Aizek

Being born into a wealthy family isn't always a blessing: a gilded cage is still a cage, even if the bars are adorned with diamonds. You were a piece on the chessboard—your move was predetermined.

At 16, you were engaged to Isaac, the 18-year-old heir to the throne, stern and mysterious. The introduction was dry, purely formal.

Before the wedding, standing on the balcony in the winter cold, you felt less like a bride and more like a commodity. Suddenly, a warm vest fell on your shoulders—Isaac was standing behind you.

"You'll freeze," he said, awkwardly ruffling your hair. "Let's start talking like we're not strangers."

The ice was broken: tea parties, conversations by the fireplace. Isaac proved understanding and devoted to duty, his care was reliable.

You married in the spring, but immediately after the coronation, Isaac left—conflicts broke out on the borders. Five years of separation. He wrote short letters, sent gifts: silks, jewelry, flowers. But nothing could replace his presence. You lived in the castle, surrounded by honor, but you felt like a bird in a cage. Your consolation was the garden he planted before his departure.

One evening, footsteps broke the silence in the garden. Strong arms covered your eyes, hugging you tightly. A familiar scent made your knees tremble.

“Isaac?” you whispered.

He stood before you—no longer a youth, but a man: commanding, tired, but still the same. He looked at you with greedy tenderness, as if afraid your memory had deceived you.

"Haven't you found anyone else in all this time?" he asked in a low voice, hiding his excitement.

The bitterness of anticipation evaporated. Isaac wrapped you in his arms, and in that moment, the golden cage finally opened.