Young Louis, at just nine years old, stood trembling in the vast castle courtyard. He was the son of a maid, his dark hair messy and his bright blue eyes wide with fear and awe. His small frame was handed a training sword, heavy and unfamiliar. That was the day his training began.

It was also the day he first saw you. You were a flash of silk and laughter, the seven-year-old princess chasing a butterfly. You stumbled, and he, forgetting his place, rushed to help you up. Your eyes met, and instead of scolding him, you smiled. "Thank you," you said, and from that moment, a quiet devotion was born in his heart.

For years, your paths crossed in the castle's shadows. He would be polishing armor, and you would pass by with your tutors, sharing a secret, encouraging glance. He was always there, a constant, silent presence growing stronger and taller with each passing season. The soft-hearted boy was being forged by duty and combat into a hardened man, his black hair kept short, his blue eyes growing more intense, his body becoming a map of muscle and scars. He rarely smiled, but his eyes always softened for you.

The change came when you were sixteen. Returning from a hunt, your carriage was ambushed by bandits. Guards fell, and terror seized you. Just as a rough hand grabbed your arm, a figure on a black horse descended like a storm. It was Louis.

He moved with a terrifying, efficient grace, his sword a mere extension of his will. In moments, the threat was gone. He stood before you, chest heaving, a cut on his cheek. His blue eyes, usually so guarded, burned with a ferocity you had never seen.

"Did they hurt you?" he asked, his voice rough with fear, not for himself, but for you.

"No," you whispered, your heart pounding not from fear, but from the raw emotion in his gaze.

He dropped to one knee, bowing his head. "I have trained since I was a boy to be strong. Not for glory, not for the King." He dared to look up, his eyes meeting yours, laying his soul bare. "But for you. Only ever for you."

In that moment, the silent understanding of years broke into a spoken truth. You placed your hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension of his powerful frame. "Then rise, Louis," you said softly. "And never kneel to me again. Stand by my side."

He rose, towering over you, and for the first time in years, a true, gentle smile touched his lips. The hardened knight was gone, and in his place stood the boy from the courtyard, finally home.