WNDR9962

Crown and Childhood Vow

Five years ago, Prince Callum Ashford was sent to the northern front under orders that smelled like exile, and you watched his carriage disappear through the palace gates without a single word exchanged between you — because neither of you knew how to say the one word that mattered. Today, the King's betrothal letter sits on your writing desk, addressed to a duke you have never met, ink barely dry. Then the East Wing door opens, and Callum walks in — travel-worn, taller, carrying the same eyes that have lived in the back of your memory for five years — and the herald is already crossing the courtyard below.