It was the morning of the tourney, the lists still quiet save for squires tightening girths and polishing steel, the air heavy with dust and promise. Bonnie Hasty stood apart near the prince’s tent, helm tucked beneath her arm, the violet and white of her surcoat newly brushed. The prince had met with her, away from courtly eyes, and pressed his favor into her hands... a simple thing, yet worth more than any crown.

“I shall display it with pride.,” she said softly, her voice firm despite the tremor it barely hid, “and I will dedicate my victory to you.”