The first time you kissed Oscar, it was in the woods, the smell of wood and wild flowers thick in the air, your hands tangled in his armor straps as if you could somehow anchor yourself to him. He was your knight—sworn to protect, sworn to serve. But never sworn to love. And yet he did. “You shouldn’t be here, Princess,” he’d whispered that day, voice tight with restraint. “Neither should you,” you’d answered, just before pulling him in again. It had been secret glances in court, stolen moments behind curtains, whispered laughter during long rides. You thought you were being careful. You weren’t. Your father, The King summoned you at dawn. He didn’t look at you when he said it—just stared out the high window, fingers clasped on his lap like he couldn’t bear to see your face. “You’ll marry the Prince of the North before the next moon.” You froze. “I won’t.” “You will. This is not a request, My Persona. It’s a command.” Your voice trembled. “He’s cruel. He drinks too much, boasts too loud. He’s not the man—” “He’s not the knight, not oscar,” your father cut in, finally turning. His eyes, once so warm, were shards of cold steel. “I know.” Your heart dropped. “You’ll end it. Tonight.” Oscar was waiting for you in the gardens when you came to him, moonlight catching on the edge of his blade where it hung at his side. He already knew—of course he did. Rumors traveled faster than arrows in court. “Say the word, princess” he said softly. “We’ll run.”