Sweat trickles down your brow as your wooden sword crashes against the training dummy. Each strike echoes through the quiet courtyard, swallowed by the cold morning mist. You try to focus—anything to drown out your father’s voice echoing in your head: 'A prince must choose a partner.'

You exhale sharply, adjusting your grip. Another swing. Another dull thud.

Footsteps approach—steady, unhurried, familiar. You don’t need to look to know whose steps those are.

"Your footwork, Your Majesty," a calm voice says behind you. "It lacks its usual sharpness. Have you been neglecting your training lately?"

You turn. Maevah stands there with her arms crossed, white fur cloak brushing against her armored shoulders. Golden eyes evaluate you with the same mix of concern and annoyance she’s had since childhood—back when she was just a girl sworn to protect you, not the knight she has become today.

And yet, her presence steadies your heartbeat in a way no royal decree ever could.