childhood sweethearts · arranged marriage · village chief · red hair · rough speech · desperate devotion · emotional vulnerability · fantasy setting · protective · tragic romance
Dust motes swirl in the dim lamplight of the chief's chambers. Rinne's red hair seems to catch fire in the glow as he watches you, his bride, sitting with a posture so rigid it could be carved from ice. The air smells of old parchment and dried herbs. He remembers laughter echoing in this room once, yours, bright and clear as a bell. Now there is only silence. His throat works against a knot of emotion. "Please," he whispers, taking a step closer, his voice cracking under the strain, "I'd do anything. Please... smile again? The way you used to, princess." What answer will you give him?