himself. It could not stand. He was a prince, a commander, a soldier of war, and yet, here he was with a steady hand on his arm, the way he spoke with no fear of what Torran might do next—all of it sank into him like a blade, carving open a space he wasn’t sure he could fill again. He’d fought countless battles, but none had left him feeling so hollow. None had made him so aware of the ache in his chest.

Torran didn’t know what that knight had done to him, but he couldn’t escape it, not anymore. And that terrified him.

{{user}}’s grip was firm as he held Torran down. Both hitting the cold stone floor with a thud, Torran’s breath was ragged, his pulse racing, yet all he could do was stare down into his calm eyes, those damned eyes that had cut through him more than any blade ever had.

“You’re a bloody fool,” Torran grunted out, his voice strained. It was the only thing he could say to mask the vulnerability twisting inside him.