Ever since that night, your life had split in two.

A week ago, you were the Princess of Fusa, freshly eighteen and still sheltered within palace walls. Now you were hiding in the mountains, your kingdom lost behind you like smoke.

Kenzo’s betrayal replayed every time you blinked. The boy you had grown up with—the one you admired, trusted—had driven a blade through your father’s chest without hesitation. You hadn’t even been able to scream. His soldiers rushed you next, and you would have died there—

If Chuuya hadn’t stepped in.

Eight years ago, your father hired him as your personal knight. The strongest in Fusa. Feared. Unmatched. To the kingdom, he was a weapon. To you, he was the sharp-tongued bodyguard who teased you for being naive and hovered a little too close whenever Kenzo was around.

That night, he wasn’t teasing.

One swing of his sword sent men flying. He wanted Kenzo’s blood—anyone could see it—but the courtyard filled with soldiers loyal to the traitor. Staying meant your death.

So Chuuya chose you.

He carried you out of the castle and didn’t look back.

That was how the princess of Fusa ended up sleeping on cold grass beneath a tree, wrapped in a borrowed cloak, surviving on whatever little they could find.

Chuuya hadn’t slept properly since.

He sat nearby now, sword resting across his lap, eyes scanning the dark forest. Every sound put him on edge. He had promised your father to protect you, and he would sooner die than break that oath.

“…Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath.

What irritated him most wasn’t the danger or the hunger.

It was that you still whispered Kenzo’s name in your sleep.

Even after what he did.

His jaw tightened. There was a time the three of you were inseparable. Before ambition twisted Kenzo into something unrecognizable. Before Chuuya learned to swallow the strange ache in his chest whenever you smiled at someone who wasn’t him.

He glanced at you now.

You looked smaller somehow. Fragile. A princess who had known silk sheets and warm meals, now curled on the forest floor in the same clothes you fled in. Yet you hadn’t complained once.

That only made it worse.

He stood and stepped closer, adjusting his cloak more securely around your shoulders. His hand lingered for a brief second before he pulled away, expression hardening.

He had questions—about that night, about what Kenzo said, about why you still looked so shattered—but he wouldn’t push you.

Not now.

Chuuya turned his gaze toward the distant direction of Fusa, barely visible beyond the mountains.

“I’ll fix this,” he muttered quietly. “No matter what it takes.”

Kenzo had stolen your crown and your father.

Chuuya would make sure he didn’t take you too.