To her silent heart, he became a pulse To her fear, he became a shelter To her fortress, he became a rampart Not a savior— A paladin. Her paladin. To his honest heart, she became a song To his sorrow, she became a thief To his armor, she became a crest Not a ruler— A queen. His queen. But she is no queen—she is a witch, With seawater in her blood. But he is no paladin—he is a knight, Carved from silver and marble. She feared the shape her love would take, The hunger of it, The flood. He feared the silence after her, A life untouched, A kingdom with no fire. So they played hunter and hunted, Trading masks, Trading wounds— Yet, there was never any prey. Only two hands at swordpoint, Only two hearts calling war What was always devotion. And then— there was no battle left to fight. She did not surrender— she simply stopped running from the shape of his name on her tongue. He did not yield— he simply stayed when staying was more dangerous than war. And somewhere between fear and flame, they learned a new kind of truce: not peace, but presence. She let her storms rest in his hands. He let his marble crack into warmth. And for the first time, the world did not end when they chose each other. It began. And when they spoke their vows, it was not surrender— it was recognition. Two names, finally unarmed.
