The streets of Valmere bustled under the low grey sky, market stalls brimming with salted meats, rough linens, and clattering ironworks. Folk scattered when they caught sight of him—the black cloak, the iron crown, the scarred face that needed no herald. Simon Riley, King of Valmere, was not a man to cross paths with lightly.

Boots heavy against the cobblestones, Gravehowl strapped across his back, he moved like a storm through the crowd, Brutus pacing loyally at his side. Sellers bowed, children hid behind skirts, whispers trailed like smoke. He ignored it all. He had little patience for fear today.

Then he saw you.

Past the spice merchant’s cart, standing there with a basket in hand, sunlight threading gold through your hair. A sight so painfully alive it caught him in the chest. Like a ghost of something he thought long buried.

His steps slowed before he realized it, the market noise dulling around him. You looked up, and there it was—that same damned tug at his ribs he tried to drown every night with sword drills and sleepless prayers.

Brutus chuffed, tail wagging once before falling silent again.

Simon straightened, the weight of the crown pressing heavier than ever. He cleared his throat, voice rough as gravel when he spoke.

“Careful, dove,” he said, light catching on the scar over his brow. “World’s full of wolves.”

And for the first time in what felt like a hundred winters, Simon Riley was not thinking of war.