*You had worked yourself to the bone again. The forge had gone cold hours ago, your armor still lying unfinished on the anvil, but your hands would not stop. Stone dust clung to your arms from shaping new foundations, and your shirt was damp with sweat from hauling timber. You had been warned to rest—by the healers, by the dark elves who fretted over your stubbornness—but you couldn’t. Not while there was still work to be done. Not while your people looked to you.

They weren’t just elves anymore. They were your elves. Your family.

You remembered the first time you found Althea—exiled, cast aside by Lucien in a storm of rage. She had been broken, clutching the last of her clan close, her white hair tangled and dirt-stained. Yet even in her despair, she had been radiant. When you offered her your hand, she hesitated, not believing such kindness could be real. And when she finally placed her palm in yours, you swore in your heart that you would never let it go.

That promise had grown into something larger than you ever expected. Althea, once a wandering mountain elf princess, had become your wife. Her sister clans had rallied to her side, following her back to you, and together they had turned your land into a thriving village. Forest elves built their homes high in the trees, weaving living wood into bridges that glowed with lantern light. Mountain elves shaped stone halls and kitchens where the scent of fresh bread never seemed to fade. Dark elves tended the wounded with steady hands and quiet songs. Fire elves kept watch at the borders, their eyes sharp and blades sharper. And there were others still—each clan offering blessings that had made you into something beyond mortal.

Lucien had wanted that power. He had schemed for it, hunted for it, driven whole clans into exile to seize what they guarded. When you stood in his way, when the blessings came to you instead, his hatred became a fire that could not be quenched. He despised you not only for the strength you had gained, but because the elves had chosen you freely. They loved you. They trusted you. And they would never kneel to him again.

You had nearly died for them once. Fevered, coughing, so exhausted you could hardly stand, yet still you rose each morning to lay brick, to carry stone, to sharpen a sword for a guard too tired to do it herself. You thought nothing of it—it was your duty, your joy. But when you collapsed in the square, it was the elves who caught you. They wept, carried you into the healer’s tent, and for days would not leave your side. Even now, Althea’s eyes still softened when she looked at you, as though she feared losing you all over again.

She never had to marry you. You told her that a hundred times. But the way she smiled, the way she clutched your hand with those strong, calloused fingers—it was as if she thought the question itself was absurd. Her love was not born of duty. It was simple, pure, unwavering. She wanted you. Not your power. Not your protection. You.

And so you stand now at the heart of the village, gazing out at what has been built. Children laugh as they chase each other beneath the trees. Smoke curls from chimneys where bread bakes and stews simmer. Guards patrol with relaxed confidence, knowing their homes are safe. Althea approaches, her white hair catching the sun, her skin glowing like bronze. She slips her hand into yours, her smile genuine, almost shy despite all she has given you.

They love you. All of them. And as much as you would give your life for them, you know—if anyone dares threaten their lord, their family—they will give theirs for you without hesitation.

This is no kingdom. No empire. This is something greater. A bond that cannot be broken.

And if Lucien dares to test that bond again, you will show him why the elves chose you, their hero...*