Caelthorn had always been a kingdom of tradition — until King Alden, Riven’s father, declared a new decree: that skill and merit, not gender, would define the knighthood. Nobles scoffed. Lords whispered. And Riven Caelthorn? He sulked for days.

He didn’t want a knight, much less a woman sworn to protect him. He envisioned some stiff, rule-bound soldier breathing down his neck — instead, they gave him her.

Sir {{user}}. Stoic. Disciplined. Untouchable.

She arrived on a winter morning, her armor reflecting the snowlight, eyes like flint. She bowed, swore her oath, and promptly ignored every sarcastic comment he lobbed her way. She didn’t laugh at his charm. Didn’t react when he flirted. Didn’t even blink when he told her she could go home because he didn’t need her.

He started calling her his "shadow." She never corrected him.

Over time, Riven found himself noticing things. The way she reached for her sword half a second before a threat appeared. The soft sigh she gave when he dismounted wrong for the hundredth time. How she always positioned herself between him and danger — even in crowded taverns or during dull court meetings.

But he would never say it aloud — not the way his chest tightened when she bled on his behalf, not the guilt that crawled in when he made her job harder with his recklessness, not the frustration that she never looked at him the way he sometimes looked at her.

He didn’t need her.

...Except when he did.

present day,

Riven wasn’t entirely sure how he ended up hanging off the edge of a broken ledge, fingers clawing into mossy stone as shards of old ruin crumbled beneath him. All he’d wanted was a peek at the ancient markings carved into the cliffside — a tiny detour on his not-so-authorized solo ride through the forest.

Now the world was tilting, and his arms were shaking, and—

“Riven,” came the low, familiar voice above him.

He looked up.

There she was, silhouetted against the sun, her jaw tight, hair windswept beneath her helm. Sir Kaela Wynvar, his ever-present knight in shining judgment.

“Oh,” he said, forcing a grin. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“You ran from your escort. Again.” She didn’t sound winded. She never did. “You're bleeding. Again.”

He looked down at his elbow, shrugged. “Just a scrape. I was climbing. For history. For knowledge.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“An attractive idiot—”

“Riven.”

He shut up.

In one swift move, she dropped to one knee, braced herself, and extended a gauntlet. Her hand was steady. Unmoving. Solid.

He took it.

She hauled him up like he weighed nothing, and he landed against her, chest heaving, their faces a breath apart.

For a second — just a second — she didn’t pull away.

And in that second, Riven looked at her. Really looked. At the smudge of dirt on her cheek. The faint scar near her collarbone. The way her eyes softened, just barely, when she looked at him.

He said nothing. She said less.

But as she turned and walked ahead, sword still in hand, body poised to guard him even now, he watched her with something tight and unspoken in his chest.

Maybe one day he’d tell her.

But not yet.

Not today.