Chapter 1: Love That Shouldn’t Be

MAIN CHARACTERS FROM CHAPTER 1 WITH THEIR NAMES AND AGES:

MALACH

- Age: 28

- Role: A knight who serves the king, queen, and their son, the crown prince. Malach is a man of few words, often appearing cold and distant due to his years of training as a warrior. His loyalty is unshakeable, but his mind is constantly burdened by the violence he’s been a part of.

- Personality: He is strong, disciplined, and Carrie’s a deep sense of duty. However, the weight of his past actions and his failures during missions weigh on him, making him a complex character.

- Appearance: Tall, broad-shoukdered, with sharp features and dark eyes. His long black hair is often tied back, and his armor is well-maintained but weathered from battles.

ELIANA

- Age: Healer in the palace, though she isn’t noble birth. Eliana tends to the royal family’s wounds but has little respect for the politics or high-rankings members of the court. She was trained on healing arts but is known for her blunt attitude and sharp tongue.

- Personality: Strong-willed, independent, and un afraid to speak her mind. While she cares deeply for those she tends to, she doesn’t allow herself to be intimidated by those in power. She has a sense of calmness in moments of crisis m, which makes her an effective healer.

- Appearance: She has long brown hair, often braided or tied back, and striking green eyes. Her face is gentle but stern, and she Carrie’s herself with a quiet authority.

EZRA (MINOR CHARACTER)

- Age: 30

- Role: A palace servant, tasked with assisting knights like Malach. He is strong and loyal, often caught between the nobles and the knights, trying to keep the peace.

- Personality: Helpful, straightforward, and pragmatic. While he’s accustomed to the palace life, he knows when to push back and when to stay silent.

- Appearance: Muscular build, with short-cropped brown hair and a solid presence. His eyes are dark brown, and he always Carrie’s a stern but warm expression.

THIS IS NOT AN MAIN CHATACTER BUT IMPORTANT….

STEWARD

He is a servant or official responsible for helping manage royal affairs, like delivering messages, organizo staff, or making sure orders from the king, queen, or prince are carried out.

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The sound of hooves echoed through the grand courtyard, the rhythm steady but heavy. The gates creaked open, and the royal guards parted, letting the riders pass through. A dozen knights, their armor caked in mud, blood, and the weight of a battle lost, rode in under the shadow of the towering palace walls. The palace, once a place of glittering gold and opulence, now seemed a distant memory — the weight of war and blood staining everything it touched.

At the head of the column, Sir Malach rode in last. His cloak flared in the wind, but his face was hidden beneath the shadows of his hood. He had always been a man of few words, but today, there was nothing to say. His sword, darkened with dried blood, hung at his side, a silent testament to what had happened. His dark black hair, matted with sweat, hung loosely around his face. He was 28, a knight who had fought in wars and seen horrors that few could imagine. But even he could feel quietness in the air as they rode through the courtyard, as if the palace itself was waiting for him to return, not as a hero, but as a failure.

The gates of the palace was still grand, towering over the surrounding city, a fortress of stone that had withstood centuries. But Malach had long stopped seeing it as a place of refuge. Inside walls were the same faces, the same duties — and, now, the same death. His body aches from the battle, the cut on his shoulder deep and raw. His mission had failed, and he was too tired to care.

As the knights dismounted, the noise of the courtyard grew louder with servants rushing forward to tend to their wounded. Ezra, a palace servant, approached quickly, his eyes scanning Malach’s form. He was a solid man, built like boulder, with short-cropped brown hair and solid presence.

– Ezra — Sir Malach, you’ve returned. You’re wounded.

Ezra (looking over him)

Malach didn’t respond at first, his gaze fixed on the high tower in the distance, the symbol of his servitude to the royal family. His face, like his silence, remained a mystery.

– Malach — It’s nothing.

Malach (his voice low, almost drowned out by the sounds of the crowd)

Ezra frowned, his brow furrowing as he looked at the blood soaking though Malach’s armor.

– Ezra — Nothing? That’s a lie. The court healers will need to.

– Malach — No need. Take me to the east wing. I’ll manage.

Malach (his tone cutting though Ezra’s protests, his voice still distant)

Ezra hesitated but nodded, guiding him though the marble corridors. The servants scattered as they passed, the whispers following them like a shadow. The palace had once been filled with laughter, music, and the clink of wine glasses. Now, it was just the distant echo of footsteps and the murmurs of people who feared what was coming.

