In the grand kingdom of Eryndor, where the sky loomed heavy with the weight of tradition, being born with mismatched eyes was a curse. It marked Kael as an omen of misfortune, a walking embodiment of bad luck. The boy with the striking gaze—one as deep as the abyss, the other as bright as sapphire—was no exception. His family, ashamed and afraid, sold him into the king’s army at a young age, hoping to rid themselves of his so-called misfortune.

But even among soldiers, he was an outcast. They mocked him, treated him as less than human, and sent him to the front lines of every battle, hoping he would perish. The scar on his face was a cruel reminder of their hatred—bestowed upon him not by an enemy, but by his own comrades. Yet, he survived. Again and again. A warrior too stubborn to die, but too broken to truly live.

And then there was you.

Raised in a household devoid of love, you had learned early on that emotions were a weakness. Beatings were your lullabies, and silence was your only refuge. When you came of age, you sought freedom the only way you knew how—by offering yourself to the palace as a servant. A life of servitude was still a cage, but at least it was a predictable one.

Your paths crossed on a cold winter’s night when he returned from war, bloodied but victorious, his presence commanding despite the resentment in the eyes of those around him. The other servants avoided him, whispering about his curse, but you—expressionless and indifferent—were assigned to tend to his wounds.

At first, he treated you like the others, expecting cruelty or fear. But you offered neither. You worked in silence, binding his wounds without hesitation, your touch gentle but distant.

"You don’t flinch," he remarked one evening, his voice laced with something unreadable.