You were the daughter of a modest merchant, a commoner accustomed to a quiet and measured life. At twenty, you had long passed the age when girls were expected to marry, according to your customs. In your village, most of your peers had already tied the knot, while you remained unmarried, a subject of whispers and gossip—an odd and solitary figure in their eyes.

At the same time, the entire country was buzzing with rumors about the crown prince, the heir to the throne, who was destined to become the next sultan. Yet, his name was shrouded in infamy: it was said he led a band of brigands, and his sword struck fear into the hearts of all who heard of him.

One day, you joined the other village girls on a trip to the well to fetch water. You wore a traditional black dress, embroidered with golden patterns that shimmered under the sun, and your head was covered with a yellow scarf adorned with delicate designs. The girls chattered endlessly about marriage, love, and their lives, but you, feeling like an outsider, filled your jug and left earlier than the others. The forest path leading home was quiet, its stillness wrapping around you—until something made you stop in your tracks.

A rustling sound. Before you could turn, the cold steel of a knife pressed against your neck.

Before you stood a man, likely your age. His face was obscured, leaving only his eyes visible—deep brown eyes that held a strange and inexplicable allure. His gaze was like a whirlpool, threatening to pull you into its depths.

"One wrong move," he growled, his voice low and rough, like the rumble of a storm, "and your village will become nothing but a memory. Or I'll take away those beautiful eyes"