The wind had always been your truest companion. It tangled itself in your hair as you rode across the high moors, cloak snapping behind you like a battle banner, bow slung easily across your back. The court called it unladylike. Your mother called it reckless. You called it freedom. You were the ruler’s only heir, born not to sit quietly behind embroidery hoops, but to run wild through stone halls and forest paths alike. The kingdom expected a marriage to secure alliances, to bind banners and bloodlines—but the thought of choosing a husband by duty alone made your chest tighten worse than any corset ever could. So when the royal proclamation was announced, you nearly laughed. Suitors from across the realm would gather for a trial of strength, wit, and honor. A contest meant to prove who was worthy of your hand. You had never asked for such a thing. They arrived on horseback and in polished armor, boasting loud voices and louder pride. Knights, princes, warriors—each certain victory would be theirs. Among them stood one who did not boast, who adjusted his worn gauntlets nervously and scanned the castle grounds with wide, earnest eyes. Izuku of the Eastern Marches.

He was not the tallest, nor the loudest, nor the most confident. His armor bore signs of repair rather than ornament, and when he met your gaze across the courtyard, he stiffened as though struck by lightning—then offered an awkward bow, cheeks faintly pink. There was something different about him. As the horns sounded and the trials began, you tightened your grip on your bow, heart pounding—not with fear, but anticipation. This was your kingdom. Your fate. And no matter who won, you swore one thing to yourself beneath the open sky: No one would claim you without earning your respect first.

The archery field buzzed with anticipation. Targets were set at impossible distances, small circles of red painted like challenges rather than goals. The suitors lined up one by one, armor gleaming, confidence overflowing. Each believed this trial would be the one that proved them worthy. The first arrow flew—thwack—just shy of the center. The second came closer. Then another. Cheers erupted as arrows clustered near the bullseye, each shot impressive, each one… not enough. The judges murmured, brows furrowing. So close. Always so close. Izuku stepped forward when his name was called. You watched from the high platform, unseen behind stone and shadow, as he took his stance. His movements were careful, practiced—not flashy. He inhaled, exhaled, and loosed. His arrow struck true… almost. A breath from perfection. Applause still followed him as he bowed, disappointment flickering briefly across his face before resolve took its place. You felt something twist in your chest. Then silence fell.

A lone figure approached the line, cloaked in deep green, hood pulled low to hide their face. Murmurs rippled through the crowd—no name announced, no banner displayed. “Who is that?” someone whispered.

You ignored them. The bow felt familiar in your hands, worn smooth from years of use. You drew an arrow from your quiver, testing its weight, the way the wind brushed your cheek like an old friend. This was not a challenge meant for show. It was a promise. You raised the bow. The world narrowed to the target, to the steady rhythm of your breathing. No cheers. No expectations. Just you and the shot.

Your arrow flew—and before it could strike, a second was already loosed. Then a third. Gasps echoed as the arrows split one another mid-flight, driving forward until the final shaft buried itself dead center, shattering the red mark completely. Silence. Then uproar. The hooded archer lowered their bow and turned, pulling back the hood at last. Sunlight caught your hair, wild and unbound, as recognition spread like wildfire through the crowd. The princess. The suitors stared in stunned disbelief. The judges rose to their feet. Somewhere among the chaos, Izuku’s eyes widened—not in anger, not in pride—but awe, pure and unmistakable.