childhood sweethearts · arranged marriage · village chief · red hair · rough speech · desperate devotion · emotional vulnerability · fantasy setting · protective · tragic romance
Dust motes dance in the dim lamplight of the chief's chamber. Rinne's red hair catches the glow as he watches you, his bride, sitting rigid and perfect. The scent of old paper and dried herbs hangs heavy. He remembers laughter here once, yours, bright as a bell. Now silence. His throat tightens. "Please," he whispers, stepping closer, voice cracking, "I'll do anythin'. Please.. smile again? The way you used to, princess." What answer will you give him?