Hi, I wanted to ask (again) if you could make a medieval AU, with Soshiro as a duke and the reader as a saint (but one who can get married), lol, it sounds very cliché but I felt the need after I found a webtoon about that, and the protagonist looked a lot like Soshiro, so thank you very much in advance!
In the kingdom's darkest hour, when kaiju—called demons—rose from the abyss and consumed the land, the people prayed for a miracle. They received two: Duke Hoshina Soshiro, the demon-hunting blade of the borderlands, whose tantos carved through nightmares with a lazy smirk. And Saint Name, the chosen vessel of divine light, whose touch healed the dying and whose voice made demons recoil. They were not supposed to fall in love. A saint cannot marry. A duke cannot kneel. But the heart does not care for rules, and when Name saves Soshiro's life on the battlefield, something between them shifts that cannot be undone. The church watches. The demons watch. And Soshiro, who has never believed in gods, finds himself praying anyway—not for salvation, but for her.
Name had been kneeling for three hours. The stone floor bit through her robes, and her knees had gone numb sometime after the second hour. But she didn't move. Saints didn't complain. Saints didn't shift their weight or rub their aching joints or think uncharitable thoughts about the altar's hard edges.
She had been a saint for seven years. Chosen at sixteen, when the light descended and healed an entire village of plague. Her family had wept with pride. The church had wept with joy. Name had wept alone in her chamber that night, not because she was sad, but because she had never been asked what she wanted.
Seven years of healing. Seven years of blessings. Seven years of kneeling on cold stone floors while the kingdom burned around her.
The door opened. Footsteps echoed. She didn't turn.
She recognized the voice. Bishop Aldric. Old, sharp, smelling of incense and ambition.
"The borderlands have fallen. Duke Hoshina requests a saint."
Name's heart stopped. The borderlands. The front line of the demon war. Where soldiers went to die and no one came back.
"They need healing," the bishop continued. "The duke himself is wounded. They say he hasn't slept in weeks. They say he's been fighting alone."
The bishop was quiet for a moment. "You know the risks."
"Demons cannot touch me. The light protects."
"The light protects your soul. Your body is still flesh."
Name finally turned. The bishop's face was unreadable.
"I'm not afraid," she said.
The borderlands were worse than she imagined.
Smoke. Ash. The stench of demon blood and something older, something rotting. The fortress stood on a cliff overlooking a wasteland of twisted rock and blackened earth. Soldiers moved in the shadows, hollow-eyed, bandaged, silent.
Name stepped off the wagon. Her white robes gathered dirt immediately.
"Sister Name?" A young soldier approached. His arm was in a sling. His face was young—too young for war.
"I'm here to help. Take me to the wounded."
"Then take me to the worst first."
He led her to the infirmary. It was a cavern, really, carved into the rock, filled with cots and the moans of dying men. Name rolled up her sleeves. She had no medicine, no bandages, no tools.
She touched the first soldier's forehead. Warmth spread from her palm. The gash on his chest closed. The fever in his eyes faded. He breathed—properly, deeply—for the first time in days.
"Thank you," he whispered.
She moved to the next. And the next. And the next.
Hours passed. She lost count of the bodies she healed. Her hands glowed. Her head ached. The light was a river flowing through her, and she was a vessel, hollow and filled and hollow again.
She turned. A soldier stood behind her—tall, broad, with a scar across his cheek and eyes that had seen too much.
"The Duke requests your presence."
Name looked around the infirmary. The worst cases were stable. The others could wait.
The Duke's chambers were at the top of the fortress. Name climbed stairs that seemed endless, her legs burning, her robes dragging. The soldier stopped at a heavy oak door.
She pushed open the door.
The room was sparse. A bed. A desk. Maps pinned to the walls, marked with red X's where demons had been sighted. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows that danced like living things.
And in the center of the room, standing with his back to her, was a man.
He was not what she expected.
She had heard the stories. Duke Hoshina Soshiro, the demon blade. The man who fought with two short swords, who moved faster than the eye could follow, who laughed in the face of death. The soldiers spoke of him with reverence and fear. The church spoke of him with suspicion—he was not pious, they said. He did not kneel. He did not pray.
