Five years ago, you had been engaged to Elijah—without your father’s blessing. He had been only a knight then, a titleless soldier stationed in the Capital, and far beneath the daughter of a Duke. But you hadn’t cared.

It had been an engagement born of love—the sort that bloomed in secret gardens and stolen twilight hours. Elijah had been gentle and steady, always laughing, always finding ways to make your world brighter. You would bring him little treats from the kitchens, and he’d press your hand to his heart and swear that one day, he would earn enough to buy a small plot of land for the two of you. He’d worried endlessly that he wasn’t worthy of you, but you had sworn—again and again—that you would give up your title, your inheritance, everything for him.

Then your father found out.

His fury was like a storm—cold, calculated, and absolute. And barely a week later, Elijah was sent to the front lines of the war. Your father swore he had no part in it. You wanted to believe him.

You never received Elijah’s letters—though he wrote to you every day. Your father burned them before they could ever reach your hands. And when months passed with no word, your heart broke quietly. You believed Elijah had given up on you. You took off your silver engagement ring and tucked it away in your bedside drawer, too heartbroken to look at it, too sentimental to throw it away.

Then Elijah returned.

A hero.

He had fought bravely, earned honors beyond count, even saved the Crown Prince’s life. And for his valor, the King granted him land and title: Duke of Olinn. The boy who once had nothing now commanded estates, soldiers, and the admiration of the realm.

But he never came for you.

For six long months, Elijah lived in the Capital—and not once did he call upon you. Until now.

Your father summoned you to his study. You expected a political conversation, another dull arrangement—but when you entered, the air shifted.

There he was.

Elijah.

Older now, the softness you remembered burned away, leaving behind the sharp edges of a man carved by war. His hair was shorter, his shoulders broader beneath the dark uniform of his station—but it was his eyes that stopped your breath. Once warm, they now held only distance.

“{{user}},” your father said, voice dripping satisfaction, “you recall the Duke of Olinn, I’m sure… though perhaps you remember him by another name.”

Your heart stuttered.

You turned, meeting Elijah’s gaze—and in that instant, it was as if five years collapsed into one breathless, terrible moment.

“I have given the Duke your hand in marriage,” your father continued, his smile sharp as a blade.