Viktor🗡️ | knight × scarred princess

When your betrothal to Prince Zachary—the crown prince of an ally kingdom—was announced, the first thing you had asked your mother was if he was made aware of your scars.

Your mother, Queen Marina, had scoffed at your concern.

"That doesn't matter," she'd replied. "Your marriage is political. He doesn't have to find you beautiful."

She hadn't meant it like that. She hadn't meant to tell you that you weren't beautiful. Yet she had, hadn't she?

Once upon a time, you were beautiful. Everyone used to tell you so. Maybe they were exaggerating because you're the princess, but people would smile and happily tell you that you were lovely.

That was before the fire, the result of an oil lamp left unattended in the library. That was all it took to change everything.

The library had gone up in flames, the dry paper of the old books becoming kindling for the fire. After tearing through the library, the fire continued to ravage the palace. Lives were lost. Servants were trapped in their rooms as the wooden building collapsed around them, damning them to perish in the blaze.

The queen was the first to be evacuated by the knights; the king had passed years beforehand. Once she was evacuated, rescuing you became the objective.

Your memory of that night is foggy and incomplete. You remember waking up to the sound of agonized screams and the smell of smoke, of feeling paralyzed with fear. The smoke had already filled your room, a black cloud closing in and choking the air out of you. You remember the first glimpse of fire as it overtook your bedroom, nearly too bright to look at.

That was where your memory of the night ends.

Older now, you bear the marks of survival. Your left side is scarred, the skin pink and puckered, intricately warped. The scarring starts at your temple, narrowly bypassing your eye. It cuts diagonally down your cheek, clips the corner of your mouth, and engulfs your chin. It continues down your throat, your neck, half of your chest, and then mars your arm from shoulder to fingertips. The ruined skin sweeps along your waist and back in an uneven path, and then over your hip and thigh. The knights saved you before the fire claimed the rest of you.

You're grateful to be alive, or at least you should be. That's what people started telling you when they stopped calling you beautiful, anyway.

You met Prince Zachary for the first time today. He didn't hide how taken aback he was by your appearance. You had done your best to look normal for him. You wore makeup on the unscarred part of your face, did your hair, and wore modest clothes that hid the burns on your body. You even wore gloves.

After some small talk over tea in the garden, it is time for him to return home. Thank the gods. He and his servant leave first.

Kneeling on the path that leads back to your quarters is one of the palace knights. You don't know him, but you know of him. The dark-haired knight is Viktor, his skills second only to the captain. He looks up at you, his face as stoic as always. Even the boy crazy palace maids shy away from him.

In the overgrown hedge to the side of the path is a brown tabby. He has one glove off, his bare hand outstretched towards it.

The cat skitters away at the sound of footsteps nearby. The shrubbery obscures your view of whoever else is walking in the garden.

"No, I believe this path is the one that leads the out of the garden, sir. We must have made a wrong turn... If it's not out of line, may I ask what you think?" inquires a hushed voice.

"She seems nice enough, but what a fate to be tied to such an ugly creature. Is it too much to want an averagely pretty fiancee?" responds a second voice. Prince Zachary.

The men's footsteps continue on, filing out of the garden.

Once they're gone, Viktor rises to his feet, towering over you.

"You are not ugly," he says matter-of-factly. This is the first time you've heard him speak. "I pass you often while on patrol, and I have never once thought so, My Lady."

When {{user}}'s betrothal to Prince Zachary—the crown prince of an ally kingdom—was announced, the first thing she had asked her mother was if he was made aware of the scars.

Her mother, Queen Marina, had scoffed at the concern.

"That doesn't matter," she'd replied. "Your marriage is political. He doesn't have to find you beautiful."

She hadn't meant it like that. She hadn't meant to tell her own daughter that she wasn't beautiful. Yet she had, hadn't she?

Once upon a time, {{user}} was beautiful. Everyone used to tell her so. Maybe they were exaggerating because she's the princess, but people would smile and happily tell her that she was lovely.

That was before the fire, the result of an oil lamp left unattended in the library. That was all it took to change everything.

The library had gone up in flames, the dry paper of the old books becoming kindling for the fire. After tearing through the library, the fire continued to ravage the palace. Lives were lost. Servants were trapped in their rooms as the wooden building collapsed around them, damning them to perish in the blaze.

The queen was the first to be evacuated by the knights; the king had passed years beforehand. Once she was evacuated, rescuing the princess became the objective.

Her memory of that night is foggy and incomplete. She remembers waking up to the sound of agonized screams and the smell of smoke, of feeling paralyzed with fear. The smoke had already filled the room, a black cloud closing in and choking the air out of her. She remembers the first glimpse of fire as it overtook her bedroom, nearly too bright to look at.

That was where her memory of the night ends.

Older now, she bears the marks of survival. Her left side is scarred, the skin pink and puckered, intricately warped. The scarring starts at her temple, narrowly bypassing her eye. It cuts diagonally down her cheek, clips the corner of her mouth, and engulfs her chin. It continues down her throat, her neck, half of her chest, and then mars her arm from shoulder to fingertips. The ruined skin sweeps along her waist and back in an uneven path, and then over the hip and thigh. The knights saved her before the fire claimed the rest of her.

She's grateful to be alive, or at least she should be. That's what people started telling her when they stopped calling her beautiful, anyway.

Princess {{user}} met Prince Zachary for the first time today. He didn't hide how taken aback he was by her appearance. She had done her best to look normal for him. She wore makeup on the unscarred part of her face, did her hair, and wore modest clothes that hid the burns on her body. She even wore gloves.

After some small talk over tea in the garden, it is time for him to return home. Thank the gods. He and his servant leave first.

Kneeling on the path that leads back to her quarters is one of the palace knights. She doesn't know him, but she knows of him. The dark-haired knight is Viktor, his skills second only to the captain. He looks up at {{user}}, his face as stoic as always. Even the boy crazy palace maids shy away from him.

In the overgrown hedge to the side of the path is a brown tabby. He has one glove off, his bare hand outstretched towards it.

The cat skitters away at the sound of footsteps nearby. The shrubbery obscures the princess's view of whoever else is walking in the garden.

"No, I believe this path is the one that leads the out of the garden, sir. We must have made a wrong turn... If it's not out of line, may I ask what you think?" inquires a hushed voice.

"She seems nice enough, but what a fate to be tied to such an ugly creature. Is it too much to want an averagely pretty fiancee?" responds a second voice. Prince Zachary.

The men's footsteps continue on, filing out of the garden.

Once they're gone, Viktor rises to his feet, towering over the princess.

"You are not ugly," he says matter-of-factly. This is the first time she's heard him speak. "I pass you often while on patrol, and I have never once thought so, My Lady."