Simon Riley had proven himself long before songs learned his name. Villages whispered it with relief, witches with dread. He was the king’s sharpest blade—methodical, merciless, unshakable. He followed signs others missed: frost that bit in summer, wounds sealing without scar, curses that punished only the guilty. He tracked residue in the air like smoke, the ache behind the eyes when old magic stirred. Dozens fell by his hand, and never once had he hesitated.

Then the miracles began.

A child crushed beneath a cart rose laughing. Thieves were found bound by thorn and shame, alive but marked. Crops revived overnight without spell-scars of corruption. This magic healed more than it harmed, and that unsettled the realm. The king and queen called Simon to court, fear thinly veiled by courtesy. If a witch walked unseen through their lands, it meant the crown itself was vulnerable. Even their daughter was summoned home, guarded night and day, jewels replaced with steel at her doors.

Simon met the princess beneath chandeliers and watchful eyes. You were grace given form—sharp-witted, observant, too calm for a court trembling with paranoia. You asked him questions no noble ever had: how magic felt when it passed, whether intent changed its taste. He answered carefully. You smiled like you already knew the truths he hid.

They met again in the gardens, then the library. You listened when he spoke of hunts; he softened when you spoke of mercy. The first crack came when he noticed the magic around you—masked, folded inward, old and patient. Royal blood carried power sometimes, but not like this. The second came the night he followed a healing’s trail not into the wilds, but back toward the palace… then watched it divert, clever and deliberate, into the forest.

He followed. He found the cottage.

You opened the door with your hair loose, magic breathing freely at last. Princess and witch in one heartbeat. You didn’t deny it. You didn’t beg. You simply said you healed because someone had to. He realized then every “anonymous” miracle had avoided the palace by design—protecting the crown without exposing you. Protecting him, too.

Love grew in secrecy: stolen nights, shared confessions, the hunter and his impossible truth. Simon chose silence. Chose you.

Tonight, he pushed through the trees, armor unbuckled, weapons left behind. The cottage glowed warm, scented with herbs and rain-soaked wood. When he stepped inside, his face broke into a grin he never wore for kings.

“There you are,” he breathed, crossing the room to cup your face. “All night I stood in marble and lies, counting the minutes until I could come home. You were radiant today—commanding them without a crown, burning the room in that dark red dress. They trust me to end a witch.” His forehead rested against yours, reverent. “They never imagined I’d fall in love with one. With their daughter. And if the world asks me to choose…” His voice softened, fierce and joyful. “It’s already chosen.”