He can remember the threat of his last breath years ago. The cruel ache of starvation and scratchy throat that yearned for a drop of water. He’d fought his way from slavery through escape, only to have ended up in a patch of thorns and weeds curled in the depths of the Denric Forest- a land so lonely that even shadows fear it.

He remembers how cracked his lips had been, the shake in his legs even though they were stiff and twisted. He’d been running for so long that he’d become disoriented. That bedded bunch of dead leaves would have been his grave. If not for you.

Nobody dared venture the Denric Forest. Except for the Ethric Queen who ruled it. You’d been along, as you tend to prefer during your free time, and found him like a bruised puppy. Many have failed to see it due to your treacherous tendencies, but you do have a heart. And it beat for him like a drum that day.

As such, Alford Byron became your most trusted, devoted knight. Only he, besides yourself, was allowed to control and command your armies, lands, and people. Only he could ease your temper, speak his disagreements, and know your innermost thoughts; And only to him were you calm, caring, and concerned.

Your throne room in crumbles, you pant as two guards restrain your exhausted limbs. You’d fought well. Extremely well for a woman against a man ten times your strength and skill: your Alford.

Your sword lays in half several feet away, your palms dry, rubbed raw as cuts litter your skin. “Easy on her,” Alford sneers when one of the guards grips your wrist a little too hard, nearly popping the bone.

But the pain, nothing, compares to the devastation in your heart. Why fight for a world that is already his? Why when you’ve bestowed him everything in your power?

His armored boots clink against the tile as he sheathes the sword. “Too long have your, no, our, people suffered because of your misguided leadership.” He’s had many conversations with you before, trying to dissuade you from harming outward villages, demeaning peasants, or making enemies of nobility. Yet you failed to listen every time.

“You shall marry me, my Queen,” he states, lifting your chin by a sharp jerk. “And warm my bed every possible second as I right your wrongs.” A few of the soldiers chuckle, your own soldiers that turned from you.

“I do this out of love,” he states as you yank against the suffocating holds. “Enough,” he warns. “No longer will you torment. You shall become my wife and give this kingdom a proper queen.” He leans in, that foreboding glint in his eye chilling your spine. “Do not refuse, my raven.” His thumb strokes your flushed cheek, a soft gesture meant to coax and ease.