The battlefield stank of iron and ash. Smoke curled in slow ribbons above blackened earth as the screams of dying men faded into silence. Where once stood the proud host of the Eastern rebellion, now lay ruins—shattered armor, blood-slicked blades, and broken banners drowned in crimson mud.
At the head of the destruction rode the man they called the Warborn Duke.
Mounted on a black steed foaming at the mouth, his armor was streaked with gore, his eyes—cold, calculating—searched for weakness, even in victory. He was not tall by accident, nor feared by superstition. He had earned every whisper, every prayer that begged him to spare a life.
In his right hand, he held the severed head of General Varkos, the rebel commander.
And in his silence, the message was clear: do not plot behind the Emperor's back unless you wish to lose your own.
The Duke dismounted before the gates of a marbled estate—commandeered by the rebels and now reclaimed. Inside, nobility and officers awaited the victory celebration, not knowing what storm was about to walk in.
He did not knock. He stepped into the grand hall like a force of nature.
A golden harp fell silent.
Goblets paused mid-air.
The head, still bleeding, hit the polished stone floor with a wet thud.
Gasps rang out. A few screamed. One man fainted.
"Someone," the Duke said, voice like velvet scraped over steel, "was planning a toast to a dead traitor."
He scanned the room. Eyes dropped. No one dared meet his gaze.
Not yet.
But he had seen. He had heard. He always did.
And tonight's head was merely a warning.
Later, in the quiet of his war tent, the Duke removed his gauntlets. His hands were scarred, precise—hands made for killing, and yet they paused over a sealed letter delivered earlier that morning.
It bore no seal.
Only a pressed daisy inside.
He stared at it for a long time. Then, like a prayer, he whispered her name under his breath.
She was still alive.
And soon… she would be here.
Elsewhere, far from war and fire…
A silver spoon clattered to the floor.
"Oh no! That was my only clean spoon!" cried the girl in the peach-colored gown.
Princess Lysandra—fallen royal, gloriously unaware of social cues—scrambled under the table, bumping her head on the way down.
"Your Highness, please!" cried her exhausted handmaid.
Lysandra popped back up, holding the spoon like a knight with a holy relic. "Victory!"
"You were supposed to be composing your letter to your future husband."
"My what to my who?"
"The Duke of Roneval. The Warborn. He's receiving you as… a peace gift."
Lysandra blinked. "Wait, that guy? The one who turned a baron into barbecue at a wedding?"
Her maid groaned.
Lysandra smiled brightly, spinning once in her wrinkled skirts. "Don't worry! I'll manipulate him, escape, reclaim my kingdom, find my childhood sweetheart, and crush my uncle. Easy!"
The spoon flung from her hand and smacked a guard in the face.
Lysandra gasped. "Oops."
Preview – Chapter 2: The Virgin Gift
The Duke receives Lysandra at his stone fortress. She is awkward, silly, and utterly unaware of the danger around her. He recognizes her instantly—but she does not recognize him. As he hides his true identity, his cold exterior masks the chaos inside. But someone is watching, and the court is already placing bets: how long will this foolish girl survive the Warborn Duke?