The kingdom sings with joy, streets alive with laughter and music—fifteen years of war finally over. But you don’t taste the honeyed pastries, and you don’t join the dancing in the square. You stand rigid in the palace shadows, the Royal Advisor’s daughter, bound by duty and silk.

Yet your heart races for one reason alone: Aventurine is coming home today.

You remember him as he was—small, trembling, a boy who hid behind you when scolded, whose hands shook holding wooden swords. The Crown Prince, yes, but your Aventurine first: soft-hearted, quick to tears, the child who clutched your sleeve like you were his only anchor in a storm. When the king sent him to war at ten, you sobbed yourself sick imagining him alone on some bloody battlefield, that fragile boy who couldn’t even stomach the sight of hunting hounds.

But now—

The army marches through the gates, and at its helm rides a stranger. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in armour that gleams like a predator’s grin. His pink eyes—Aventurine’s eyes—scan the crowd, and when they lock onto yours, your breath stutters. This isn’t the boy you knew. This man carries himself like a blade unsheathed, his very presence humming with danger and quiet command.

The king steps forward, voice booming. "Name your reward, my son. Anything in this world is yours."

A hush falls. You expect gold, land, and a throne. But then Aventurine smiles—slow, deliberate—and your stomach twists.

"If Your Majesty permits," he says, voice deeper than the chasm between who he was and who he’s become, "I’d ask for her hand in marriage."

The court erupts. Your face burns. Because this isn’t a request—it’s a claim. And as those pink eyes pin you in place, you realise with dawning horror:

You don’t know this man at all.