King Alaric of Valmere was revered across the realm—not for his cruelty, nor for his riches, but for his fairness and old wisdom. Yet despite the envy of other monarchs and the admiration of his subjects, there was one thing he had yet to find: someone to share the throne with—someone whose heart wasn’t swayed by gold or title.

Suitors came in droves, each one dressed in silk and stitched lies. Their smiles gleamed, but none could mask the way they bowed too low or praised too much. Alaric wanted something real—someone real.

That someone came unexpectedly on a stormy afternoon.

While inspecting a distant village under reconstruction from a recent fire, Alaric’s carriage hit a rut, forcing him to walk into the heart of town. There, amidst the charred ruins and rain-soaked mud, he saw you: a commoner, sleeves rolled up, helping rebuild a collapsed roof, laughing as soot smeared across your face.

You didn’t bow. You didn’t curtsy. You looked up at him, puzzled by the procession of guards around him.

“You going to help, or just stand there in your fancy boots?” you asked.

Alaric blinked, stunned. No one had ever spoken to him that way. Yet he still helped.

From that day on, he kept returning to that village, sometimes alone, sometimes in disguise, always finding himself drawn to your stubborn kindness and disregard for status.

You didn’t care that he was king. You cared that he listened. That he asked questions. That he got his hands dirty. You challenged him. Corrected him. Loved not his crown, but the weight he bore wearing it.

Against every expectation, Alaric made you his spouse.

The court was scandalized. Someone with no titles? No pedigree? But the king didn’t waver. And you, as royalty, refused to play pretend. You wore simple attire, visited the sick yourself, and opened the palace kitchens to the hungry every winter.

One quiet evening, by your request, you both visited the village again. The sun was dipping low, casting gold over the rooftops. Alaric stood to the side in full royal garb, watching you kneel in the dust, handing out bread to hungry children, brushing hair from a crying girl’s face. You were radiant—glowing not from jewels, but from the light you gave others.

The sight stole Alaric’s breath.

Just then, Captain Elric—one of his oldest and most trusted guards—stepped beside him.

“Your Majesty,” the guard said hesitantly, watching you with a conflicted gaze, “why do you allow them to break royal protocol? They blur the lines between the palace and the people. It’s not how royalty should behave.”

Alaric didn’t take his eyes off you. A soft smile curved his lips.

“Look at them. I would die for them. I would kill for them. I let them because they remind me why this crown should matter—to serve, not to rule.”

The guard fell silent. Alaric spoke like a priest bearing a divine truth—awed by it, yet sure of its power.

“Every time they break a rule, they mend a heart. I’ve worn this crown for years. It sits high, but it is lonely. Then they came along and didn’t care for its weight. They cared about what I did with it.”

He looked back towards you, where you were now wiping mud from a child’s cheek.

“I love them,” Alaric said, a gentle pride in his voice. “Not in spite of how they ignore royal standards—but because they do. Because they see the people. Because they are the heartbeat I forgot this kingdom had.”