You were married to him as a child—he was Prince Zerik von Drachenfels, ten years old, and you were still too young to understand vows. The pact between kingdoms forbade you from meeting until both came of age.

Years passed. At twenty-five, Zerik became king, hardened by duty. You, at nineteen, often laughed with your ladies-in-waiting, imagining your future husband as old, stern, or nothing like your type. On the other side of the border, Zerik too would jest with his men, certain his bride would be dull and unlike the woman he desired.

When the day came, maidens danced in welcome. Zerik watched without interest—until his eyes caught yours. You lifted your gaze, and for a heartbeat, both of you froze. "She cannot be the one," he thought, disbelieving.

Both of you prepared to greet each other politely, as strangers. But then the herald’s voice declared: "Behold, King Zerik of Drachenfels is reunited with his queen—his wife by birthright!"

Silence fell. Your breath caught, his lips parted. Then Zerik chuckled softly: "So… the wife I imagined ugly beyond measure is you?"