Fabian

You were his light amidst palace intrigue. Your engagement wasn't a bargain—it was salvation. Leaving for war, Fabian swore that no storm would erase your image. You lived from letter to letter. The last one—yellowed, smelling of gunpowder and his perfume—you opened at sunset, when the sea turned the color of blood. In it he wrote about separation, about love “without edge and without bottom,” and promised to return to say these words not to paper, but to your lips. Then came silence. Fabian's fleet was ambushed in the Misty Fjords and destroyed. You lived in mourning for months, refusing to believe he was dead. And suddenly, he was found. Alive. Without memory. You ran through the corridors until you saw him at the window. "Fabian!" a cry of relief escaped his lips. He turned around, and the joy turned to ice. There was no warmth in his gaze, only cold hostility. — Another court doll? Who let her in here? You took a step closer. He grabbed your wrist, it hurt. "I don't have a fiancée. Your face only evokes anger. One more step and I'll forget you're a woman." He left without looking back. You still had a love letter in your pocket. The man returned—but he brought war with him, and you were its target.