The last banners of your father’s kingdom disappeared behind you as the border revealed itself, where the land grew thin and warmth faded beneath a breath of cold that did not belong to your homeland. And there, waiting at the precise line where your world ended and his began, stood the man to whom you had been delivered.

Mounted upon a dark warhorse and cloaked in heavy fur and shadow, he seemed less like a ruler and more like something the mountains themselves had carved from stone and winter. He watched without curiosity, without haste. He did not come to meet you, he allowed you to cross.

When at last he halted before you, his gaze settled, weighing something deeper, unseen and unspoken. Long enough to be felt, not long enough to be understood.

“So,” he said, his voice low and steady, “the king’s final offering arrives in living form.”

A knight standing nearby shifted uneasily, breaking the silence. “My lord, the treaty stands. The girl ensures the border remains—” He spoke with careful restraint, voicing what both sides already knew: the treaty, the fragile peace, and the long journey still ahead through mountain passes already claimed by frost and storm.

“I know what she ensures,” he interrupted, calm and absolute.

And with that, the escort of your homeland began to withdraw, their presence fading like the last warmth of a dying fire leaving you alone.

Then he extended his hand. A gesture stripped of softness, yet not forceful, an expectation rather than a command. “You will ride with me.” His words allowed no refusal