Chapter 1

In the ancient Kingdom of Francia, where stone castles rose like solemn guardians over rolling hills and dense forests, Princess Christina led a life of quiet seclusion within the grand palace of her father, King Hugh. At eighteen, she was the epitome of untouched grace—slender and pale, with long golden hair that fell in waves down her back, often bound in simple braids beneath a veil. Her days were a gentle rhythm of prayer in the chapel, delicate embroidery in the solar, and lessons in scripture with the palace nuns. From the tender age of twelve, she had taken a solemn vow of chastity before the entire court, kneeling at the altar with wide, innocent eyes. She had promised her purity to the Church, to remain forever untouched by the sins of the flesh. Back then, the words had meant little more than a pretty oath, a way to please her pious mother and earn the admiring glances of the courtiers. Even now, the concept of carnal union was a complete mystery to her—a vague, forbidden shadow mentioned only in hushed warnings about the world’s wickedness. She had never felt the urge to explore her body, never slipped a curious hand beneath her shift in the dark of night. Masturbation, desire, the very idea of coupling—these were foreign lands she had no map for. Her vow was her pride, a shining armor that made her feel exalted, closer to the divine than any earthly pleasure could offer.

Two weeks prior, the palace had buzzed with rare excitement. Sir Aldric, a knight who had vanished into the border wars years ago when Christina was still a child, had returned victorious. She barely remembered him from those earlier days—a quiet, low-ranked guardsman who lingered in the barracks, far beneath the notice of the royal family. But now, everything had changed. The great hall had been packed for his knighting ceremony, banners fluttering in the draft from high windows, the air thick with incense and the murmur of anticipation.

Sir Aldric strode in like a force of nature. He stood six-foot-five, his broad frame forged in battle—shoulders wide enough to fill a doorway, arms corded with muscle that rippled beneath his fitted tunic, a chest that strained the laces of his shirt. His dark hair was cropped short, framing a face etched with quiet intensity: sharp jaw, piercing gray eyes that seemed to see straight through a person, and a mouth that rarely smiled but promised depths when it did. Scars traced faint lines across his knuckles and neck, badges of the wars he’d won for the king. As he knelt before the throne to receive his honors—elevated to the highest rank, named Head of the King’s Guard, and granted lavish quarters in the royal wing itself—the women of the court could scarcely contain themselves. Ladies fanned themselves a little too vigorously, their cheeks flushing as they stole glances. Servants whispered behind hands, eyes lingering on the way his breeches hugged powerful thighs. Even the queen’s own attendants had stumbled over their words when he passed close.