He had a bowl cut. Sharp bangs, short sides, something that should have looked ridiculous but didn't. His eyes were amber, sharp, assessing. His mouth curved into a smirk that was equal parts charm and danger.
He was, Name realized, the most beautiful man she had ever seen.
"Sister Name," he said. His voice was low, with an accent she didn't recognize—rolling, warm, like honey over gravel. "I was beginning to think you'd avoided me."
"I've been healing your soldiers."
"I know. They're already calling you a miracle."
"Flattery is unnecessary."
"Then I'll stop." He didn't stop. He walked toward her. His gait was loose, easy, the walk of someone who had never learned to be afraid. "You're not what I expected either."
"Someone older. More... stern. You look like you should be tending a garden, not wading through blood."
"I've waded through worse."
"The cathedral floors are very cold."
He laughed. The sound surprised her—warm, genuine, nothing like the cold piety of the church.
"I like you," he said. "Saints aren't supposed to complain about cold floors."
"Saints aren't supposed to have knees that ache, either. But we do."
He tilted his head. His smirk softened into something almost curious.
"You're injured," Name said. It wasn't a question. She could see it now—the way he held his left arm slightly away from his body. The tightness around his eyes.
"You're bleeding through your shirt."
He raised an eyebrow. "Bossy."
"I'm a saint. I outrank you."
"Spiritually, perhaps. Temporally, I'm a duke."
"Then let me heal you as a courtesy."
He stared at her. She stared back. The fire crackled.
Name crossed the room. Her hands were steady as she reached for the buttons of his tunic. He watched her fingers, not her face.
"You don't have to do this," he said.
"I could call a physician."
"Your physician is treating soldiers with broken limbs. You have a gash on your ribs. Let me work."
She opened his tunic. The wound was worse than she expected—deep, jagged, dark at the edges. Demon claw. The flesh around it was inflamed, angry.
"You should have called for me sooner."
"I don't like asking for help."
"You're a duke. You command armies. Asking for help is not beneath you."
"Neither is bleeding." He smiled, but there was pain in it. "Go on. Do your thing."
She placed her palm over the wound. The light flowed—warm, golden, gentle. She felt the infection burn away. The flesh knit together. The inflammation faded.
"That's—" He stopped. Swallowed. "That's incredible."
"The light does the work. I'm just the vessel."
She pulled her hand away. The wound was gone. Only a faint scar remained, pale against his skin.
"You'll have a mark," she said.
He pulled his tunic closed. His fingers brushed hers. Brief. Electric. Name felt something flicker in her chest—something that wasn't the light.
"The demons are growing stronger," he said, changing the subject. "Faster. Smarter. They're organizing."
"The church believes they're a test from the gods."
"The church believes everything is a test from the gods." He stood. Walked to the window. The wasteland stretched below, dark and endless. "I think they're just hungry. And we're in the way."
"What do you need from me?"
He turned. The firelight caught his face, made his eyes glow.
"I need you to keep my soldiers alive. I need you to heal them when I can't. I need—" He paused. "I need someone to remind me why I'm fighting."
"And what would remind you?"
He looked at her. Really looked. Like he was seeing her for the first time.
"You," he said. "You remind me."
Name stayed in the borderlands.
Weeks passed. She healed soldiers by day, knelt in the small chapel by night, and somehow, impossibly, found herself spending more and more time with the Duke.
He was not what she expected.
She had thought he would be cold. Distant. The kind of man who saw soldiers as pieces on a board. But Soshiro knew every name. Every face. He ate with his men, trained with them, mourned with them.
"Do you know why demons hate my tantos?" he asked one evening, sitting across from her in the mess hall.
"Because they're short-tempered."
She stared at him. "Was that a pun?"
"Soshiro. When we're not in public."
"Soshiro." She tested the name. It felt strange on her tongue. Intimate. "That pun was unforgivable."
"And yet you're smiling."
She was. She couldn't help it.
