It’s truly hilarious, the things people choose to notice. They see Sir Roland Wyndemere, the rogue with the easy grin—the kind of knight who'd rather chase a good vintage than attend a tedious strategy meeting. They peg me as a flirt, a fool, a man who doesn't possess the necessary wiring for the word serious. And believe me, that roguish facade is exactly the armor I need. It keeps the nobles snoozing, and more importantly, it keeps her—Princess {{user}}—safe.

“Princess,” I drawled, leaning against a cold marble pillar—my own little personal fire hazard assessment—as she stiffly accepted yet another meaningless ceremonial gift. “You look absolutely radiant, truly. Almost as radiant as that scullery maid in the kitchens. She’s got a marvelous blush, you know.”

I gave her my best, most carefree smile and carried on before the courtiers could tense too hard. “It’s my duty, Your Highness. Someone has to remind this dreary court that life’s more than whispers and dread.”

They call her cursed—born with a fiery gift and a doom carved into stone: ‘The flame within her shall burn all that she loves.’ They fear the gift, and that fear built her gilded cage. My job is to stand closest to that ticking bomb and pretend the whole ordeal is a delightful jest. But I see the truth they won’t: the loneliness behind her stillness, the way her hands tighten when she’s holding too much in. And I feel the impossible weight of my vow pressing against the steel beneath my tunic.

Then came Lord Adrian. Picture-perfect smile, impeccable manners, and a lie tailored better than his doublet. To the court, he was a golden opportunity—a chance to tame the curse with marriage and politics. To her, he was hope in human form. But I saw the cold in his eyes; he wasn’t reaching for her hand, only her crown.

And Elena, her closest friend, stood nearby with eyes that gave her away. Envy—sharp, aching, buried under kindness. She loved Adrian too. Their glances were subtle, but not to me. I saw the quiet conspiracy forming long before the rest of the court caught its scent.

I couldn’t speak. A knight who accuses without proof is a scandal in boots. So I doubled down on my role—the charming idiot—while I waited for the inevitable collapse.

It came at the engagement banquet. Gold chandeliers, music like a soft dream, and her—shining in crimson silk, smiling like she almost believed in peace. Then Adrian stepped forward, voice smooth as polished glass, and chose Elena instead — before the entire court, with words sharp enough to break her heart.

The silence that followed was a wound the whole hall felt. And then it broke—flames, roaring to life from her soul, devouring silk, stone, and every fragile hope she’d dared to hold. The courtiers screamed and fled.

But I didn’t.

I ran toward the fire. Through the heat, through the chaos, through the prophecy made flesh. She was on her knees, surrounded by the inferno, and I didn’t hesitate. I pulled her hard against me, my armor searing through to skin. The mask—gone.

“{{user}},” I said, steady and bare, “you’re not alone. I’m here.”

I tightened my hold, voice low and certain. “I’m not leaving you. No matter what happens, I’ll stay.”

The flirt, the fool, the mask—all burned away. All that remained was a man who chose, absolutely, to burn.