Dorian

His face is sharp, with hard lines, almost sculpted by the blows of war.
The prominent jawline, the tense cheekbones, and that expression of contained anger that never quite fades.
The skin is pale from blood loss, but still retains a tense, grim glow, as if every fiber of her body were made to endure.
Her eyes…
Dark, intense, almost feverish.
They are not the eyes of a soldier, they are the eyes of a wounded beast.
There is something dangerous there, a fire that cannot be broken even by death.
The kind of gaze that is not fixed on an enemy, but on someone you love: devotion mixed with rage.
His hair falls in damp, messy clumps over his forehead, soiled by sweat and someone else's blood.
He doesn't bother to make it comfortable; he seems like the type of man who only knows rest when she's looking at him.
The armor is heavy, dark, with plates marked by blows, cuts, and ash.
He is a gentleman, yes… but one who has survived too many battles to seem noble.
Dried blood covers the edges of the metal, but on him it looks almost natural, as if the violence were part of his body.
His hands are large, strong, and calloused by the sword. Dorian does not possess the gentle beauty of a prince.
He has the dangerous beauty of a man who could destroy a kingdom for love.
A man broken inside, but impossible to bring down.

Dorian was not born to be free.
They molded him to be a weapon: cold, obedient, silent.
From childhood he learned that the heart is a hindrance and that doubt is a weakness that is paid for with blood.
And he paid many times.
He became the perfect gentleman.
The most lethal.
He who returned alone from each battle, covered in enemy blood and the little of his own that he still had left.
Nobody wanted his gaze. Nobody wanted his nearness.
Dorian was a war animal, a shadow that answered the king before the king opened his mouth.
But there was something that not even all the battles could extinguish:
she.
The princess was the only crack in his armor.
The only one who could touch him without losing her hand.
The only reason he would become human... even if only for an instant.
He was distant with everyone.
With her it was devotion, dedication, hunger.
If she breathed, he listened.
If she smiled, he broke down.
If she cried, he burned.
And although he never owned anything, she was the only treasure he wanted to protect, even from himself.
Dorian loves how he fights:
No brakes, no limits, no redemption.
He doesn't understand gentle love, waiting, or patience.
His love is obsessive, fierce, total.
A love that bites, that demands, that bleeds.
He's the kind of man who doesn't hesitate to kill…
but yes, seeing her hold another man's hand.
On the outside, he maintains the mask of the perfect soldier:
cold, serene, unwavering.
Inside, it's a storm that can't find a way out.
Loyalty and desire clash like two swords inside him, silently tearing him apart.
Dorian is not a hero.
Nor a villain.
He is a man who lost everything except the one thing the world decided to take from him.
And right there, between duty and a broken heart, his most dangerous side is born:
forbidden thoughts, silent betrayal.
The idea that if the kingdom demands that she renounce it…
then perhaps the kingdom deserves to fall.
Because Dorian loves with the same intensity with which he kills.
And when a man like that

The castle smelled of iron and ash when Dorian came running into the training yard.
I had heard the screams, the metallic clash, the sudden silence.
That silence… was the worst.
His father lay on the ground, still with his sword in his hand.
It kept oozing out between the plates of the armor, warm, thick, too red.
Dorian, inexperienced, knelt beside him.
She didn't cry.
I couldn't.
Tears were a luxury he already understood did not belong to him.
"Father..." she whispered, her voice breaking but firm.
The man opened his eyes with difficulty.
They were tough, proud.
Rough as the hands that had raised him with blows and discipline.
"Dorian," he breathed. "Listen to me... you serve the king. Not me. Not anyone else."
The boy clenched his jaw just like he did.
His father coughed with difficulty, but forced himself to continue.
—You… will be better. Stronger. More loyal. You won't fail, do you understand?
The king is everything. Everything.
Promise me.
Dorian felt something open inside his chest, something that hurt as if his heart were being ripped out with his bare hands.
But he did not back down.
It did not tremble.
He took his father's hand.
"I swear," he said, in a voice too cold for such a small child.
I swear to protect the king.
I swear to be your sword.
I swear I do not fear death.
The soldiers around remained silent.
The boy spoke as if his destiny was written in fire.
The father breathed his last, and his head fell to one side.
Dorian didn't blink.
He didn't scream.
He didn't ask for help.
He just stood up, slowly, with his father's blood still on his fingers… the same blood that one day, many years later, would stain a crown.
That afternoon, the old Dorian died.
And in its place was born the king's perfect weapon.

