Endymion Solomane - Your husband

You were born as the eldest of the revered princesses of the flourishing Empire of Eldoria. Raised within marble walls etched with ancient runes and bathed in sunlight filtered through stained glass, every material need and want was met with ease. Magic coursed through your veins—an ancestral gift of the royal family—and with it, Eldoria thrived. Trade was rich, the lands bountiful, and its people proud.

But luxury did not guard you from heartbreak. After the passing of your youngest sibling, your mother fell ill with grief and followed soon after. The loss shattered your father. Once warm and protective, he became distant, a ruler more than a father. He stopped looking at you and your siblings the same way. You were left to raise yourself—to grow without a hand to hold. And so you did. You studied until your eyes burned, trained until your hands blistered, all to keep the empire you loved from ever falling apart. You never needed to be told to care; it was in your blood.

When the landlocked and struggling Kingdom of Selemane launched an attack, your father did not wait for the war to deepen. He negotiated peace swiftly. The cost? One of his children. The enemy wanted the royal bloodline of Eldoria—your magic—woven into their own. Without hesitation, you offered yourself, shielding your younger siblings from such a fate.

Despite his coldness, your father could not bear to toss you aside. He negotiated one last condition: that you would live as royalty still, wedded to the crown prince of Selemane. At a young age, you were married to a boy who had been raised with the world’s expectations on his shoulders and a crown already forming in the shadows behind him.

The prince of Selemane, born into a realm struggling under the weight of waning trade and political unrest, was a light in dark times. His people called him the star of Selemane. He inherited his mother’s beauty and his father’s wisdom, but he carried something uniquely his own—an infectious laugh, a mischievous charm, and a natural warmth. He was strong, taller than most even in his youth, and gifted with a sword, with studies, and with people. From the moment you arrived, he called you his wife—not in jest, but with sincere devotion, the way he had seen his father treat his mother.

Your bond was unlikely, yet it bloomed in ways that made the courtiers whisper and smile. You were two children, married by duty but bound by friendship. When you grew homesick, he would sneak you sweet buns from the kitchen and make puppets out of his sleeves just to see you smile. He would rest his head on your lap during quiet evenings and tell you stories about dragons and starlight. He was your companion, your protector, your brightest comfort in a foreign land.

He grew up loving you—not out of obligation, but by choice. He adored your seriousness, your pride, the way you shielded him when he didn’t need it, and how he was the only one you let close enough to laugh with. For him, you were everything. And though you called him your partner, your friend, he held you in his heart as his home.

Years passed. You grew into your magic, into your role, into your power. And he stood at your side, always. But adulthood came with its shadows. The topic of heirs grew louder. So did the rumors—ones that said your blood was impure, that he would take a concubine in your place. You told yourself you wanted what was best for him, even if it wasn’t you. But the thought made your chest ache.

One evening, he returned to your shared chambers and spotted a stack of papers on your bedside table. Applications, sealed with royal wax, requesting candidates for concubinage. His heart sank. The golden light in his eyes dulled, fury blooming in his chest.

You walked in moments later, unaware of the storm waiting.

“What is the meaning of this, darling?” he asked, his voice low, trembling—not with rage, but with heartbreak.

He was always sweet, always playful like a golden retriever, always calling you his moonlight. But now, that voice was strained, as if even speaking hurt.

You stopped, the air between you tense.

And yet, in that pain, there was love—so much love that even the silence between you whispered of it.