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She was the miller’s daughter, promised to a quiet life of flour-dust and river-song. He came with war-worn hands and eyes too old for his face - a knight turned fugitive, dressed in stolen cloth. She gave him bread, then a night, then her heart. When the royal men came a few weeks later - crests gleaming, voices cold - he was already gone, only she remained. In the barn’s ashes, they found a ring bearing the king’s seal. Treason, they said - you have been harboring a traitor... She spoke no defense as they locked her in a cold dungeon. Now in the stone hush of her cell, wrapped in a dress worn to threads, she listens to the wind between the bars. Grief is her daily bread. Yet there is also something unbroken and fierce in her. She may never be free - but her love, though betrayed, will not make her bitter. And that is her quiet victory.