"You're a bad influence," she said.
"I've been called worse."
He grinned. That grin. The one that made her chest ache.
The first demon attack came at dawn.
Name was in the chapel, kneeling, praying. The alarm bells rang—loud, urgent, wrong. She ran.
The fortress was chaos. Soldiers shouting, arrows flying, the roar of something massive beyond the walls. Name pushed through the crowd, toward the gate, toward the fighting.
"Sister, get back!" a soldier shouted.
"Not with this. It's too dangerous."
She ignored him. Climbed the stairs to the parapet. Looked down.
The demon was huge—twice the size of the others she'd seen. Its hide was black, scaled, with eyes that glowed like embers. It was tearing through the outer defenses like paper.
And Soshiro was fighting it alone.
His tantos flashed. He moved faster than she could track—a blur of steel and shadow. But the demon was fast too. Its claws raked the air, missing him by inches. Its tail swept the ground, sending soldiers flying.
Name raised her hands. The light flowed.
She didn't aim. She didn't think. She just opened herself, and the light exploded outward—a wave of gold that crashed into the demon, made it stumble, made it scream.
"Sister, get down!" someone shouted.
But she didn't move. She stood on the parapet, robes billowing, hands glowing, and she looked into the demon's eyes.
"You will not touch them," she said.
And Soshiro was there. Between her and the demon. Tantos raised. Smirking.
The demon lunged. He moved. The tantos sang. And when it was over, the demon lay in pieces at his feet, and Soshiro was covered in blood that wasn't his.
He looked up at her. His chest was heaving. His eyes were wild.
"Don't ever do that again," he said.
He climbed the stairs. His hands were shaking. He stopped in front of her—close, too close—and grabbed her shoulders.
"There might not be a next time. That's why I did it."
He stared at her. His grip loosened.
"You're insane," he said.
"You're also the bravest person I've ever met."
"That's not true. You're braver."
"I'm trained. You're just—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You're just you."
She reached up. Wiped a smear of demon blood from his cheek. His breath caught.
"I'm a saint," she said. "I'm supposed to protect people."
The question hung in the air. Name didn't have an answer.
The church sent a letter.
Name read it in her chamber, by candlelight, after everyone else had gone to sleep. The words were formal. Polite. And utterly damning.
Reports have reached us of your proximity to Duke Hoshina. Unbecoming conduct is alleged. As a saint, you are a vessel of the divine, not a woman to be courted. Distance yourself from him, or the church will be forced to reconsider your position.
She read the letter twice. Then she folded it and tucked it into her robe.
The next morning, she found Soshiro on the training ground. He was sparring with his soldiers, tantos flashing, sweat on his brow. He saw her and broke away.
"You look tired," he said.
"News travels fast in a fortress." He leaned against the wall. "What did they say?"
"That I should stay away from you."
She looked at him. His face was open, unguarded. No smirk. No charm. Just him.
His expression flickered. Something like hope. Something like fear.
"They could strip you of your title. Your power. Everything."
"You'd be a nobody. Just a woman with no protection, no status, no—"
He stepped closer. "Why, then?"
She reached out. Touched his chest. Felt his heartbeat beneath her palm.
"Because I've spent seven years being what other people wanted me to be. A symbol. A vessel. A tool." She looked up at him. "You're the first person who's ever looked at me and seen a person. Not a saint. Not a miracle. Just... Name."
The training ground was quiet now. The soldiers had melted away, sensing something shifting in the air, something that didn't belong to them. Even Kafka, who usually had no sense of when to leave, had been pulled away by Reno, muttering something about checking the eastern wall.
Name stood in the center of the dirt circle, her white robes dusted with gravel, her hands still raised from where she'd touched his chest. Soshiro hadn't moved. His hand was still over hers, trapping it against his heartbeat.
"You asked me who protects me," she said. Her voice was softer now, meant only for him. "I think—" She paused. Looked at their joined hands. "I think it's you."
The words hung in the air. Fragile. Irreversible.
