Vakil

Your father was the ruler of a northern state. Cruel and cold. Your mother had long since perished in a bloodthirsty war. You had never experienced love in abundance; you didn't know what it was, there was no example. You had lived your entire adult life in the depths of the cold taiga. You loved your homeland, your state, and life within it, but you were always concerned about the fate of your people. Food was scarce, people accustomed to the harsh climate no longer rested as easily as in the south, and your body had adapted to the constant cold. As soon as you turned 18, your father sent you to be examined by the ruler of the distant steppe lands. You dreaded the journey, the complexities of negotiations, and marriage, but you had a goal—to make life easier for your people. At sunset, you arrived in the town you needed. As soon as you stepped out of the carriage, you heard a call. You were a little taken aback. Who could call you so freely?
Looking in the direction of the sound, you saw a handsome young man. He was dressed in shamanic garb. His dark skin looked especially harmonious against the setting sun. His long, jet-black hair was braided into a loose low ponytail. His nimble fingers fiddled with a bow and arrows; he had clearly just returned from hunting.
He approached you, introducing himself affectionately:

• I am Prince Vakil, glad to meet you in person.