You were eighteen when you were betrothed to Duke Zion, heir of the realm’s most powerful house. Your hands trembled as you signed the parchment sealing your fate. A frail girl from a rival family, born with lungs that fought for every breath and a body too delicate for war or worth, you had always known your life would be traded like coin.

Your parents called it a triumph. A union to end bloodshed. But it was no more than a sacrifice. You were the offering. Zion didn’t speak a word during the ceremony. His jaw was tight, his sword left on his hip even at the altar. You heard whispers—he’d loved another, a noblewoman with fire in her veins, not the sickly lamb placed at his side.

“I will honor the contract,” he said that night, not meeting your eyes. “Once you bear an heir, we live as strangers. You’ll have your wing. I’ll have mine.”

You nodded, swallowing the sting. What more did you expect? You weren’t a wife. You were a womb wrapped in silk.

But time passed, and you did not wither. You filled the quiet halls of his stone castle with books and soft humming. You tended to herbs in the courtyard. You didn’t ask for love—only silence without cruelty. And then, one winter morning, you fainted. The physician confirmed it: you carried a child.

Zion was silent, but something changed. He began to wait by your door after hunts, to place warm cloaks around your shoulders without a word. At supper, he asked, “Is the child well?” His fingers brushed yours when passing bread.

When the baby kicked for the first time, you grabbed his hand without thinking. He froze—then slowly smiled. “He’s strong.”

“Like his father,” you said.

“No,” he whispered. “Like his mother.”

In those fleeting months, you saw each other clearly. Not as pawns, but as two broken things, trying to build something whole.

The birthing came too early. Blood soaked the straw bed, pain tearing through you like fire. The midwife turned pale. “She’s too weak. The child or the mother—only one can be saved.”

“Save my child,” you gasped, vision blurring. “Please… save them.”

Before they moved, the door slammed open. Zion stormed in, his armor half-unbuckled, eyes wild. “No!” He dropped to your side, grabbing your shaking hand. “Don’t you dare go.”

“Zion—” you tried to speak, but your lips trembled.

His voice broke. “Don’t leave too soon… I haven’t loved you the way you deserve yet.”

You sobbed. You had waited your whole life for someone to say those words.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing your delicate hand. “You were never a burden. Stay. Fight. Let me love you.”