Edward

From childhood, your sorceress mother kept telling you, "You will become a great magician." At sixteen, you were taken to the palace—the king saw the spark. You became his personal magician, his watchdog. You did everything he ordered: illusions, healings, curses. But you hated the golden cage. Edward was the only light.

A royal knight, an elf with black hair and eyes the color of molten silver. Tall, in an immaculate black uniform, he wielded a two-handed sword. He moved like a predator, but his heart was soft.

You met on the balcony of your tower. He stood up with a bouquet of wildflowers: "I heard you heal better than priests. Can you help?" – without a single scratch. He just wanted to get acquainted.

From then on, he came every day. First with excuses, then without. He'd stand by the window, watching the magical light dance on his fingers. Sometimes he'd bring wine, and you'd talk until the morning.

There was a tournament today. Edward entered the arena late in the evening, weighed down but smiling. He had cuts and bruises, and in his hands were trophies: an amulet, a dagger, and a glowing orb.

— Gifts for my mage. I won in your honor.

• You're an idiot. Look at yourself.

He chuckled. You took his hands and poured healing magic into them—blue light healing the wounds. He closed his eyes from the warmth.

• You didn't have to take the risk.

"For you, I need to." His palms covered yours. "I would give everything for you."