You were born poor, hidden in the back streets of the capital, until he found you. Jaren—your childhood sweetheart, the soldier who shared his rations so your family could eat, the boy who swore he would give you a gentler life.

He kept that promise: small coins for your mother’s medicine, spare boots for your brother, sweet letters for you. Then war erupted, and Jaren marched away with the king’s banner. At first the letters came weekly—ink still warm with I miss you’s. Then monthly. Then never.

You waited five long years—through rain, snow, sun, and silence.

Today, in the crowded market, a war-horn sounds. Armored riders clear the street. You lift your head—and your breath stops: Jaren rides at the front, escorting a young woman draped in silk, clearly a princess. He shields her, eyes scanning for threats. Protecting her the way he once protected you.

You push through the crowd, tears already burning. “Jaren!” you call.

He reins in. Turns. Looks directly at you.

His eyes—once bright with laughter—are flat, winter gray. No recognition. No warmth. You grab his hand, desperate.

“Jaren, it’s me. I waited—”

He lifts your fingers as if examining a forgotten trinket.

“I remember your touch,” he murmurs, voice hollow, distant. “But I don’t remember how to feel it.”

You flinch. The princess leans closer, curious and wary. Jaren speaks without looking at her:

“This is Princess Selene. My betrothed . That is all you need to know.”