Dorian's hands were still marked from training when he was taken to the castle's inner garden.
He was still young, with an icy gaze, a straight back, the expression of someone who had already buried his childhood under oaths of steel.
The guards escorted him because the king wanted to "see the son of fallen man," to make sure that he was being molded correctly.
Dorian walked without taking his eyes off the ground.
He didn't want to get distracted.
He shouldn't get distracted.
But then… he heard a laugh.
A soft laugh. Small.
Like glass bells.
He raised his head.
And he saw her.
The princess.
Sitting on the grass, surrounded by flowers, she tried to place a crown of petals on the head of a cat that clearly hated her. Her pale dress was dirty, there was dirt on her knees, her hair was disheveled… and yet she shone as if the entire garden had been created just to follow her.
When he saw it, he wasn't scared.
He did not back down like the soldiers did when he stared at them too intently.
He didn't notice her rigid posture or her hands full of scars.
He did not assess whether it was useful, strong, or loyal.
He looked at him as if he were… a child.
And she smiled.
That smile was the first crack in the invisible armor he had built after his father's death.
A crack that would never close.
"What's your name?" she asked, approaching with light steps.
Dorian did not respond.
I didn't know if I was allowed to speak.
I didn't know if I should kneel.
I didn't know how to act in front of someone who wasn't the king or a soldier.
She tilted her head, curious.
He looked away, trying to ignore the strange heat rising to his cheeks.
"I am Dorian," he murmured at last, almost inaudibly.
The princess smiled even more.
—So… you are my knight.
The guards tensed up.
Him too.
My knight.
Two words.
Two words he had no right to wish for… but that marked him forever.
"I... serve the king," he replied, awkwardly, stiffly, as if those were the only words that...

...that he knew how to say.
—Yes —she said naturally—.
But one day… you will take care of me too.
TRUE?
He felt the world stop.
The blood no longer felt heavy on his hands.
The death of his father no longer burned so brightly.
And although I wasn't supposed to promise anything…
although that was not part of his loyalties…
He nodded.
Someone broken.
A young woman who didn't know the monster she had just touched.
And a destiny that was beginning to veer off course without anyone noticing.
That day, Dorian was no longer just the king's weapon.
That day, he saw the light for the first time.
And that light would, years later, be his downfall.

Dorian was still very young, yet he already carried the rigid posture of someone who wanted to be a soldier. He always walked upright, always serious… except when she appeared.
The princess appeared from the end of the corridor, her dress stained with dirt and a smile that defied all discipline.
—Dorian...—she whispered, as if summoning a secret.
He followed her. Not because he obeyed… but because his body simply went where she went.
When they reached the dark corner where the torches couldn't reach, she took his hand.
—Did you know that this is the only place in the castle where no one can find us?
At that age, Dorian didn't even fully understand what hiding meant, but he understood something fundamental:
If she wanted to be alone with him, then that place was sacred.
And he never forgot it.

One day she found him training alone in the courtyard. He had a small wooden sword and his face was covered in poorly healed bruises, cuts he had hidden from the fencing master.
"Why do you hurt yourself so much?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.
Dorian shrank back.
—I have to be strong to serve the king.
She shook her head, annoyed, as if he had said the biggest stupidity in the kingdom.
—I want you to be strong for me.
Dorian stood still. For the first time in his life, a command didn't sound like an obligation... but like a desire.
From that day on, he never trained for the king again.
I did it thinking of her.

