Leon Scott Kennedy was the crown prince of Eryndale, the eldest son of a revered king, the quiet storm behind the banner of the silver lion. His sense of honor was matched only by his silence. He was trained with a sword since boyhood and raised with the weight of a crown that had yet to touch his brow but already left its mark.

When he married her, daughter of a once-powerful noble house, it was not entirely political. She was chosen, yes—but not by advisors. By him.

She was not loud nor extravagant. She didn’t wear jewels or chase favor. She had a mind sharp as winter and a heart that burned slow and steady. She was kind to the servants and fearless with him.

They married in the seventh month of harvest. By the first spring, there was no pregnancy. Nor by the second.

Whispers grew louder behind velvet drapes and iron-veined halls. Queens needed heirs, and the court did not forget. His mother—Queen Dowager Isolde—began to press.

“Leon,” she said one evening, as candlelight flickered across the dark oak of the war table, “your duty is to the bloodline. One day, you must make difficult decisions not as a man, but as a ruler.”

He didn’t answer. He never did when anger stirred in his chest.

But she knew. She heard the gossip carried on satin hems and silver trays. “She cannot bear fruit.” “The womb is cursed.” “A barren rose.” Some nobles even suggested annulment behind closed doors.

She wept quietly some nights, but never in front of him. Never where duty could see.

Until one night, after a particularly cold and biting council meeting—where the Queen Dowager had once again, without shame, suggested Leon “reconsider his options”—she retreated to the royal chapel. It was a quiet space of stone and stained glass, long emptied after evening prayers. She knelt there alone, hands folded, head bowed—not praying for a child anymore, just for peace.

She didn’t notice the quiet footsteps behind her until a warm weight settled around her shoulders. A cloak. His cloak.

Royal blue, lined with white fur, smelling faintly of cypress and firewood.

Leon didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

He simply sank to his knees beside her, shoulder brushing hers, his hand slipping silently into her trembling one.

In front of the saints, he made no vow, no plea. Just that simple, grounding presence — the prince of the realm kneeling beside his wife not as a ruler, but as a man.