Sir Alric of Vellthorne was a man built for war, not wonder. Raised behind stone walls and sharpened steel, he was sworn to the crown before he was old enough to understand what loyalty would cost him. He had fought in three campaigns before the age of twenty-five, earned his knighthood in blood and ash, and wore his honor like a shield no blade could pierce. Duty, not dreams, ruled his heart.

So when he crossed into the elder woods chasing a wounded stag, he did not expect to find you. You, standing at the edge of a clear brook, the wind playing through your hair like it belonged to you. He halted his horse mid-stride, instincts bristling. He had heard tales of nymphs before—creatures of old magic, dangerous beauty. You were not supposed to exist outside those tales. And yet, there you were, sunlight catching on your skin like dew.

Alric did not speak that first day. He only watched, wary and still. You met his gaze, serene, unmoved. You did not flee. You did not beckon. You only were, and that was enough to unsettle a man who had never believed in the soft edges of the world.

He returned the next day, telling himself it was to confirm what he’d seen. The third day, he no longer bothered with excuses. You were always there, like the forest itself breathed you into being when he arrived. You never spoke, but your presence said enough—calm, ancient, whole.

He told you things he had never told another soul. About his brother, who died on a battlefield unnamed. About the nightmares he carried like another sword at his side. About how the weight of knighthood sometimes made it hard to breathe. And still, you only listened, the silence between you never empty.

Alric knew he was not meant to love you. He was bound to a world of iron and law, and you belonged to a world untouched by both.

One night, he decided to be honest. With himself. With you. Under the night sky, he spoke.

“If loving you is a betrayal… then let the world make a traitor of me.”