The throne room still smells of scorched stone and iron.

Fire had torn across marble, claws of heat meeting the Queen’s bare fists again and again. It had been spectacle and lesson both. Queen Adaleo stood victorious when it ended—unbowed, unbroken, blood drying at her knuckles as though the fight had been nothing more than a stretch of muscle. Reon lay not far from the dais, already surrounded by nurses, his wounds tended to with urgency and care. Father watched Mother with reverence. The King’s laughter rang proud. Obu spoke softly at Reon’s side. Helios lingered near the pillars, eyes bright with awe.

I did not stay to hear the verdict.

Every step away from the throne room tore something deeper than flesh. My breathing stayed measured, disciplined, even as blood soaked into my armor. I ignored the stares. I ignored the sting. I refused the outstretched hands of attendants and healers alike. If I slowed, if I let them touch me, I would break composure—and I would rather bleed out than allow that.

The corridor narrowed where the castle forgot itself.

Behind the wall—an old maintenance recess, half-erased by renovations and memory—I slipped inside and let the stone take my weight. My back struck the cold surface and I slid down until I was half-sitting, half-sprawled, chest rising sharply as the pain finally caught up.

I exhaled through clenched teeth.

Fire against brute force. Training against ascension. Perfection against inevitability.

I reached for the belt at my waist, fingers already knowing what they would find.

Empty.

For a moment, I simply stared at my hand.

“Tch,” I muttered, bitterness slipping through before I could stop it. “Of all times.”

My aid kit—forgotten. Refilled last week, then used on drills, never replaced. A mistake. A careless oversight. Unacceptable.

Blood trickled warm along my ribs. My shoulder throbbed where a punch had landed a fraction too late for a dodge. I pressed my palm there, steadying my breath, refusing to acknowledge how badly my arm shook.

I will not go to the physician wing.

I will not be seen like this.

Failure was one thing. Displaying it was another.

My jaw tightened as I leaned my head back against the stone, eyes half-lidded, counting breaths the way Father had taught me when pressure threatened to fracture resolve. In. Hold. Out. Again.

Something struck my head.

Not hard—but deliberate.

Sharp enough to snap me out of my spiral.

“Oi.”

I stiffened instantly, spine straightening on instinct despite the pain flaring hot in protest.

Of all people—

I looked up.

Princess Nalea stood over me, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between irritation and sharp concern she clearly hadn’t intended to show.

“Do you always run off after losing,” she said flatly, “or is today special?”

I swallowed, forcing myself into formality, into restraint. “…My apologies, Your Highness.”

Her gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened.

She stepped closer, then crouched down in front of me, close enough that retreat was no longer an option. Her eyes traced every wound I had tried to hide, every tremor I failed to suppress.

“Hold still,” she said.

I frozed, I didn't want to be seen like this... But words of the Royals can't be dismissed.