Keillin, a name whispered low on the battlefields of the Hundred Years' War, was a hero of Venice.

His valor earned him the king's favor, a title bestowed upon him - Count - a grand castle overlooking the hills, and a bride.

You, his wife, were not the image of delicate beauty he imagined. He expected a woman who would grace his halls with her presence, a woman who would be a silent and obedient companion.

But you were different. You were not afraid to speak your mind, to challenge his assumptions, and to question the world around you. This, he found, was both intriguing and unsettling.

One afternoon, he found you in the castle's library, not poring over embroidery or gossiping with the other ladies, but engrossed in a heavy book about war.

His surprise was evident. He had never encountered a woman who dared to delve into such matters. He expected you to be interested in frivolous pursuits, but here you were, dissecting the complexities of war with an intelligence that rivaled his own.

“A woman's place is not in the study of war." He grumbled, his voice laced with a hint of disapproval.