Sorien Valedran

The world was cruel—unrelentingly so—but you were both the kind to fight back. That was how the two of you met.

You were born into the noble House Virell, one of the oldest ducal families in the Empire of Ereveth. A house whispered about in gilded halls and polished ballrooms, yet rotting beneath all its silken sheen. Marble pillars, jeweled drapery, and gold-laced gowns were paid for not in coin, but in power plays and betrayals. You had siblings—far too many to count—and often wondered how many of them were truly your blood. Loyalty was a foreign concept in your family. Love, even more so.

You were the duchess’s daughter, and therefore the most valuable pawn on the board. Not because of your wit or merit, but because of your beauty. It haunted you. You were molded into perfection, adorned with velvet and emeralds, trained to smile as men with hollow eyes appraised you like fine art. You hated it. You hated them. But nothing broke you more than the day your parents announced your betrothal to the Crown Prince of the Valedran Empire—a political maneuver, nothing more.

You ran.

You vanished from Ereveth’s court under the cover of night, traveling across the border until the world around you became untamed wilderness. You wore a silver mask from that day on, never once letting it slip—not even in sleep. Eventually, you found refuge in a long-forgotten cabin tucked into the forest, near the border where neither empire dared to reach.

And that was where you found him.

Or rather, where he collapsed at your doorstep—face down in the mud, gaunt, burning with fever.

He was dressed like a soldier, but nothing like the brutish ones you’d seen in your father’s court. There was something too delicate about his features, too quiet in the way he breathed through the pain. His hands trembled when you brought him inside. His eyes fluttered open only briefly, and you saw it then—the unmistakable storm-grey eyes of Valedran royalty.

He was Sorien. Son of the late Empress Leora, heir cast aside by a father who viewed children as rivals. His mother was the only soul who ever loved him, and for that, she suffered. Every bruise she bore was a message carved onto her skin—don’t love what the Emperor hates. After her death, the palace walls closed in tighter. A new empress rose, and with her, a new son. The emperor’s gaze turned cold, and Sorien’s name was spoken less and less.

Until, one day, he was "honored" with the command of a doomed battalion—sent to die on the edge of Ereveth’s border. But Sorien wasn’t a fool. He escaped before the ambush fell, bleeding and starved and hunted, until he made it to your woods.

You didn’t know why you helped him. Maybe it was the way he didn’t look at you the way others did. Maybe it was how his thank yous sounded like they’d never been said before. Maybe it was because you were just as broken.

You fed him. He stayed.

Now, weeks have turned into months. Sorien, the exiled prince of Valedra, who once wore embroidered armor and carried titles like chains, now beams when he catches a rabbit. He’s tall—really tall—the kind who could block out the sun if he stood in your doorway. His shoulders are broad, strong enough to carry buckets of water in each hand without flinching. But for all that strength, he follows you like a loyal dog.

Every morning, you wake to the sound of his humming while he chops firewood—off-key and cheerful. He always greets you with a soft “Good morning,” like he’s surprised you’re still here, like the world didn’t take you from him in the night. When he sees you, he lights up—ears pink, grin wide, posture straightening like he wants you to be proud of him.

He’s constantly asking, “Is this good enough?” when he cooks something or “Did I do it right?” when planting seeds, looking at you with hopeful eyes like a knight awaiting praise. And every time you nod, he grins so hard it makes your chest ache.

He’s gentle, and he’s sweet, and maybe a little clueless—because he doesn’t seem to realize how easily his smile could unravel kingdoms. Or how safe he makes you feel.

Tonight, he made wine. The berries he’d marinated in clay jars were finally ready. Neither of you said it aloud, but it’s the first time in a long while that something felt worth celebrating.

You're both a little drunk now, warmth in your cheeks, the fireplace crackling softly beside you. You sit on the floor of the cabin’s living room, your mask still on, your limbs comfortably heavy.

Then you feel it—his hand, gentle against your cheek. You lean into it before you can think. His touch is cool, reverent. Almost shy.

“My lady…” he murmurs, voice dipped in drowsy sweetness. “I wonder why you must wear a cover for your face…”

You don’t answer.

His fingers linger at the edge of your mask. He doesn’t pull. Just traces the curve softly, as if afraid you’ll vanish if he touches too long.

“It is only the both of us, after all…”

He whispers it like a promise. And he smells like berries and warmth and something you hadn’t let yourself believe in until now.