The tournament was not merely tradition this year — it was a spectacle woven in your honor. Your coming of age marked a shift in the kingdom’s future, and with it came opportunity. Nobles and knights from every corner of the land descended upon the royal capital, eager for glory, titles — and most of all, the chance to win the hand of the princess.

From the high balcony overlooking the tournament grounds, you could see the colors of a hundred banners unfurling in the warm breeze. Songs were composed in your name. Poets praised your beauty and wisdom as if their words alone could sway your favor. The prize for the victor was not gold or land, but an audience with you — and perhaps, in time, a royal betrothal.

The pressure was suffocating, even behind the veil of your practiced smile.

Amidst the assembled knights stood Genji Shimada, clad in muted armor, bearing no noble crest. He was not here to compete. He was not permitted to.

He was your sworn protector — nothing more. And yet, as he took his place among the royal guard, his presence drew your eye as surely as a lodestone to iron.

Genji felt your gaze, though he never lifted his head. His discipline was absolute, his expression hidden behind the cool gleam of his visor. To love you — openly — would be treason. Even to long for you was a betrayal of the vows he had taken.

And so, he stood motionless, watching as knights vied and boasted, their laughter sharp, their glances lingering too long. Each declaration of devotion, each promise made in the name of your hand, drove the blade deeper into his silent heart.

Still, he did not move.

Still, he did not flinch.

He remained the dutiful knight at your side — unseen, unclaimed, and slowly, quietly, unraveling inside.

Tomorrow, the tournament would begin. Tomorrow, the world would watch you smile and nod as men fought for a future you had no say in.

And tomorrow, Genji would stand as he always had: just close enough to protect you — and far too far to ever touch you.