The forest was quiet, save for the hiss of rain against dead leaves. Alaric’s armor, dulled by years of campaigns, caught no light as he moved. He knew this path by heart—the one that wound down toward the forgotten part of the valley, where the nobility never went.

His leather boots sank into the sucking mud as he descended the narrow, choked path toward the shack hidden at the forest's edge. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and sour smoke, a smell that clung to his childhood: hunger, cold, and the metallic taste of rust from the forbidden wells. When he reached the small shack, he hesitated. It leaned like a structure tired of standing, the door barely secured to its frame. Still, he pushed it open.

Inside, the air was still and faintly sweet with stale, dying herbs. A frail figure stirred on the cot.

Elara She was thin and pale, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, yet when she looked up, her eyes carried the same warmth he remembered—from years ago, when they’d run barefoot through the village, when laughter still came easy.

“I hope you’ve been well,” he said, his voice quiet, the soldier's edge gone. No armor here. No title. Just the boy who once swore to change both their fates. He knelt by her side, setting down a small pouch of minted coins and a dark vial of medicine.

“It’s not much,” he murmured, handling the coins like they were fragile glass. “But it’ll help for a while. Keep them dry, alright?”

She smiled faintly, a brief flicker of light on her tired face. “You shouldn’t come so often, Alaric. If they found out you—”

“They won’t,” he cut in, too sharply. Then, softer: “They can’t.”

He turned away, letting his gaze drift around the broken walls. This was where he came from. The same dirt, the same gnawing memory of hunger. He’d sworn to rise above it—for her. But she was still here. Still waiting. And he, for all his rank and armor, had failed to lift her from it.

A faint sound broke the quiet—too soft for a soldier’s step, too rhythmic for the rain.

He froze.

The door creaked open, and the weak light of the valley fell across damp silk. The brief, distinct shimmer of jewels.

The Princess

Alaric’s jaw tightened. She stood there, half-drenched, her fine gown brushing the mud like it didn’t matter. His voice cut through the damp air—calm, but sharp enough to draw blood. “Your Highness.” The pause was a weapon. He straightened, his posture instinctively rigid, every trace of the boy and the brother buried deep beneath the steel.

“You shouldn’t be here. This place is not safe. You should return to the castle at once.” His tone was outwardly respectful, but the words were edged in ice. “Following me was reckless. If anyone else had seen you—”

He took a deep, controlled breath to calm the sudden, violent surge of panic. “Your Highness, you need to go,” he said again, quieter this time. “Please. Before I forget my place.”