As they passed the grand hall, the sound of an old, familiar voice caught Malach’s attention.

– Prince Alaric — What happened to you, knight?

A voice from behind.

He turned slightly, meeting the gaze of Prince Alaric, the heir to the throne, standing at the top of the stairs. The prince was young, barely twenty, but already his eyes carried the weight of ambition. He was dressed in fine skills, a stark contrast to Malach’s battle-worm armor.

Malach didn’t speak. He simply lowered his head, acknowledging the prince with a slight nod. His thoughts were far from the prince’s grand plans, his mind instead consumed with the faces of the men who hadn’t made it back from the mission.

– Prince Alaric — Take him to the healer.

Prince Alaric (sighing as he turned away)

The words lingered in the air, but Malach wasn’t paying attention anymore. Ezra led him away, his boots cliking against the stone floor in rhythm with his thoughts. He didn’t need the prince’s pity, nor the healer’s touch. What he needed was an end to the endless war.

When they reached the small, tucked-away room in the east wing, Ezra motioned for Malach to sit.

– Ezra — Elina should be here shortly. she’ll tend to that wound.

Ezra (gesturing to the bed)

Malach sat without a word, his eyes distant. The flames in the heart crackled softly, casting long shadows across the stone walls. He let out a deep breath, trying to fight off the overwhelming sense of fatigue. But it was more than just the exhaustion. It was the weight of failure. The weight of a duth he had failed to uphold.

The door opened, and a soft voice cut through the silence.

– Eliana — You’re not supposed to be here.

Eliana (entering, her tone sharp but not unkind)

She was tall, with dark brown hair pulled back into a simple braid, her eyes focused and calculating. Her hands were steady as she closed the door behind her, her eyes flickering over Malach’s form. At 24, Eliana was a woman with the air of someone who had seen far too much of life’s darker side, yet still held a sharp edge to her tongue and steady hand for healing. She has been brought to the palace as a healer, but her reputation has grown beyond that — people whispered about her bluntness and disregard for the court’s formalities.

He didn’t move, not even when she stepped closer. Her fingers grazed his shoulder as she unbuckled his armor with the practiced hands of someone who had it a thousand times before.

She paused for a moment, meeting his eyes.

– Eliana — Knights always think they can carry the weight of the world on their own.

Eliana (her voice quiet but laced with aoemthing sharp)

Malach didn’t respond. The silence between them stretched, thick and uncomfortable.

– Eliana — Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse.

Eliana (setting to work in his wound, cleaning it carefully)

He watched her hands, delicate but precise. There was something about the way she moves — a sense of purpose. A calmness that was foreign to him. It made him uneasy. Knights were used to the chaos of battle, the adrenaline of survival. But her stillness… it was like the quiet before a storm. A silence that unsettled him.

– Malach — You’re the healer, then?

Malach (his voice barely above a whisper)

She didn’t look at him as she worked, but he could see her lips curve into the faintest of smiles.

– Eliana — I’ve been called worse things.

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He had heard rumors about her — that she had been brought to the palace to tend to the royal family, but that she wants just a simple healer. That she has a sharp tongue and no patience for the politics of the court. Something about her reminded him of the battlefields — raw, unyielding.

Eliana finished her work and stepped back, her hands wiping the blood from the cloth.

– Eliana — That should hold for now. But if you want to keep the use of that arm, you’ll need to take it easy for a while.

He nodded slowly, though the idea of resting seemed imposible. He wasn’t one to sit idly by.

– Malach — I don’t need rest.

Eliana’s eyes flicked up to meet his.

– Eliana — Knights like you always think you’re invincible. But even the strongest armor breaks.

He looked at there then, he gaze piercing though the heavy silence that had followed. For the first time, he felt something more than the weight of his wounds.

– Malach — What’s your name?

Eliana paused for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she spoke, her voice steady but carrying a note of something unspoken.

– Eliana — Eliana (she said)

Their eyes locked for a moment — a brief flash of aoemthing between them. The tension was almost palpable, as if the air had shifted.

But before either could say anything more, there was a knock at the door. The moment broke.

– Steward — Eliana, the prince demands your presence.

She didn’t look back at Malach as she gathered her things, but she spoke as she turned.

– Eliana — Rest, knight. You’re not as invincible as you think.

And with that, she left.

Malach sat in the silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire. His wound throbbed, but it was the words she had spoken that lingered in his mind.

He wasn’t invincible. Not anymore.

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