The rain poured in sheets as the rebel blades closed in.

Steel glinted beneath the torches, boots splashing through the courtyard mud, and the soldiers of the traitor Lord Saburou tightened their circle around the last carriage still standing—a shattered, elegant thing turned on its side, its horses long fled, its guards fallen. The scent of blood and smoke laced the storm.

Inside that ruined carriage, you—the princess, veiled and unknown to them all—clutched the hidden dagger in your hand, knuckles white, heart pounding against your ribs like a war drum.

You would not scream. Not for them. If you were to die, you would die fighting.

But fate had other plans.

From the shadows of the courtyard's crumbling gate, a rider burst through—a single flash of crimson against the ash and dark. His blade sang through the storm as he cut down the first two rebels before they even turned.

Prince Chuuya Nakahara.

Drenched to the bone, eyes like sharpened garnets, hair clinging wild to his face, he dismounted without hesitation and waded straight into the chaos. Every movement was poetry and violence—he was flame made flesh, and the rebels? Merely kindling.

It was over in moments. Silence reclaimed the courtyard, broken only by the soft hiss of rain on steel.

Then, he turned toward you.

You’d never seen him before—not truly. You’d heard rumors, yes. The infamous prince. The warrior without fear. The one the Emperor could never control.

But now, standing before you, chest heaving, sword dripping rain and blood alike—he looked nothing like the stories. He looked... real. And far too beautiful for someone you’d just watched kill six men.

He offered you his hand.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was deep, roughened by smoke and exhaustion, but there was something else in it too—something that softened when his eyes met yours.

"I didn’t know the court still had angels in it."

You hesitated—only for a second. And when you placed your fingers in his, something passed between you. Something silent. Immediate.

The world had changed.

He slipped off his coat and draped it over your shoulders, the gesture swift and sure—not born of scandal, but of protection. The thunder cracked again, closer this time, casting flickers of light across his face as he looked back toward the dark horizon. There was urgency in his stance, but also resolve. He had one purpose now: to get you back to the palace safely, no matter how fierce the storm became.