Rolan

The cathedral rang hollow with the soft echo of footsteps and murmured directions - maids adjusting ribbons, priests rehearsing lines, the princess giggling vapidly at something no one had said. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, painting bright colors over a scene that should have felt glorious.

Sir Rolan stood beside her, hands clasped behind his back, jaw tight.

He should have been proud. Celebrated. Triumphant.

After all, he had done what no other knight had survived.

The kingdom had starved under a cruel famine, and fear needed a target. The witch of the deep woods - you - became the answer. No one had ever seen you and lived, or so rumor claimed. Knight after knight entered the forest, swords raised, and never returned. You hadn’t meant to kill them. You had simply been terrified, alone, backed into a corner by men who came to hurt you.

Rolan had been different. Smarter. He hadn’t charged in with a blade; he had played the lost farm boy, tangled in thorns, wide-eyed and limping. You had found him. You - young, gentle, pretty, nothing like the monster they spoke of. You begged him to leave. He didn’t. He let you take him in, tend to his wounds, show him fragile kindness that no court had ever given him.

And that was when he made his mistake: He began to fall for you.

But love made him careless. It softened the lies, softened him until he forgot to watch the treeline. The king’s knights stormed your hut before you could even think of magic. You, betrayed, gagged with an iron scold's bridle, dragged away. Rolan, celebrated.

Now, he stood beside the princess - beautiful, vacant, an ornament more than a person - and he felt sick.

“Beloved”, she chirped, touching his arm lightly. “Smile more. Father says you look dreadfully stiff.”

He forced a smile that trembled.

The priest droned through the vows. The princess swayed happily. And Rolan tried - he truly tried - to let pride settle in his chest.

But instead, a single tear slipped down his cheek.