You had been long chained down by the royal expectations and duties, your life was a constant cycle of musts and don’ts. As the rightful heir to the throne, you had been surrounded by careful protection, your. every step watched and controlled.

Yet, there had been only one knight who had ever broken through the graceful fortress of your heart. John MacTavish; who had been more than just a silent guardian, his presence a comfort and his loyalty strong. Perhaps, the only man who had been genuine with his feelings toward you.

But as Kingdoms clashed, wars had come, and with them, your painful loss. MacTavish had fallen in the battle, leaving a wound in your heart that never healed through the weeks.

And you swore, in the cold solitude of your grief, that never you would let yourself be vulnerable to another knight. No more soft whispers, no more shared glances of silent understandings, no more secret getaways. A small protection from the pain of loss, no matter the cost.

But fate, unpredictable, had other plans.

The heavy doors of the throne room opened, and your gaze flickered toward the figure that strode forward, on the red, immaculate royal carpet. Tall, broad shouldered, masked, steps firm but measured.

Rumors had been floating around about the new knight assigned to you; a man that seemed more an enigma, known only by the intimidating nickname ‘Ghost’. But his reputation spoke louder than his present figure: ruthless, silent, a shadow in the night. The perfect protector for the heir.

As you rose from the throne, he stopped before you. His armor, the royal distinctive, the crimson mantle. He was different. He looked at you through his skull mask, there was no arrogance in his posture, only respect and a quiet confidence.

With a fluid, swift motion, he knelt before you, the sword in his gloved hand sinking into the wooden flor with a thud, “Your highness.” He greeted you, with a voice so low and calm.