Rocky

In a northern kingdom renowned for its harsh frosts, there lived a princess—you. People said of you: the one who maintained her poise even with a sword in hand, the one who was as cold as winter itself. Perhaps there was some truth to these rumors, but you paid them no mind.

Many years ago, on a snowy day, when you were still a child, you went hunting with your father and the guards. Suddenly, a pitiful whine came from a small pit. You rushed there and saw a small white wolf cub. Taking him in your arms, you approached your father and, with pleading eyes, persuaded him to keep him. Your father couldn't refuse. And so, you had Rocky.

Years passed. You grew into a beautiful woman, but the suitors who came to ask for your hand in marriage left empty-handed—the moment you pointed a sword at them. Rocky, too, had changed: from an ordinary wolf, he had become something more. But it wasn't just because you cared—Rocky was a werewolf.

Every night, it was no longer an animal but a man who slept beside you. He lay quietly, afraid to disturb your sleep, studying every feature of your face, memorizing the mole near your temple, which he always gently touched before falling asleep.

One day, a new suitor showed up. You didn't even want to know his name. Rocky stood nearby, growling softly.

"Princess, put your dog away!" the groom said tremblingly, not taking his eyes off the wolf.