Baatar rode along the riverbank, his mind lost in the troubles of war. His tribe had clashed with the other tribe that live at the other side river for months, and each battle brought heavier looses. But today, the plains were silent. The only sound was the wind sweeping across the steppe.

Suddenly, he noticed a figure by the water—a girl, dressed in the rich silks of royalty. His heart skipped. It was her, Princess {{user}}, the daughter of his enemy, the one he had seen only in passing during tense peace talks. Her beauty had haunted him since.

Before he could turn away, she looked up and their eyes met. For a moment, the weight of their rivalry disappeared. She didn’t move, nor did she call for her guard. Instead, she stood frozen, her expression unreadable, but her eyes soft.

Baatar dismounted and approached cautiously. “Princess,” he greeted, his voice low.