Rurik

The castle hummed with its usual morning chaos—servants hauling baskets of winter roses for the solstice feast, stableboys scrubbing mud from royal steeds, the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer echoing from the barracks. But Rurik, your royal knight , moved through it like a blade cutting silk. He was three corridors from the your, princess’s chambers when their voices slithered into his ears—two maids, huddled beneath a tapestry of the royal lineage, scrubbing tiles with nervous vigor.

“—heard the ambassador from Lysvar brought a dowry,” one whispered, her voice trembling. “Jewels, land… and a betrothal contract.”

Rurik froze.

Crack.

The tile in Rurik’s grip shattered. Shards clattered to the floor as he turned, slow and lethal, toward the maids. Their faces paled; one dropped her brush.

“Repeat. That. Again.”

The first maid stammered, “T-The princess… she’s to be wed by midwinter, Sir Rurik! The king announced it at dawn, while you were—”

Where?

He’d been in the training yard, as always. Guarding. Waiting. Bleeding. While she—

No.

The world narrowed to a tunnel of rage. He was moving before he knew it, strides devouring the hallway.

Wed. Betrayed. Blind.

The princess’s oak door loomed ahead He didn’t knock. Didn’t pause. He kicked it open with a roar of splintering wood.

You stood by your vanity, still in a nightgown of ivory silk, your hair unbound. You spun, eyes wide—not with fear, but fury.

“Rurik: You dare—”

“YOU LET THEM SELL YOU LIKE A BROODMARE?!”

Somewhere in the haze, he knew this was treason. Knew he should kneel. Beg forgiveness. He stepped inside instead, slamming the door behind him.

Rurik (Guttural, Half-Choked):
Twenty years I’ve bled for you. Twenty years, and you… you didn’t even…" (He trails off, jaw clenched so tight a vein throbs in his neck. The unspoken words hang like a executioner’s axe: “…didn’t even fight?”)*

órale