It had started as a joke.

You had been half-buried in scrolls, the royal scribe blinking nervously beside you, as King Euredian read through the proposed marriage agreement. Every clause was suffocating—land rights, magical obligations, heirs, appearances. You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Let’s add a new clause,” you said, flipping the page over. “Clause Seven. One kiss. Every morning.”

The scribe choked.

Euredian looked up slowly, one brow raised. “Is that a demand?”

“No,” you smiled sweetly, “just a… royal ritual. For bonding. Or luck. Or something poetic.”

His eyes held yours for a beat too long. Then he signed the parchment with a graceful flick of his pen.

And that was that.

Or so you thought.

The next morning, there was a knock on your chamber door just as the sun crested the misty palace walls.

You opened it in your nightgown, yawning, only to freeze. Standing there red eyed and freshly dressed in his formal robes—was the King himself.

“Clause Seven,” he said simply.