When she was afraid of the storm, he sat behind her door all night, with the wooden sword in his hand.
She opened the door and saw him there, wet from the rain that came in through the old windows, trembling a little because he was still a child.
—Dorian… what are you doing here?
"I'll take care of you," he said, as if it were obvious.
She knelt down and hugged him tight, tight, tight.
That was the first hug of her life.
And from that day on, the idea of ​​someone else touching her like that was as unbearable as losing a war.

The castle was dark at that hour, but she walked on anyway, barefoot, with a tiny lantern that barely illuminated the stones.
"Dorian, hurry up," she whispered, turning to him.
He shouldn't have been there. The squires were asleep at that hour. But she had looked at him with those bright eyes, and he had left everything behind.
"They're going to challenge us," he said, though he continued walking.
The princess giggled softly and took his hand.
Dorian stood still for a full second. Nobody ever touched him. Not his father. Not the coaches.
When she did it… she felt her heart pounding so hard it could burst her chest.
"Don't be afraid," she said.
He wasn't afraid.
He was afraid to let her go.

She didn't know how to fight.
And yet, she stood in front of a bigger boy, chin up, defending a wounded little bird.
"Leave him alone!" he shouted.
The boy laughed.
Dorian no.
He jumped on him without thinking, without measuring his strength, without listening to anything. His blows were clumsy, ferocious, and although he ended up with a split lip, the boy ran away.
She ran towards him.
"You're hurt! Dorian, why did you do that?"
He looked down, breathing heavily.
She cupped his face in both hands.
—I don't want you to get hurt…
He trembled.
She never trembled.
Only with her.
"I don't care," she murmured. "If they hurt you, I'll..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
But she didn't understand.
Dorian, yes.
He would do anything.

The princess wept silently inside the empty chapel. Dorian entered quietly, approached her, and placed a handkerchief beside her.
She took it without looking at it.
"My mom says I'll soon have to learn to behave like a future queen," she whispered. "I won't be able to play with you anymore."
Dorian froze.
He knelt before her, as he had seen knights do before the king.
"I'm going to stay," he said, with a conviction that didn't seem to belong to someone inexperienced. "Wherever you are."
She raised her head, surprised.
—Dorian… we're just young.
He looked at her as if she were mistaken.
—It doesn't matter. I'll always take care of you. No matter what happens.
She smiled, believing it was a game.
Dorian no.
It was a promise.
One that pierced her soul and that she would never forget.

Dorian arrived at the castle drenched in S4 gr3, staggering through the shadows of the empty corridor. The armor weighed him down as if he were carrying a corpse. Each step left a dark stain on the white marble.
He didn't want anyone to see him like that.
Except for her.
The princess was in her room, with the windows open and the curtains moving like ghosts. When she heard the clang of metal against stone, she turned.
—Dorian…?
He rested an injured hand on the doorframe. He was breathing like a wounded animal. His eyes—those icy eyes that no one could decipher—gleamed the moment they saw her.
"You shouldn't have to see me like this," he murmured, forcing an awkward smile. "But I needed... to see you first."
The princess ran towards him, unafraid of the dripping fluids.
She was the only person in the kingdom who dared to touch him without expecting him to back down.
—You're hurt. Sit down, I'll help you!
"No," he stopped her, gripping her wrist with a trembling firmness. "I didn't come here for that."
Their breaths mingled.
She looked at his face, stained with dirt, wounds, and weariness.
He looked at her as if his entire life depended on that moment.
—Dorian… what did you do?
He swallowed.
He wasn't used to feeling fear. But that day, that moment, terrified him more than any war.
"I thought about you the whole time," he confessed, his voice hoarse. "Every enemy I killed... I thought that if I fell, I'd never see you again."
And it drove me crazy.
She opened her eyes, surprised, but didn't let go of him.
The drumming of the rain began outside.
Inside, only their breathing and the clinking of the armor trembling on their bodies could be heard.
—Dorian, you're saying things that…
-No.
He didn't let her finish.
He took a step toward her. The blood of his chest brushed against the princess's dress, staining it. He didn't care. Neither did she.
—I don't know how to love properly —she whispered—. I was taught to love, to obey, to be a monster.
But with you…
With you I'm a different person.
Something I don't understand at all.
...

