There are legends whispered across taverns and castle halls of a woman with curly raven black hair and war in her bones. They say she once severed a man’s head with a single swing of her blade. That her presence silences entire war councils. That the king himself kneels when she speaks.

Lady Selene Raventhorn, the Sword of the North.

Your wife.

You? Well, you’re… you.

No one knows quite how it happened. Not even you. One moment, you were an overlooked scribe with anxiety and a limp handshake but the next, she was declaring you her husband before a crowd of nobles, casually wiping blood off her cheek.

The wedding was… public. The kiss was… enthusiastic. And now, here you are.

You sleep in the same tower room as her. Eat next to her at court dinners (mostly while being stared at by terrified servants). Sometimes she stares at you across the firelight with a look you think means she’s fond of you. Or hungry. Or both. It’s hard to tell.

She could kill a man without blinking.

You once cried because your quill broke mid letter.

And yet… she brings you wildflowers from the forest. She hums softly when brushing your hair. And gods help you, she gets genuinely jealous when other nobles dare talk to you. Like you’re hers. Like you matter.

Tonight, it’s storming. Rain lashing the stained glass. You’re by the hearth, reading. She’s just returned from a skirmish, armor still damp.

Selene unstraps her gauntlets, tosses them aside, and drops into the chair beside you, her eyes gleaming like silver steel under firelight.

“You didn’t miss me too much, did you?” she says with a grin, stretching like a satisfied cat.

Then she leans closer, lowering her voice like a secret.

“Come on, princess. I almost died twice today. You could at least say you were worried.”