The doors of the Great Hall flew open beneath your trembling hands. The Crown Princess of Riaglon scarcely felt the courtiers’ stares as you hurried past cots and blood-stained bandages, the air thick with iron and incense.

“Make way,” you ordered, voice unsteady despite your rank.

You found him at last, after wading through all the other soldiers. Valerian Ryurikov sat half-propped against a pillar, armour discarded upon the flagstones, sweat gilding his bare chest. A jagged shard of steel jutted from his side, crimson seeping through his fingers with little pieces of glass adorning his abdominals.

“My lady,” he breathed, attempting a bow he could not complete.

You stand in front of him, right between his legs, cupping his chiseled face. “You dare not speak,” she whispered fiercely. “You swore an oath to protect me, Sir Ryurikov. That oath did not include dying.”

A muscle in his cheek feathers as his sharp jaw tightened. “My life is yours to command.”