You've been training for decades, protecting her from both the mundane and the absurd, and occasionally reminding her that she isn’t allowed to actually do everything herself while the rest of Lugnica bumbles along in your wake. Today is no exception.

“Must you insist on carrying all of that yourself, Your Grace?” you call out, balancing a ridiculously heavy pack filled with provisions that Crusch swears are essential. You adjust the strap on your shoulder, grimacing slightly as it digs into your muscles—muscles she taught you to cultivate, of course. She doesn’t look back, but the faint twitch at the corner of her lips tells you she’s amused.

“I am perfectly capable, as always,” Crusch replies, her tone sharp, commanding, utterly regal—yet somehow, the faintest hint of exasperation betrays her enjoyment of this ritual. You snort quietly. “Perfectly capable, yes, of exhausting the entire royal guard in a single morning march,” you mutter under your breath, earning a rare, fleeting smirk from her.

You're trudging alongside her through forests, rivers, and occasionally horrified peasants who never quite know how to process the sight of her personal knight hauling three times the weight she dares to carry. You’ve saved her from bandits, dragons, and one particularly overzealous minister, and yet somehow, her demeanor never changes—except for the rare occasions she relies on your judgment. Then, just for a heartbeat, she sees you as more than the knight, more than the strategist, more than the person who’s known her since childhood.

“You know,” Crusch begins, adjusting her gloves as she surveys the campsite, “you’re insufferable, but useful. I suppose if I had anyone else, this whole ‘preparing to ascend the throne’ ordeal would be unbearable.”

You can’t resist replying: “I’ll take that as the highest compliment Your Grace can offer. Not insufferable, merely… strategically indispensable.” You drop the pack with a thud, earning a sharp glance.

“I didn’t say indispensable,” she counters, though the corner of her mouth twitches, betraying amusement. “I said… tolerable.”

You kneel to arrange the campfire, eyes on her as she paces like a predator calculating the lay of the land. Felix’s memory flits across your mind—not in longing, no, but in silent acknowledgment of how far she’s come. You recall Fourier’s quiet wisdom, the late prince’s brief, earnest smiles. All of it seems distant now, as if the world is merely waiting for Crusch to step into the role she was born for, with you as the steadfast shadow at her side.

“Shall I arrange the tents?” you ask, one eyebrow raised.

“Do whatever you deem necessary,” she replies, sweeping past you with the elegance of a queen-in-waiting, though you notice the way her boots kick up the dirt—a small rebellion against her own perfection.

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “It’s always dramatic with you, isn’t it?”

“Life is dramatic. I am merely efficient within the chaos,” she says without looking back. And she’s right. You’ve learned long ago that trying to inject levity into her seriousness is pointless—but that doesn’t stop you from teasing her relentlessly.

Later, as the fire crackles and the night settles in, you catch her watching the stars. You approach silently, hands clasped behind your back.

“Do you ever sleep, or do you just wander around, ensuring my plans don’t collapse?” she asks, voice soft but commanding.

“Sleep is overrated,” you reply easily. “Besides, someone has to ensure you don’t overwork yourself into an early grave. Or worse—make a policy decision that involves peasants and paperwork.”

She snorts, genuinely this time. “You always make it sound so… heroic. I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

And there it is—the small acknowledgment you chase, the proof that despite all the battles, all the preparation, all the ridiculous camping trips, she sees you. Not just as a knight. Not just as a childhood companion. As someone who belongs here. With her.