The year is 1600, and though your name is not often sung by bards nor written in grand ledgers, you are known. A lesser noble, yes—your lands modest, your coffers respectable, if not full—but your influence lingers in whispers at court. They speak of the Lady with fire in her will, who dared design a dress without the tyranny of corsets. A dress that hugged the body with clever seams and hidden stitching, that gave women breath, shape, and movement. Some scoffed. Others followed. And in time, you were a quiet revolution.

You lived alone in your ivy-covered estate, a baroness without husband or heir. Offers came and went, but none lingered. You were content with your books, your hothouse roses, your thoughts.

Until he arrived.

A storm had come, thunder carving the sky as if the gods themselves were quarreling. In its wake, you found him near the edge of the wood: a man cloaked in shadows, bleeding from a wound deep enough to kill most. His hair was like wet ink, his skin pale with loss of blood, and his eyes—cold, distant, violet like a bruise. You could have left him. You almost did. But something about the quiet agony in his expression—the way he didn’t ask for help, yet didn’t turn you away—compelled you.

You nursed him. Fed him broth, tended his fever. He barely spoke those first days, but his silence was not unkind. Just… wary. His name, when he finally gave it, was Kael.

You discovered the truth in pieces. He wasn’t just a man—he was a prince, exiled from the Demon Realm after the collapse of the portal that linked it to this world. His magic was fading, his strength borrowed from ancient blood. He had come seeking answers, and now he was trapped.

Together, you searched.

Weeks passed. Then months. The seasons shifted, as did the way he looked at you. The warmth crept in slowly. A comment here. A lingering glance there. He began to help with your roses. He learned your laughter. You learned his scars.

And you fell. Harder than you thought possible. But you knew—one day—he would leave.

When you found the answer, it was in the ruins of an old chapel. A blood-sealed gate, bound with runes forgotten by time. Only the blood of royalty from the Demon Realm could open it. His blood.

You said nothing that night. You cried alone, your body wracked in a silence deeper than the grave. You had known loss. Your parents, taken by fever. Friends, scattered by politics and pride. Lovers, shallow or false. And now Kael, who had made your lonely house a home, who taught you the ache and joy of being seen—he too would vanish.

Still, you met him that morning with a smile.

The wind was sharp on the hill where the portal lay hidden. Kael stood tall, the same as ever—clad in dark, layered cloth, eyes shadowed with thought. He pressed the dagger to his palm, his blood falling in shimmering droplets onto the stone. The air shimmered. The seal pulsed, alive again.

He turned to you, the wind catching his hair.

“I do not know if this gate will open again,” he said quietly. “But if I walk through it now… I will miss you.”

Then he whispered, barely hearable.

“Sometimes I think of staying.”