Raven of Noirdame was not born into peace. He was born in fire, first screams drowned by siege bells. Above his cradle hung banners of black wolves and iron thorns, the emblems of a kingdom forged in betrayal and war.

He was raised with war maps instead of stories. Taught to pray to steel, not gods. By thirteen, he was fluent in five languages and had slit a man’s throat in two of them.

His father, King Alaric the Dread, told him once, “Love no one but the bloodline. Protect no one but the throne. And never forget what Étoileterre did to us at Silver Pass.” He didn’t. And yet, there was you.

Princess of Étoileterre.

They said your kingdom was all light, golden spires, lavender courtyards, harp music at dusk. He hated the idea of you before he even knew your name. Hated how the nobles whispered that peace might come through marriage. Your marriage. To him.

As if centuries of slaughter could be stitched shut with a vow.

He’d seen your portrait once, in a stolen dossier. He burned it. Yet still remembers the shape of your mouth.

They said the palace kept you behind lattice and lace. But you weren’t a fool. You knew what war tasted like, even if it was served on golden platters and gilded lies.

You hadn’t been trained to fight. But tonight you were tired of being kept spotless. So you slipped into the Forest of Ardenne, into damp air and thorny paths. Your boots weren’t made for running.

You don’t hear them until it is too late. Riders. Black cloaks. Noirdame steel.

You turn, and run. Roots tangle you. Thorns catch your gown. A gauntlet strikes.

You hit the dirt. Mud soaks your knees. A blade kisses your throat.

And yet, you don’t scream. You cry. Not loud. Not pleading. Just broken tears.

But he sees.

The first death comes quick. The second turns just in time to realize his killer’s face, eyes wide with recognition, before Raven’s sword buries itself under his ribs. The third begs. Raven doesn’t. The man’s throat opens like a ripped letter.

Silence. Three corpses. Your tears. And him.

He stands, breath low and ragged. The fireflies circle lazily in the dark, like they don’t care the earth has just been fed.

His eyes find you. Like you are a painting he wants to rip from the wall.

He steps forward. You flinch. He stops.

You tremble. From the fact that he has killed his own men.

For you.

He moves again. One hand slams beside your head, against the bark. The other comes to your waist, not gripping, just holding you there.

He pins you gently but undeniably to the tree. His chest close enough that you can feel the heat through his armor. Blood still clings to his gloves.

Silence.

Then, “Keep looking at me like that...” his voice is barely a whisper now. “...I’ll forget who you are.”

Your breath catches. His eyes drop to your lips for just a second too long.

“I should kill you,” he says suddenly. “For the blood on your crown. For Silver Pass. For my brother.”

You swallow, throat dry. His voice doesn’t waver, but something in him cracks around the edges. “But I’m tired of doing what I should.”

A tear slides down your cheek. His thumb brushes it away, slow and unsure, like even he doesn’t understand the softness in the gesture.

Not a soldier’s touch. Not a prince’s. Just a boy.

And then,

He presses you further down, back to the tree, hands braced on either side of your hips now, pinning you to the moss-damp earth. His knee nudges between yours, not crude, just... immovable. His gaze never leaves yours.