Shackled To The Enemy King

Catherine remembered.

Not all at once, but slowly, like something long buried rising through layers of time, each fragment slipping into place with a clarity that made her breath catch.

It had been evening.

Autumn.

The kind of evening where the air turned sharp, where the light softened into gold just before it disappeared entirely. She had been in Dorian’s barracks then, standing beside him as she always did, her place fixed at his side whether she wished it or not.

She remembered the map spread before them, the general’s voice filled with certainty as he spoke of the mountain pass, of the perfect ambush they had laid out, of how Maximilian’s army would have no choice but to walk straight into it.

And she had disagreed, quietly, carefully, but firmly, and privately... to Dorian at dinner.

Maximilian wouldn’t be that careless. Wouldn’t walk blindly into something so obvious. She had known that much, even then.

But Dorian hadn’t listened. He trusted his generals more than her. ’Leave the war strategies to the generals,’ he has said.

The ambush had been set.

And they had waited.

All day.

The soldiers hidden within the pass had grown restless, then tired, then irritated. The stillness stretched too long, the silence too heavy, until even the sharpest instincts dulled under the weight of waiting for something that never came.

Until...

There had been a sound... Soft at first, almost... unnatural.

Water.

Before anyone could understand, before orders could be shouted or formations could be broken, it came.

Not as a trickle.

Not as a warning.

But as a force.

A river, diverted, controlled, and unleashed, rushed through the pass with devastating precision, tearing through the hidden soldiers, drowning the ambush before it could even take form. Armor weighed them down, panic scattered them, and the narrow passage that had been meant to trap Maximilian’s army became their own grave.

Catherine remembered standing there, watching it unfold.

Shock.

Awe.

Disbelief.

It had been... monumental.

Something she had only ever read about in history—tactics attributed to kings and conquerors long gone. And yet, she had witnessed it with her own eyes, seen it executed not by some distant legend, but by someone she had once known in a completely different light.

That boy.

That infuriating, mischievous boy who used to annoy her endlessly, who stole her snacks, who made her bristle with every teasing remark... that annoying kitten...

He had done this.

But it hadn’t ended there.

Because before the chaos had even settled, before the cries had faded into silence, he had come.

From the mountains.

Descending with only a select few by his side.

The setting sun burned behind them, casting long shadows, turning the entire moment into something almost unreal. His knights moved in formation around him, protective, disciplined, trying, she remembered this clearly, to convince him to wear his helmet before stepping onto the battlefield.

He hadn’t listened.

He never did, when it came to that.

And so she saw him clearly.

For the first time since her mother’s death.

His hair had grown longer, falling to his shoulders, catching the golden light as it moved with the wind. There was something untamed about it, something that only made the image sharper—the way he moved, the way his sword cut through armor and flesh with precision, the way his presence alone shifted the battlefield.

He was no longer that boy. No longer anything soft or harmless.

And in that moment... She had thought it, clear as day.

Not a kitten anymore.

A lion.

A golden lion.

Leon Aureus.

The name had stayed with her.

Later, in the plains, she had heard a bard singing of the battle, weaving Maximilian’s victory into something larger than life. He hadn’t known who she was, hadn’t known that the queen of Velmont stood before him, listening.

And it had been her, who had suggested the name.

Leon Aureus.

Because it fit. Because it sounded right. Because it felt right.

The bard had taken it, shaped it into his song, and that song had spread, growing beyond them, beyond that moment, until it became something known across lands. She had heard later that Maximilian himself had rewarded the bard—land, cattle, recognition—for that very song.

Cantus de Leon Aureus.

The Song of the Golden Lion.

And Dorian... Dorian had not escaped that history untouched.

He had not only lost that battle, he had been remembered for it. Mocked. Reduced to something lesser in comparison. The Golden Lion had risen, and he had been left behind, whispered about as the man who fled before the flood.

Catherine had pitied him, in some distant, detached way.

But she had never told him, never told anyone, that the name had come from her and that she had been the one to give Maximilian that title.

And that night...

Her hands tightened unconsciously.

Dorian had been different.

Not cruel in a way that left marks, not violent in a way that could be named, but forceful enough that it lingered, enough that she had felt it, carried it quietly, without ever speaking of it.

The memory darkened at the edges.

But before it could pull her deeper... she felt gentle and present warmth. Maximilian’s hands were on her shoulders, anchoring her, pulling her back.

Catherine blinked, her breath uneven as the past released its hold, the present settling around her once more.

And when she looked at him now...

She wasn’t just seeing the man before her.

She was seeing the boy he had been, the king he had become... and the name she had once given him, without ever imagining she would stand here again, remembering it like this.

"I gave you that name..." she said, her voice quieter now, as though the weight of the memory had settled somewhere deep inside her chest. "Not the bard... me."

For a brief moment, she almost expected confusion.

Or denial.

But Maximilian only smiled.

"I know," he said.

There was no hesitation in it. No surprise. Just quiet certainty—as though this had never been a question to him at all.

Catherine blinked at him, caught off guard. "No way," she said, a soft, incredulous laugh slipping through despite everything she had just remembered. "Did the bard tattle on me?" Her eyes narrowed playfully, suspicion flickering through the lingering intensity. "Or did you investigate?"

Maximilian shook his head once.

"I was there."

The answer landed between them, simple... and devastating in its implication.

Catherine’s breath caught.

Because suddenly, all those scattered moments, those times she had felt watched, those strange instincts that had told her she wasn’t entirely alone even in enemy territory, began to rearrange themselves into something far more tangible.

Real.

Every time she had turned away from him in fear, convinced he would one day become her end...

He had been there.

Not as a threat.

But as a shield.

Watching, guarding... like a silent guard.

Maximilian remembered that evening clearly. He had stood among the villagers in plain clothes, unnoticed, his gaze fixed only on her. He had expected anger, perhaps bitterness, when the bard began to sing of Velmont’s defeat. He had braced himself for it.

But she hadn’t reacted that way.

She had listened. Quietly. Thoughtfully.

And then, she had done something he had never anticipated.

She had added to it.

A single phrase, offered so naturally, so carelessly, as if she had no idea what it would become.

Leon Aureus.

A name that would echo across kingdoms.

A name that would follow him into history.

A name that had come from her.

"Were you always watching over me?" she asked softly.

There was no accusation in her tone. No discomfort. Only something gentler... something searching, trying to understand all the spaces in between what had been and what she had believed.

Maximilian didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face, his fingers lingering just a fraction longer than necessary as he tucked it behind her ear.

That small gesture said more than words could.

Because yes—he had been there.

Long before she knew it.

Long before she would have accepted it.

That evening had stayed with him, etched into memory with a clarity that time had never managed to dull. He had thought she despised him, that every glance she spared him in the past had been filled with irritation at best, hatred at worst.

But that smile... That small, absentminded curve of her lips as she shaped the name that would define him...

It had undone something in him.

It had given him something dangerously fragile.

Hope.

And from that moment on, he had carried it with him, through war, through blood, through silence.

It had been enough to keep him steady enough to breathe, enough to endure.

A sharp chime broke through the quiet.

Catherine flinched slightly, the present rushing back in all at once, her emotions still too large, too tightly packed within her to make sense of. She needed a moment—something to anchor herself before she unraveled completely.

"It’s from Dorian," she said, glancing down at her phone, grateful for the interruption even as her chest still felt too full.

She turned the screen toward Maximilian. "I blocked his number... he’s sending emails now."

Maximilian leaned slightly closer, his gaze settling on the message.

And then—slowly—his lips curved.

Not into warmth.

But into something far more dangerous.