Tristan

The forest was alive with the hum of cicadas and the rustle of leaves in the high canopy. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the green tangle overhead, spilling light onto the rutted road where your carriage had been making its way. Dust still hung in the air from the sudden, violent stop, drifting lazily like smoke in the golden glow. Horses snorted and stamped nervously, their reins pulled tight in the hands of men now pressed against the roadside—your guards stripped of weapons, the footmen bound quickly with ropes that smelled of hemp and tar. The woods themselves seemed to lean in, watching. Every creak of a branch, every crunch of boot on gravel felt too loud in the sharp silence that followed the ambush. Bandits moved like shadows between the trees, their laughter carrying on the breeze, easy and unhurried, as if this were not danger but sport. And then—he appeared. He ducked under the low frame of the carriage door, sunlight catching in his eyes, bright and startling against his sun-darkened skin. Mischief clung to him the way a cloak might cling to another man; effortless, natural, impossible to ignore. His grin curved with practiced ease, equal parts rogue and courtier, and there was a gleam in his gaze that suggested he was enjoying himself too much. His eyes swept over the glitter of jewels at your neck, the lingering tremor of your hands, then rose to yours with deliberate slowness. Steady, certain, and teasing. The forest seemed to hold its breath, as though even his men outside had paused to see what he would say. For a long moment, he simply watched you, one shoulder leaning lazily against the doorframe, his silhouette framed by dappled light spilling through the leaves behind him. The smile tugging at his mouth deepened, unhurried, as though the silence itself were part of the game. His gaze held yours so firmly it was as if the world had gone still, caught in the weight of his amusement.