Soshiro's breath caught. His smirk—that ever-present shield—flickered and fell away. What remained underneath was something raw. Something that looked like a boy who had been fighting alone for too long and had just been told he didn't have to anymore.
"Name," he said. Just her name. Like it was a prayer.
"I know it doesn't make sense. You're the one with the swords. You're the one who fights demons. I'm just—"
"You're just everything."
"You're everything." He stepped closer. His other hand came up, trembling slightly, and touched her face. His fingers were calloused, scarred, but his touch was impossibly gentle. "I've killed hundreds of demons. I've faced death more times than I can count. And I've never been scared. Not once."
Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could feel it. His thumb traced her cheekbone, her jaw, the corner of her lips.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. His voice was low, almost embarrassed. "I've never—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I've never wanted to. Before you."
"I'm a saint. Saints don't—" She laughed. A nervous, breathless sound. "I've spent seven years learning how to be holy. No one taught me how to be liked. How to love. How to—"
Her face went red. "Yes. That."
He was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: "Me neither."
"Really? The Duke of the borderlands? The man who laughs at demons?"
"Demons are easy. Demons don't make my hands shake."
She looked down. His hands were shaking. The great Vice Captain—no, the great Duke—was trembling.
"Maybe we could be bad at it together."
He laughed. That laugh. The real one, not the performance. "Yeah?"
He leaned in. She leaned in. Their noses bumped.
"Sorry," they said at the same time.
Then they laughed. Both of them. Giggling like children in the middle of the training ground, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling.
"This is ridiculous," she whispered.
"The most ridiculous thing I've ever done."
Neither of them moved away.
"Third time's the charm?" he asked.
He tilted his head. She tilted hers the opposite way. This time, when their lips met, it was clumsy—too much angle, too much pressure, not enough practice—but it was also warm. Soft. Perfect in its imperfection.
She tasted like tea. He tasted like the mint he chewed after meals. Their teeth clicked once. She gasped. He pulled back, panicked.
"No. No, I just—" She touched her lips. "I felt it. That's all."
"It was—" She searched for the word. "Real."
He exhaled. "Real. I can work with real."
They kissed again. Slower this time. His hands cupped her face like she was something precious. Her fingers tangled in the front of his tunic, pulling him closer. The second kiss was better than the first. The third was better than the second.
By the fourth, they were smiling too much to continue.
"We're terrible at this," she said.
She looked at him. His eyes were amber and warm and terrified and hopeful all at once.
"Marry me," he said. Not against her lips this time. Out loud. To the world.
"You're a duke. I'm a saint."
"You can marry. The church allows it."
"They'll excommunicate me."
"Then we'll build our own church."
"I'm not asking as a duke. I'm asking as a man who has spent his whole life fighting, and who has finally found something worth fighting for."
The training ground was still empty. But from behind the armory wall, there was a muffled squeak.
He kissed her again—fourth, fifth, sixth—and behind the armory wall, Kafka burst into tears.
"I can't believe it," Iharu whispered, his eye pressed to a crack in the wood. "The Vice Captain. Kissing. Like a normal person."
"He's terrible at it," Reno observed.
"It was painful to watch."
Kafka was still crying. "They're in love. Real love. Like in the stories."
"Kafka, you cry at everything."
Reno pulled out a small notebook and began writing. Iharu squinted. "What are you doing?"
"Documenting. For posterity."
"You're going to show everyone, aren't you?"
The news spread through the fortress like wildfire.
By evening, every soldier knew that the Duke had kissed the Saint. By morning, they knew he'd asked her to marry him. By noon, the church's letter arrived.
Bishop Aldric stood in the great hall, flanked by priests and guards and the weight of divine authority. Name stood in front of him, spine straight, chin high. Soshiro stood behind her, close enough to touch.
"You are throwing away your calling," the bishop said.
"I am choosing a different path."
"There is no different path. There is only the light."
"The light is everywhere. Not just in the church."
"My name is Name." Her voice didn't waver. "I am no longer a sister. I am no longer a saint. I am a woman who loves a man. And I will not apologize for it."
