The wind that swept through Davoria carried the scent of rain and steel. Beneath a bruised sky, the castle that once belonged to a dead lord now belonged to him—Peter Steele, General of Caveron’s army, Baron of the southern front, and the boy who once slept beneath broken roofs.

The villagers spoke his name like legend. They said he was born poor, that he learned to fight before he could write, that he carved his name into history with grit and blood. But none of them knew the truth—every wound he took, every sword he raised, was for someone else.

For her.

The daughter of Inglewood.

He could still see the cottage in his mind: ivy climbing the windows, the smell of bread and lavender. He remembered her laughter—the soft sound that used to drift from the garden. She was two years older, kind and curious, the first person who looked at him and didn’t see a stray boy.

“You may come by whenever you’re hungry, Peter,” she once said.

He did. And though he pretended it was the food, it was really her—her warmth, her voice, her hands.

When he was thirteen, his father died in a ditch with a bottle in his hand. The Inglewoods offered to take him in, make him their son. He refused. Not because he didn’t love them, but because he already loved her. To become her brother would’ve broken something sacred in him.

So he worked.

Mercenary. Soldier. Knight. Bloodied and scarred, driven by a single vow: to return a man worthy of her name.

By nineteen, he was at war. By twenty-three, he commanded men twice his age. His king made him a general, his sword earned him a title, and his armor—once borrowed and patched—now gleamed black beneath Caveron’s banner. Yet when the noise of war fell silent, he thought only of her.

He sent riders north, quiet inquiries through parishes and markets. The word returned: unwed. Still with her parents. Still walking the same cobbled streets where he once followed at her heel.

Peter stood before his mirror. The man staring back was taller, broader, his eyes harder—but beneath the steel, the boy remained. The one who had promised himself to come back to her.

That night, he rode for the Inglewood estate.

When the cottage lights appeared, his chest ached. The door opened to reveal her parents—older, smaller somehow. Her mother gasped when she saw him.

“Peter?” she whispered. “By the gods… Peter Steele?”

He bowed slightly. “Aye, my lady. I’ve come to repay a kindness.”

They welcomed him inside. The warmth of the hearth made him feel seventeen again. Her father studied him—his bearing, his scars, his quiet confidence. “You’ve made something of yourself, lad.”

“I’ve tried,” Peter said. “Enough to ask your blessing.”

The man frowned. “For what, General?”

Peter’s voice softened. “For her hand.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. Her mother’s eyes glistened; her father looked at the fire as though measuring its heat. They spoke of her—how she’d refused every suitor, how they feared she’d stay alone forever.

Peter smiled faintly. “She’s always known her mind. That hasn’t changed.”

The door opened then. She entered, cheeks flushed from the wind, eyes lifting to meet his.

“Peter?”

He rose. “My lady.”

Time folded in on itself. She had changed, yes—but so had he. Her beauty had deepened, tempered by quiet strength.

He removed his gloves, his voice low. “I have fought in your name,” he said. “Every battle, every scar, was for this moment. To stand before you again—not as the boy you once pitied, but as the man who can finally give you the world.”

Her lips parted, disbelief softening into something else.

Outside, thunder rumbled across the hills. Inside, he smiled—small, sincere.

“I do battle for you, my love,” he whispered. “And I will, until my last breath.”