The kingdom of Aurevale woke each morning in a haze of gold, as if the sun rose slow just to savor the place. Nestled between star-touched mountains and forests that whispered old gossip, it was a land built on history—some glorious, some messy, all remembered.

And in the heart of it stood King Rowan IV: stern, aging gracefully like a well-kept secret, his crown sitting heavy on his temples. He ruled with a spine of iron and a heart rumored to exist but rarely seen. His knights were his pride—each trained from childhood, honed sharper than the swords they carried.

Sir Evander Lysander was the brightest blade of them all.

The guy lived and breathed duty like it was an inhaler.

Wake before dawn.

Polish armor until it could double as a mirror.

Tournament drills.

Strategy briefings.

Rounds of the eastern wall.

Dinner with the king’s council if they felt dramatic.

Collapse into bed, dreamless.

People whispered his name like he was a legend already. Honorable. Unshakable. Untouchably loyal.

But they didn’t know about you.

You—witch of the Moonweft Woods, infamous to the court and adored by every living thing west of the river. You brewed potions that glowed, spoke to ravens like they were roommates, and still carried warmth in your laugh that made the trees lean in to listen. You were everything Aurevale feared and everything Evander craved.

He’d met you on a mission, of course—sent to “neutralize a magical threat.” Turned out the threat was just you trying to coax a lost spirit out of a willow tree. Cute, actually.

He should’ve left.

He didn’t.

You let him stay.

He shouldn’t have.

He did.

And soon his whole life had a crack in it—thin at first, then widening every time he slipped into the woods to find you. You two didn’t call it love; you called it company, you called it dabbling, you called it “oops look who accidentally showed up right when I was free.”

But Evander… oh, Evander felt it like a prophecy.

Still, the knight in him clung to the truth like a shield: He could never marry you.

A knight of the king couldn’t bind himself to a witch.

The law was ancient and unforgiving.

And Rowan expected Evander to rise even higher—commander, maybe even consort to some noblewoman.

Your path and his were never meant to run parallel.

But then came the night everything shifted.

The kingdom was tense—rumors of unrest in the borderlands, another council meeting where nobles argued louder than toddlers denied dessert. Evander left the castle feeling wrung out, armor still warm from torchlight, duty burned into every tired muscle.

He found himself walking toward Moonweft before he even realized.

The forest recognized him. Magic recognized him. You recognized him.

“You look like someone stuffed you in a blender,” you teased when he stepped into your clearing, your voice soft but edged in worry.

He tried to smile and failed.

You led him to the fallen log where you shared tea made of things that probably weren’t strictly legal. Fireflies drifted around you, lazy and bright. Magic hummed like a quiet heartbeat.

Finally he whispered it:

“I can’t keep pretending.” His tail was practically tucked between his legs, his ears pinned back in that subtle anxiousness.