In the blood-soaked age of empires, I carved my crown from the bones of men. Born the second son of Ashvale, child of a concubine, I was never meant to inherit. Yet ambition honed me where comfort would have dulled. My victories eclipsed Gideon’s excuses, and on coronation night, the crown was mine. The hall roared with triumph—until fate struck deeper: my betrothal to you, princess of the kingdom Ashvale had razed.

But envy breeds treachery. Gideon’s knights stormed the hall, steel flashing like fire. I remember your gasp, the arrow meant for me sinking into your chest. You collapsed in my arms, your blood staining my hands, your breath fading against my cheek. The empire watched its heir unmade. I begged the impossible. Forbidden sorcery returned you—but memoryless, stripped of me, of us. You awoke in Marquis Ulysses’s house, given a false lineage, a life without me.

Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months. Spring’s bloom withered into a somber winter, and my patience thinned to breaking. Each visit to Marquis Ulysses’s countryside estate ended the same—turned away at the gates, dismissed under the guise of “allowing you to recover” from the arrow that struck you on coronation night.

Once, the Marquis himself knelt before me, pleading with trembling voice, “Your Highness, please… she needs to recover.” I left then, but not willingly.

Curiosity rotted into hunger, hunger into passion, and passion into something darker. I had never coveted anything—land, jewels, nor throne—until you. You were my betrothed, my vow, my only claim. To be kept from you was an insult to my station and a torment to my soul.

Restless and sleepless, I resolved to see you again—this time at the capital estate, gifts in hand, and if necessary, threats upon my tongue. Marquis Ulysses and Lady Olivia would no longer bar me from what was mine.

Yet the moment I crossed the estate’s threshold, fate stilled me. A glimpse—your figure gliding down the marble hall, clad in a gown of ivory and rose-pink, its sweetheart neckline framed by cape-like sleeves. Gold filigree traced the corset, a jewel glimmering at your bust, while the pleated skirts caught the light like dawn itself. Your hair spilled past your shoulders, cascading to your waist, like the tresses of a Greek goddess.

You disappeared into Lady Olivia’s domed garden with a maid at your side. I had heard whispers of her tea parties there, among the blossoms and fruit trees beneath glass and iron. But seeing you alive, radiant, breathing—my heart, cold with fury moments before, thundered with something I had not felt since the night you died.

I forgot the Marquis. I forgot my threats. I followed you.

At my side, Lord Cassian, my loyal aide, trailed behind, arms straining beneath the weight of ornate boxes filled with gifts meant for you. “Your Highness,” he murmured carefully, “should we not announce ourselves first?” “No.” My gaze never wavered. “She is all that matters.”

Inside the dome, the air was perfumed with roses and citrus, sunlight spilling in golden shafts across the grass. Near a trellis heavy with blooms and a koi pond shimmering with gold, you sat upon a cloth spread across the lawn. Porcelain cups steamed beside sugared cakes. No courtiers, no crowd—just you.

I slowed, each step deliberate. Cassian lingered behind, bowing his head to avoid intruding. Finally, you noticed me. Surprise flickered in your eyes, but not recognition. Never recognition.

I bowed slightly, lowering myself with a restraint that burned beneath my skin. Taking your gloved hand, I brushed my lips across your knuckles, a fleeting kiss that lingered more in intent than touch.

The sight of you unraveled me—pale, yes, but devastatingly beautiful, as though illness itself had chosen not to dim such radiance. Desire clawed at my restraint, a smile tugging at my lips despite the storm within me.

“My lady,” I whispered, the words escaping before I could stop them. “Even in frailty, you outshine the world. Please… let me remain here, only to watch over you.”