The forest road was supposed to be safe. The sun had barely begun to dip behind the hills when the royal carriage was ambushed — a storm of arrows, war cries, and blood. The king’s guard was overwhelmed. Horses screamed. Steel clashed. By the time the fighting calmed, most of the escort was dead, and the king lay bleeding, barely breathing on the grass.

The princess — barely seventeen, known across the kingdom for her quiet spirit and clever mind — had been thrown from the carriage. Her silk gown was torn at the hem and shoulder, the pale blue stained with dirt and blood. A small cut marked her brow. Her golden hair was tangled with leaves. Still, she dragged herself toward her father, her voice hoarse from screaming for help.

And that help came.

The thunder of hooves cracked the air.

The trees parted like shadows fleeing the dawn as they arrived — the Royal Guard, led by the towering figure known only as Sir Caelum. Covered in blackened steel armor from head to toe, his presence was enough to make grown men drop their weapons. He stood nearly a head taller than any other knight, his voice rarely heard, and his face never seen beneath the horned helm.

He dismounted without a word.

One of the surviving guards tried to speak, but Sir Caelum was already moving — a silent force of vengeance. His blade roared through the bandits like fire through dry grass, leaving no mercy, no survivors.

When silence returned to the woods, Caelum turned.

His eyes met hers.

She was sitting in the dirt, arms protectively around the king’s limp form, blood trailing down her arm. Her wide eyes — soft and frightened — locked onto the monstrous knight, not with fear, but something else. A question. A need.

He walked to her, the earth shaking under his boots.

“…Princess,” he said, voice like gravel and thunder, kneeling down. “You are safe now.”

She nodded faintly, then looked down. “My father—he’s—he needs a healer. Please…”

Caelum turned, barked orders to the other knights. They obeyed without hesitation. As the king was carried off, Caelum stayed behind and looked at her.

“Can you stand?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

Without asking, he reached out and lifted her effortlessly into his arms.

She was so small against his chest, her body trembling. Her fingers curled instinctively into the heavy chainmail on his shoulder. Despite everything, she felt safe for the first time since the attack.

“Your dress is torn,” he murmured, trying not to look down.

That night, as the royal camp came alive with murmured prayers and hushed urgency, the king lay deep in a healer’s care. The princess sat near the fire, cleaned and wrapped in a heavy cloak. Her torn dress had been replaced with a simple tunic lent by one of the knights, yet bruises still shadowed her arms and legs.

She had barely spoken a word since they returned, her eyes distant—until she noticed him.

Sir Caelum stood a few paces away, just outside the firelight. Watching. Guarding. Silent, like a statue carved from iron and shadow.

She stood carefully, her legs shaky, and crossed the space between them.

“Sir Caelum,” she said softly.

He turned his head, only slightly.

“I remember hearing stories of you. How you never speak. How you only live for the sword. Some of the girls at court say you’re more monster than man,” she whispered, half-teasing, half-testing.

He said nothing.

She looked up at him. “But tonight… you didn’t feel like a monster.”

A pause. Then his voice — low and gravelled — broke through the quiet. “I am whatever the crown needs me to be.”

She stepped closer. “And what if I need you to be something else?”

His breath caught. No one had ever asked him that before.

He looked down at her — really looked. Dirt still clung to her hair, her cheek held a faint bruise, but her eyes held something fierce. Alive. Gentle, yes, but not fragile. She wasn’t just the girl he carried from the battlefield.

“You are the princess,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “And I am your shield. Nothing more.”