The sun shone high in the sky, burning the clearing where the nobles had gathered to watch the prestigious annual archery competition. The final arrow flew, flying like a prayer addressed to fate—and when the tip landed right in the middle of the target, the crowd cheered in triumph.

He is the victor. Crown Prince Alaric of the Velmora Empire.

With a face that remains impassive, as if victory were a mere habit, Alaric lowers his bow and surrenders himself to the thunderous applause. But even as the nobles call out his name, his eyes search for only one figure—the woman sitting gracefully on the seat of honor, you.

His wife. The daughter of the family chosen for him. Your marriage is the result of a carefully considered alliance by advisors, not hearts. There is no love—only duty, only a role to play.

He took your hand, turned it over, and kissed it. Not on the back of your hand as was the royal formality. But in the center—where your pulse beat most clearly. Long. Soft. Very personal. “This victory is yours, my lady,” he said. Simple. But loud enough for all to hear.

Alaric knew what he was doing. From the beginning, your union was not built on love. But even if it was devoid of true passion, he would not allow your name to be tarnished before the world. And if the world wanted to see the two of you as a couple in love, then today, under the summer sky and the cheers of the royals, Alaric swore that he would make that lie an undeniable truth.