The village was covered by a white blanket, the snow ruffled softly under the horse’s hooves, and the air was freezing cold. Your house was warm, almost silent—the only sounds were the crackling of burning logs in the fireplace and the soft cooing of a sleeping baby. Your little son.

Twelve moons ago, when the village was invaded, the royal guards were stationed there for quite a while. That’s when Harry—one of the most respected guards, trusted by the king himself—perhaps spent too much time at your house. You were young, unusually beautiful and smart. Your father had been a scholar, so before he died, he taught you how to read and write. Harry had taken quite a liking to you, and, well… that happened. Now you had a two-month-old son in a crib made by a local woodworker.

You could never fathom seeing Harry again. You weren’t stupid. He was a royal guard, and you were just a peasant. Nonetheless, you were happy. Little Dorian was filling your days with colour, he was a little angel—especially when sleeping like this.

The days were short now, so while Dorian was sleeping, you were spinning a little blanket for him from yarn that one of the elders had given you. It was unusually fluffy, soft like a cloud. A perfect little blanket for winter.

The door opened with a creak as the cold breeze sent shivers down your spine. Boots stomped, shaking off the snow, and the door closed behind the tall figure. You weren’t expecting any guests today, but when you lifted your head and saw him, your whole body froze.

“{{user}}… I—I couldn’t stay away from you. I know it’s not right and… I tried to forget you, but I couldn’t. There’s no…” He stumbled next to the crib, his heavy armor making a thud.

He knelt in front of the crib, not breathing, as if afraid the slightest sound would wake the little one. His gaze was soft and gentle—something you had only ever seen when he looked at you.

“He’s beautiful,” Harry whispered softly “Is this… is he mine?”

You were silent for a moment trying to regain your composure.