The bishop's face hardened. "You will be excommunicated. Stripped of your title. Your healing powers will fade. You will be nothing."
"Then I will be nothing. With him."
She reached back. Soshiro took her hand. His palm was warm. Steady.
The bishop left. The doors slammed. And Name felt something inside her shift—not the light leaving, but something else. Something that felt like freedom.
The wedding was three days later.
No cathedral. No bishop. Just the fortress chapel, a handful of soldiers, and the lingering smell of demon blood from the last attack.
Kafka cried before the ceremony even started.
"You haven't even seen the dress."
"It's the thought of the dress."
Iharu was in charge of the rings. He'd been practicing his role all morning—walking down the aisle, holding out the cushion, not dropping anything. He dropped the rings twice during rehearsal. Reno had to fish one out from under a pew.
"You're going to ruin everything," Kafka said.
"I'm not going to ruin anything."
"You dropped the ring in the holy water."
"It was a slippery cushion!"
Mina, who had somehow appeared in the back of the chapel despite not being invited to this...talk, said nothing. She simply stood against the wall, arms crossed, watching. When Iharu caught her eye, she gave him a look that said I will end you if you drop those rings again.
Iharu did not drop the rings.
The chapel was small. Stone walls. Candles flickering. A simple altar draped in white cloth. Name had insisted on no decorations—no flowers, no ribbons, no fuss. "I'm not a saint anymore," she said. "I don't need a spectacle."
Soshiro had argued for at least one flower.
"You deserve one flower."
"I want to give you a flower."
"Then give me one after the ceremony."
"I'm giving you one during the ceremony."
He stood at the altar in his dress uniform—dark blue, silver trim, his tantos replaced with ceremonial blades that had never seen battle. His hair was neater than usual, though a few strands had already escaped. He looked nervous. The great demon-hunting Duke of the borderlands was nervous.
Name walked down the aisle alone. No father to give her away—her family had disowned her when the excommunication was announced. No bridesmaids. No procession. Just her, in a simple white dress borrowed from a soldier's wife, with a single wildflower tucked behind her ear.
"You look—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You look—"
She smiled. Reached him. Took his hands.
The soldier-priest cleared his throat. "Dearly beloved—"
"You may skip to the vows," Soshiro said.
"Your Grace, there's a—"
The soldier-priest sighed. "Fine. Do you have vows?"
Soshiro turned to her. His eyes were soft. "I vow to fight for you. Not because you need protection—you don't. But because you're worth fighting for."
"I vow to heal you," she said. "Not with the light—it might be gone. But with my hands. My voice. My presence."
"I'll hold your hand then, too."
He smiled. That smile. The one that had changed everything.
"The rings," the soldier-priest said.
Iharu stepped forward. The cushion was steady. The rings were secure. He did not drop them. Mina nodded approvingly from the back.
Soshiro took the ring—simple silver, unadorned—and slid it onto her finger. His hands were shaking again.
"You're trembling," she whispered.
"Demons don't have your eyes."
She laughed. The sound echoed off the stone walls, warm and bright.
Her turn. She took the second ring. His hands were steady under hers. She slid it onto his finger.
"With this ring," she said, "I bind myself to you. Not as a saint to a sinner. Not as a healer to a fighter. Just as me. To you."
"Just as me," he echoed. "To you."
"You may kiss," the soldier-priest said.
They kissed. Soft. Clumsy. Real. His nose bumped hers again. She smiled against his lips. He pulled back just enough to whisper, "We're still bad at this."
The soldiers cheered. Kafka sobbed openly. Iharu threw the empty cushion in the air. Reno clapped politely and made another note in his notebook. Mina, from the back, almost smiled.
Soshiro pulled back. His forehead rested against hers.
She looked at him. Her husband. The man who had seen her as a person, not a symbol.
"Yes," she said. "Let's go."
They walked out of the chapel together. Hands clasped. The wasteland stretched before them, dark and dangerous and full of demons.
She had never been afraid.
Not of the dark. Not of the church. Not of losing the light.
Because the light had never been inside her.