She lowered her gaze, nervous, feeling her heart racing.
—Dorian…
He grabbed her hand and brought it to his face.
That gesture that only allowed her.—I want you to be my owner.
The phrase landed like a forbidden weight between them.
—I don't want to be free of you. I don't want anyone ordering me around except you.
If you ask me to die, I will die.
If you ask me to live, I will live.
A tremor ran through his hand, but he didn't let go.
She felt something inside her chest break and rebuild itself at the same time.
—Dorian… why are you telling me this now?
—Because I thought I was going to die today. And I don't want to leave without you knowing.
Without you knowing that… —he inhaled with difficulty— I love you like crazy.
Like a man who no longer distinguishes between devotion and sin.
She looked at him. Long, deeply.
And then, in an impulsive, forbidden, desperate act… she hugged him.
His blood soaked her.
His body tensed… and broke at the same time.
"Don't say that..." she whispered, trembling. "Not if you don't mean it."
Dorian rested his forehead on his neck, almost falling to his knees.
—I always meant it.
Since we were children.
And there, amidst the smell of iron, rain, and fear… she kissed him.
It was gentle at first.
Then came hunger.
Then came surrender.
When they separated, he rested his head against her chest, breathing as if that moment was the first time in his entire life that he could feel peace.
—So… —she murmured, stroking his damp hair— am I yours?
Dorian looked up, his eyes burning with a mixture of love and pure obsession.
-No.
You are not mine.
—He took her hand and placed it on his heart, beating wildly.
—I am yours. Forever.
And so, that night, bloodshot and trembling…
They were boyfriend and girlfriend.
But it wasn't a youthful pact.
It was a dangerous promise.
A bond that was never going to be completely broken.
A bond that, years later, at the wedding…
I was going to destroy them both.

It was a night without guards and without a crown.
Just the two of them.
The princess had escaped from her lessons, and Dorian was waiting for her in the inner garden, where they had always met since childhood. He was leaning against the stone wall, his sword resting beside him, as if even there he could not help but protect her.
"You're late," he murmured, but his voice held no reproach. Only a relief he couldn't hide.
She smiled and came closer, and Dorian… Dorian changed.
As always when it was just for her, her posture relaxed, her shoulders stopped looking like they were made of steel, and she breathed a little deeper, as if she could finally live.
"My knight," she said, and he lowered his head as if in prayer.
She cupped his face in her hands, warm from the run he'd made to see her. He closed his eyes, not out of embarrassment… but because the feel of her fingers was too much.
Too sweet for someone who was born to kill.
"You know," the princess whispered. "Sometimes I think you look at me as if I have the whole world inside me."
He opened his eyes. He looked at her as if it were true.
"Because you have it," he replied with a sincerity he never expressed in public.
She giggled softly and hugged him around the neck. Dorian held her by the waist with a force he couldn't control; as if he feared she would disappear if he loosened his grip.
"Dorian... you're going to break me," she said, laughing.
"I'm sorry. It's just that…" He buried his forehead in her neck, breathing her in, as if he needed to memorize her forever. "I don't know how to love gently."
The princess took him by the chin and forced him to look at her.
—Then love me however you can. I'll hold you up.
And he kissed her.
It was a kiss that didn't know how to be small or quiet.
It was hunger, need, devotion.
She laughed against his lips and he almost fell apart, because no one else could get something like that out of him.
"If they ever ask me to leave you," she murmured, playing with her hair, "promise me you won't do anything crazy."
He remained still. Very still.
Her eyes darkened. "I can't promise that."

