Under The Oak Tree Manga Page

Her lips parted in shock. A tear spilled down her cheek. "B-but you… you sleep on the f-floor."

Years later, the beast had conquered a dragon, earned a title, and returned to claim his dove. Their marriage was a decree from the King, a political bandage for the volatile Anatol region. But for Riftan, it was the fever dream of a lifetime.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaustion pulling at his limbs. The day had been brutal. A patrol had been ambushed by monstrous orcs from the Dragon’s Grave Pass. Three men dead. He had spent the afternoon burying them, his hands blistered from the shovel. All he wanted was to collapse. But more than that, he wanted to touch her. Just a brush of his fingers against her cheek. Just to feel her warmth.

"R-Riftan," she said, her voice a soft, scratchy whisper. "Y-you are l-late." Under The Oak Tree Manga

The word "broken" hit him like a mace to the chest. He rose to his feet in a single, fluid motion, crossing the room before he could stop himself. He knelt before her chair, so close he could count the freckles on her nose.

He saw the flicker of hurt in her eyes before she lowered her head. "As… as you wish."

He walked to the fireplace and crouched down, pretending to stoke the flames. "Maxi," he began, his voice low. "Are you… are you happy here?" Her lips parted in shock

The silence stretched for an eternity.

"Not what I wanted?" His voice cracked. "Maximilian, I have wanted you since the moment I saw you picking wildflowers beneath that oak tree. You were fifteen. I was a nameless squire covered in mud. You dropped your basket, and when you bent to pick it up, you looked at me. Just for a second. And I thought, 'If I ever become a knight, I will marry no one but her.'"

Now, three months into their marriage, the autumn wind was stripping the oak of its leaves, and Riftan found himself standing at his chamber window, watching the sunset bleed across the Anatolian plains. He could hear her in the adjoining library—the soft, rhythmic thump-thump of a book being closed and opened, closed and opened. A nervous habit. She was waiting for him to come to bed. Their marriage was a decree from the King,

"I… I am," she said, but the hesitation was a knife between his ribs. "The… the castle is w-warm. The servants are k-kind."

He turned and walked into the library.

Her hands clenched the book. He saw the battle within her—the stutter that choked her words, the fear that paralyzed her tongue. She wanted to say something. He could feel it. But the words died in her throat.

He pulled back to look at her. Her silver hair was fanned out on the pillow, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with a mixture of fear and fierce determination. She was not the trembling girl from their wedding night. She was his wife. His partner. His equal.