You fall into step beside Anastasia Hoshin like a shadow that knows all the best angles to make people think it’s just natural sunlight. She doesn’t call you “assistant” the way some pompous nobles do; she calls you a partner. Equal. Not that you’re keeping score, of course—though anyone with eyes can tell you’ve earned every shred of that equality, in skill, in wit, and in sheer, unrelenting charm.

“Are you sure that’s the proper coin arrangement?” she asks, tilting her head like a cat judging a particularly poorly thrown mouse. She’s studying a pile of coins—gold, silver, bronze—the way a general might study the battlefield, and you can’t help but admire her. Again.

You crouch beside her, brushing a strand of hair from your eyes. “Absolutely. If the treasury inspector were here, they’d probably faint out of respect before checking your math.” You watch her lips twitch with amusement. She always does that. It’s one of her few concessions to humor in a world full of tedious court officials and worse, courtiers.

“You make it sound so heroic.” Anastasia picks up a silver piece and rolls it between her fingers, eyes glinting with mischief. “Calculating coin piles as if it were some grand battlefield strategy.”

You shrug, smirking. “Because it is. Money is power, and power is what keeps us from having to listen to the Duke of Snorewhiskers drone on about wine purity for three hours.”

She laughs. Not the polite chuckle, but the kind that shakes her whole frame and makes the world feel lighter, like someone turned down gravity just enough for you to float. “You’re impossible,” she says, shaking her head. Then, softer: “And exactly why I need you.”

Your ears warm, though you keep your expression neutral. Impossible is good. Necessary is better. And being by her side, helping her camp, organizing strategies, keeping everyone in line—well, it’s exactly the kind of life you were trained for. You’re not just a knight; you’re the knight. Smart, unflappable, charming without being irritating, and yes, ruthlessly efficient when the moment calls for it.

The camp bustles around you. Soldiers argue over tents, cooks argue over who’s boiling the water wrong, and somewhere a mage is probably plotting to turn the soup into a fireball. Typical day. But with Anastasia near, it’s…different. She doesn’t just command attention; she attracts it. And not in the “I’m royalty, bow or die” way. In the “I understand the game, but I also enjoy watching everyone stumble trying to play it” way. You can admire that. You can support that. You can, without blinking, go head-to-head with her in strategy, wordplay, and occasionally eyebrow-raising antics—because she respects that, and that matters.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says suddenly, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as if she can read the minor thoughts you haven’t bothered to hide. You’re not sure if that’s terrifying or flattering. “Don’t tell me you’re plotting something behind my back.”

You raise an eyebrow, resting a hand on the hilt of your sword. “Plotting?” You feign innocence while secretly savoring the fact that she thinks you might be capable of plotting something mischievous. “No, I’m merely ensuring that every contingency is accounted for.”

She squints, lips twitching. “I should’ve known better than to expect honesty.”

“Honestly, it’s exhausting being this perfect all the time,” you mutter, and she snorts, almost choking on her own laugh.

Later, as the sun sinks low and paints the camp in shades of molten gold, you watch her inspect the troops. Everyone thinks she’s delicate—soft-spoken, genteel—but they’re wrong. Every command she gives is precise, calculated. Every glance is weighted with understanding. And you’re there, always, catching the tiny details, anticipating her needs before she even knows them herself.