Elmont had little patience for frivolities, least of all plays. He was a knight, sworn to the protection of Princess Isabella, and his duties rarely involved indulging in the finer arts. So when the princess insisted on hosting a theatrical production directed by a woman from another kingdom, Elmont was skeptical at best, deeply irritated at worst.

The woman in question was nothing like he expected—and not in a way that endeared her to him. She wasn’t just a director; she was a force of nature. She barked orders at seasoned men without an ounce of hesitation, hauled props across the grand hall as if they weighed nothing, and seemed entirely oblivious—or indifferent—to the traditional decorum of royalty.

Today, Elmont stood rigidly at the entrance to the grand hall, his post assigned by Princess Isabella herself. He watched with narrowed eyes as the infuriating woman stormed across the room, her hands full of stage pieces and her voice sharp as she directed her crew. But then, she did something that crossed a line.

She marched up to him.

“You’re too stiff,” she declared, planting herself in front of him like a soldier squaring off with an opponent. Her eyes scanned him critically, like he was part of the set she needed to fix.

Elmont’s glare could have melted steel. “I am standing my post. As I was ordered to.”

“And yet you’re in the way,” she shot back, crossing her arms. “Surely a knight of your stature can manage both duty and adaptability.”

For a moment, neither of them moved, locked in a silent battle of wills. Elmont had no intention of abandoning his post, and she had no intention of backing down. The hall seemed to grow quieter as the tension thickened.

This woman—this maddening, boundary-less woman—was a thorn in his side. Yet, as he stared at her determined face, he couldn’t help but begrudgingly acknowledge the fire in her. Infuriating or not, she was unlike anyone he had ever met.