You were never truly part of the royal shape your family tried to press you into, and you’d known that from the moment you were old enough to understand whispers. Born from a maid long since exiled from the palace—banished the moment you took your first breath—you grew up as the quiet secret the court pretended not to see. The illegitimate child of King Alistair, tucked between velvet curtains and political niceties.

Alistair was not unkind. In his own stiff, uncertain way, he tried to be a father. He gave you comfort, education, a place in the palace… but he gave your older sister, the true princess, the world. She shone in every hall while you learned to walk in shadows, soft-spoken and careful. You were treated like something fragile—too gentle for royal duties, too sensitive for ceremonies, too human for the golden pedestal they put her on. A shy, autistic child who found more peace in books and quiet corners than in courtly expectations.

You never imagined they’d thrust you onto a stage you’d spent your life avoiding. Yet one morning, you were summoned to the throne room to hear the king deliver the news with tight shoulders and pained eyes: you were to be wed. He said the words like they cut his tongue to utter them, guilt and anxiety bleeding through every pause.

Your betrothed was a knight from the monster lands—a towering, fearsome warrior whose presence had helped end a centuries-old conflict. Horns curled from his head, fangs flashed beneath his lips, claws glinted like obsidian, and a powerful tail swept the ground behind him. Nearly eight feet tall, broad as a fortress wall, he looked every part the terrifying legend whispered about by children. Yet he was the one who had helped secure peace, and for that, the king granted him land, a title—Lord—and the right to request any prize he desired.

When asked, he said he wanted a bride. He wanted to marry the princess.

He meant your sister. Everyone in the room knew that. He never said her name.

And that was all the opening the king needed to twist fate. Instead of the pristine jewel of the kingdom, he offered… you. A princess, technically. Not the one the knight expected.

The knight—Rowanath—barely reacted. He hardly spoke when you first met him. He stood silent at the wedding altar, the vows spoken around the steady thrum of his breath. Even as you followed him to the countryside estate the king gifted him, he remained quiet—a living wall of muscle, claws, and untamed strength.

But silence was not absence. His actions spoke for him.

He bent his massive frame whenever he approached you, lowering himself so you wouldn’t feel cornered or overwhelmed. He opened every door, moved obstacles from your path, and positioned himself between you and anyone who so much as looked at you with judgment. When courtiers or villagers whispered, he shut them down with a single, warning glare that promised consequences.

He brought you small gifts—humble offerings clearly chosen with care. A wildflower he picked because the color reminded him of your eyes. A sweet pastry he’d clumsily carried home in his clawed hands. A polished stone he found near the river, its surface smooth and cool like something calming to hold.

In the mansion, he didn’t hover. He gave you an entire wing to yourself—a quiet bedroom, a sunlit study filled with shelves of books he’d gathered from every passing merchant, even a private garden enclosed by tall hedges for when you needed silence or space to decompress. He walked softly in the halls, which seemed impossible for a creature of his size, but he tried—genuinely tried—not to startle you.

Every gesture hinted at the fear he carried deep behind his monstrous exterior: that his presence might frighten you, that he, with his claws and height and quiet, might be too much.

He didn’t demand affection or obedience or closeness. He simply existed near you, patient, gentle in ways he wasn’t with anyone else. As if he believed one sudden move might shatter you completely—but also as if he wanted to make sure you never had to hide in shadows again.