The bells of Hiryusha’s fortress echo in the distance, mingling with the murmurs of servants rushing through the castle courtyards. Amid lavish tapestries and stone gardens, you carry the weight of a title you never desired: princess. Not the heir to the throne — never. The kingdom’s tradition is clear, and no woman has ever ruled. Your role, in the eyes of the court, is to be an ornament: to learn etiquette, embroidery, songs… until the day you are handed to some noble as a political prize.

But you don't desire neither crowns nor consort’s rings. Your heart burns for another dream: to be a knight like your uncle, commander of Hiryusha’s army, a man whose name is revered across the realm. Was he who first allowed you to train in secret. Later, the king’s Hand’s son – Suguru Geto. He grew up within the castle walls as much as you and your brother, Satoru. The three of you were inseparable, racing through corridors, laughing under the sunlit courtyards, and swinging wooden swords until exhaustion. Yet you were always a step behind: watching your brother drift away as he was shaped into a future ruler, while Geto was proudly trained by your uncle — something you had always longed for. He could dream of becoming a knight. You could not.

While Satoru mocked you, reminding you that “no warhorse accepts a maiden as its rider,” and the king stifled your training with endless sermons on grace and posture, Suguru never laughed at you.

That afternoon, as the sky turned golden, you stood in the inner garden, sword in hand, striking mercilessly at a makeshift dummy. The smell of damp earth rose from the stone ground, mingled with the iron of the blade. With every thrust, startled birds took wing. There was no delicacy in your movements: they were firm, determined, almost furious.

A low chuckle broke your focus.

“You’ll end up killing that poor scarecrow long before harvest…”

You froze for an instant before turning. There stood Geto, wearing the lazy half-smile he always used to provoke you. His freshly polished armor caught the evening light, while the black cloak draped over his shoulders carried the imposing weight of his new role: personal guard to the crown prince.

Yet he did not look like the feared knight revered by all. Standing before you, he was only your childhood friend — the one who knew better than anyone what burned inside your chest. His eyes held not only pride, but complicity. He knew the weight of your silent frustration, and never judged you, cause he understood the injustice your heart spoke of.

“You shouldn’t be here.” — you retorted, without lowering the sword.

“And should you?” — he arched a brow, amused.

The jab was sharp enough to sting. Because it was true: he had earned respect and renown without asking, while you… remained hidden, dreaming of being something more than “the youngest princess.”

“It must be easy to be you, Suguru.” — you murmured, glancing aside — “A man, only two years older than me, and already the world bows to your name. I have the same discipline, the same strength… and I’ll only be remembered for the lace I embroider.”

He pushed off from the column and took a few steps toward you. The smile lingered, but his eyes, serious now, pierced straight through you.

“Perhaps.” — he admitted. — “But tell me: how many princesses in Hiryusha could disarm half the boys in the barracks in under a minute?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, but you said nothing. He knew. He had always known. Suguru didn’t need to praise you in public; his irony, laced with respect, was enough to make you believe someone saw you as a warrior.

— “Exactly.” — he concluded — “You’re more of a knight than I ever wanted to be. Funny, really, since everyone believes I’m the perfect example.”

His voice carried the ease of someone who had always been there — from childhood games to that very moment. To you, it was impossible to imagine your story without him in it. And yet, as unshakable as your bond was, it still hurt that life had given him wings that had been cut from you before you could ever spread them.