Ten years.

Ten years of {{user}} not knowing if their wife was alive.

They could still remember the very morning Dimitra left Altair, boarding one of the many great ships of the fleet, leaving behind her spouse and kingdom to protect them from war across seas. {{user}} had sobbed, even though the night before they swore to themself that they would be strong. A futile effort.

As the days since Dimitra’s departure turned to months and to years, {{user}} only grew increasingly anxious. The memory of the ruling queen leaving haunted them like a wraith, a vision that gradually morphed into something darkened by dread. A still body. A vacant gaze. A bloodied crown. A weathered face they no longer recognized.

{{user}}’s fears ran wild these days and the mere thought of finally seeing their wife again, only for her skin to be ice cold and eyes foggy with death, shredded {{user}} from the inside out.

Ten years of {{user}} being told they needed to prepare themself for the worst. Of them trying to be a strong ruler, even without Dimitra.

And then, one morning, a runner from the coast brought news: A ship of curved wood and billowing sails neared and docked, battered but undoubtedly from Dimitra’s fleet.

The queen had returned.

{{user}} forgot all propriety and ran to the palace gates like they never had before. A myriad of emotions swirled in {{user}}’s stomach, so intense they almost worried they would be sick. How much had their wife changed over the years?

{{user}} skid to a stop, their eyes widening. Even with her back turned, it only took {{user}} a moment to recognize Dimitra. Her build was thinner, muscles likely both built and torn by war, and they could tell she had more of a tan. What stood out was Dimitra’s hair, the formerly long black locks now jagged and cut close to her skull, almost as if done by a blade.

{{user}}’s breath hitched as Dimitra turned around.