The altar is not a sacred place for him; it is a torture chamber where every second tears a piece of his soul away.
The murmur of the temple becomes a thick hum, as if the world were receding, leaving him with only a single fixed image: her.
The white dress hurts her eyes.
He finds it offensive, almost cruel, that something so pure could be so far out of his reach.
He feels the armor, still damp, sticking to his skin.
That, both the external and the internal, reminds him of what he is:
a tool, a monster, a shadow.
Quite the opposite of what she deserves.
When he sees her move toward another man, a chill runs down his spine. His muscles tense as if waiting for an order that never comes.
A scream is born in her throat that she will never utter.
Inside, it breaks down.
His heart is beating fast. Too fast.
As if he wanted to pierce her ribs to run towards her.
It feels like an impossible mix:
rage, devotion, jealousy, guilt, adoration, pain.
A perfect storm.
Part of him wants to explode, rip out the sword, and smash through the altar if necessary.
Another part —the one she touched as a child, the one she unknowingly saved— just wants to see her happy.
Even if it's with someone else.
When he walks past him and doesn't look at him, something tears apart.
It is a silent, deep pain that does not bleed outwards… but inside it corrodes him.
Dorian wants to shout at him: “Look at me. Just once. Or I won’t be able to breathe.”
But he can't.
So he bows his head like the perfect soldier he doesn't want to be.
Inside, she repeats his name like a forbidden prayer.
His heart, the one he always believed to be dead, beats violently, like a caged animal.
And as the prince takes his hand, Dorian feels that this gesture is a death sentence.
There, in that instant, he understands everything:
She will lose it.
She will lose it and no one in the kingdom will know.
But he will look with her.
And at the same time, another thought is born, dark, fearsome, burning:
“If the kingdom wants to take her from me…”
then I will seize the kingdom."

The dress is heavy on her.
Not because of the fabrics, nor because of the jewels, but because of the lie.
Each step towards the altar sounds hollow, false, as if it were not her advancing but a shadow disguised as a princess.
Her breathing is trembling, but she's smiling. She has to smile.
The kingdom is watching her.
And then he sees it.
Dorian.
Kneeling beside the other knights, his armor covered in red liquid… and cool.
He knows that no one asks him where he comes from; no one would dare.
He is the king's weapon.
But she met him before that.
She met him when he still knew how to smile.
His heart stumbles inside his chest.
For a moment —a tiny one— he feels like he's going to fall.
Not because of wedding nerves.
For him.
Because Dorian is there… and he doesn't look at her.
That breaks her more than anything else.
He was always looking at her.
Always.
Ever since they were children, ever since he used to accompany her through the hidden gardens.
Since they only held hands when no one was looking.
Ever since she promised him, in a low, trembling voice, that he would be hers.
Yours alone.
And for a time it was.
He was hers.
And she belonged to him.
Until they were no longer allowed to be.
The princess swallows hard.
His throat is burning.
She knows that if she looks at Dorian for too long…
Something is going to break.
Inside it.
Inside it.
Within the kingdom.
That's why he looks away.
Because if she finds them, even for a second, she will be unable to marry another man.
The prince is kind.
Correct.
Appropriate.
But it's not Dorian.
He is not the man who loved her with a desperation that hurt.
He is not the man who kissed her hands as if they were an altar.
He is not the man who would have given his life —and something even darker— for her.
The prince offers her his hand.
She feels the trembling in her own. It's not excitement. It's not happiness.
It's fear.
Fear that Dorian will rise.
Fear that he won't do it.
Fear of losing him forever.
Fear that he will do something terrible out of love for her.
Fear that he won't do it... and will be destroyed from within.
And then, for a moment, her gaze wanders.

Dorian is not just one of the king's knights; he is his closest shadow and his silent judge. For years he has been at his side on campaigns, protecting him, obeying every order… but not without resentment. In public, he bows his head and smiles deferentially, the perfect model of loyalty; in private, his gaze burns with a fire no one sees. He knows the king's secrets, his weaknesses, his fears, and that knowledge makes him both indispensable and dangerous.
Sometimes Dorian feels he is more king than the king himself: he maintains control over the lives of those around him, silently deciding who lives and who dies, yet he can never openly claim that power. And yet, despite the distance and the resentment, there is a strange, almost visceral bond: the king trusts him more than he trusts anyone, and Dorian, in a twisted way, respects that trust… even as he dreams of a day when the rules will be different.
“I know your secrets better than you do, and yet you choose me.”