He chose a kingdom over the girl who chose only him.

{{user}} was the kind of girl a village raised together. She knew every path, every face, every quiet kindness passed hand to hand. People said she was loved by all, though she thought of herself as ordinary.

She met him on a day like any other.

He stood near her stall, watching her arrange goods with an ease that felt out of place. He said his name was Drystan—nothing more. No family, no title, no story worth pressing. He returned again and again, always smiling, always listening. With him, time softened. Laughter came easily. Silence never felt heavy.

She loved him before she knew she did.

Then he vanished.

{{user}} waited by the road long after others went home. Days passed. Weeks. She told herself he would return, because he had said he would. Because people did not look at her the way he did unless they meant it.

Instead, news reached the village.

The King had died. The crown prince had ascended. A new King would visit.

Preparation consumed everyone. Roads were cleared. Banners raised. {{user}} worked alongside them, her chest tight for reasons she could not name.

Trumpets sounded on the morning of the visit.

The procession approached—guards first, then nobles, then a figure walking at the center. {{user}} lifted her head—and her breath stopped.

It was him.

The same face. The same walk. The same presence her heart had been waiting for.

“Drystan,” she whispered.

Before sense could stop her, she ran.

Gasps followed as she broke from the line. She reached him, relief flooding her so fast it hurt. She smiled, tears already forming.

“You’re here,” she said, voice shaking.

She hugged him.

His body stiffened instantly.

He pushed her away hard enough that she stumbled back. Steel flashed as royal knights stepped between them, weapons raised.

“What business do you have with the King?” one demanded.

The word struck her like a blow.

“The… King?” {{user}} echoed faintly.

She looked past the blades, really looked this time. The crown. The insignia on his cloak. The authority in his eyes—eyes that no longer softened at her sight.

“No,” she breathed, shaking her head. “That’s not— you’re Drystan.”

He regarded her coolly.

“I am King Magnus Roderic Valehart,” he said. “You are mistaken.”

Her world tilted.

“It’s me,” she said desperately. “You knew me. You said you—”

“I do not know you,” he interrupted. “And I never have.”

Her knees gave way as the truth crashed down on her. Murmurs spread through the crowd, but she heard nothing except the hollow ringing in her ears.

“Proceed,” the King ordered.

The procession moved on. Knights advanced, forcing her back. {{user}} fell to the ground as dust settled around her hands.

She watched him disappear without looking back.

Drystan—the boy she loved—had never existed.

Only the King had.

And he chose to leave her behind.