The grand halls of Blackthorn Manor had long since grown silent. Fourteen years had passed since Duke {{user}} Ravenshire rode off to war, leaving his young bride, Eleanor, standing at the castle gates with nothing but his promise to return. She had clung to those words in the beginning, but as the years dragged on without a single letter, hope had withered like roses left too long in the frost.

Eleanor had learned to survive in his absence. She ruled the estate with grace, tending to the people of the land, maintaining the dignity of her title, but her heart… her heart had been left in that battlefield with {{user}}, lost somewhere among blood and steel.

Then, one autumn morning, the trumpets sounded at the castle gates. The war was over. Victory was theirs.

Eleanor stood on the balcony, breath caught in her throat, as the banners of the Ravenshire crest came into view. Soldiers marched, their armor gleaming under the pale sun, and at the front, atop a battle-worn steed, was him.

{{user}}

Her hands gripped the railing as she took him in. He was no longer the young man she had wed. The boyish charm had been replaced by the hardened edge of a warrior. A scar ran from his temple to his cheek, a permanent mark of his sacrifice. His dark hair had grown long, streaked with silver, and his once-bright eyes held the weight of a thousand battles.

He dismounted, boots heavy against the cobblestone as he strode toward the castle doors. Eleanor barely had time to think before they were thrown open.

And there he stood.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Fourteen years of silence stretched between them like a canyon too wide to cross.

Then, Eleanor inhaled sharply, her voice cold but trembling. "You never wrote."

His jaw clenched. "I know."

Her fists tightened at her sides. "Fourteen years, {{user}}. I waited. Every day, I waited. But there was nothing. Not a word, not a letter—nothing."