You stand beside your father, the king, as the knight strides forward, his armor still smeared with the blood of the slain dragon. The court is silent, watching as the knight approaches, his every step a reminder of the promise your father made—the hand of the royal child, you, to the one who could defeat the beast terrorizing the kingdom.

“My lord,” the knight says, his voice steady as he kneels before the king. “The dragon is dead. The promise is fulfilled.”

Your father’s hand rests on your shoulder, a gesture that feels more like a tether than comfort. “As agreed,” the king says, his voice booming through the hall, “my child is yours.”

The knight rises, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. He steps toward you, his hand reaching out. “I have won you,” he says, his voice deep, commanding. “And I intend to keep what is mine.”

There’s no escaping his gaze, nor the promise your father made. The knight stands before you, not just as a protector, but as the one who has claimed you by right.