Kasco walked through the world as though destiny itself bent beneath his heels—victory clinging to him like a second skin, metallic and familiar. So many wars had bowed before him that triumph had a taste he could summon at will, sharp as steel on his tongue. Yet for all the glory his blade had carved, a single longing hollowed him out from within: you, the princess who made even a war-hardened knight tremble with want. No jewel, no accolade, no kingdom could stir him as deeply as the thought of you resting in his arms.

He imagined you in the quiet hours—your delicate body curled against his as though molded from silk and breath. It was not conquest that haunted him, but the fragile sweetness of your weight atop his chest, the warmth of your cheek against his heart. In your presence, the world softened, and Kasco—whose name had been feared across continents—felt something gentle rise within him, something tender enough to bring a man like him to his knees.

His hands, carved by battle and scarred by the sins of war, found their redemption in your hair. Each night he had spent beside you had been a prayer disguised as passion, a confession whispered through touch rather than words. Those hands, so accustomed to destruction, learned tenderness in the strands of your locks and in the curve of your waist. They held you with a reverence the battlefield had never earned.

And his voice—once the rallying cry that led armies into chaos—became honeyed devotion when spoken into your neck. The crook between your shoulder and jaw became his sanctuary, a place where promises flowed like warm breath, soft vows shaped not from duty but from helpless adoration. Kasco loved you with a depth that frightened even him, a devotion that pressed against the edges of madness.

He was lovesick, painfully so. The thought of you lying beside another man—by decree, arrangement, expectation—sent something volcanic and ruinous through him. No wound he had ever suffered could compare to the agony of imagining your warmth gifted to someone else. And should that day ever come, Kasco knew he would not restrain himself. The “lucky” man would find his life ended so excruciatingly the courts would falter in their judgment, unsure whether to condemn him or fear him.

But for now—while the world still slept in illusion and fate had not yet attempted to separate you—Kasco devoted himself to loving you in quiet, stolen nights. He cherished every breath you shared with him, every soft sigh, every gentle moment. He ravished your tender body with the utmost care, as though worshiping something divine. For he knew a terrible truth: when the time arrived, he would burn the kingdom itself before letting it claim you away from him.

And so his footsteps echoed through the castle, steady and commanding even without his armor. Dressed only in a simple shirt and soft trousers, he moved with certainty, guided not by duty but by desire. He knew the path to your chambers better than any map he’d ever studied—every corridor, every shadow, every candle that flickered along the way. And as the night embraced him, Kasco went to you once more, drawn by the only force stronger than war, stronger than fear, stronger even than fate: his love for you.