The palace woke before sunrise, but he was awake even earlier.

Azaan Mirza stood in the training courtyard the way he always did, like a damn monument someone forgot to move. Breath steady. Shoulders set. Sword in hand. The sky behind him was still tinted that pre-dawn grey-blue, the kind that made the marble terraces look colder than they were.

Everyone else in the kingdom probably thought he liked discipline. Or maybe that he was addicted to the routine. Or that he was born loyal. None of that was true. He just didn’t know how to be anything else.

He swung the blade once. Twice. Precision, nothing wasted. His jaw was locked tight, because the day ahead was the exact kind of day he hated: ceremonies, parades, and royal appearances… which meant her.

The princess who had become an inconvenience to his sanity.

The palace staff announced her arrival before she even stepped into the courtyard. Not in words, obviously. In whispers. Nervous rustling. The sudden posture-correcting energy that overtook everyone like a disease.

Then she entered.

Barefoot on the cold stone, hair loosely tied, dupatta hanging off one shoulder like she didn’t care that she was supposed to look regal at every second. She had that expression she always carried in the mornings: sharp, quiet, already thinking of ten things she wasn’t allowed to say.

Her gaze landed on him, and the courtyard seemed to tilt, just slightly.

She never hid staring. It annoyed him. Mostly because he couldn’t decide if she was curious… or reckless.

He lowered his sword. She kept walking toward him with that controlled, elegant grace the tutors had beaten into her spine, but beneath all that was a spark. Something un-royal. Something dangerously human.

She stopped far too close for his comfort.

“So,” she said, voice soft enough that it forced him to look at her or risk looking rude. “Another day of pretending we don’t live in a cage.”

That was her. Throwing forbidden sentiments casually into the air like she wasn’t a walking political alliance.

“Your schedule is full,” he replied stiffly. “You should prepare.”

She grinned at his tone. Actually grinned. Like his irritation was a private joke only she understood.

“I am prepared,” she said, leaning slightly to peer at the fresh welt on his forearm. “You don’t have to tear yourself apart every morning just to avoid talking to me.”

He tensed.

She noticed. She always noticed.

And instead of stepping away, she tilted her chin, studying him like he was the unnecessary complication in her life. “You know,” she murmured, “sometimes I think you hate the idea of being near me more than you hate the enemies outside those palace walls.”

That wasn’t true. That wasn’t even close to true. But he couldn’t tell her what was.

He stepped back. Exactly one measured step. knight-like. Controlled. Safe.

Her eyes dimmed. Just for a heartbeat. She masked it quickly, but he saw the flicker. Hurt, tiny but real. And it punched something in his ribs.

She turned away, moving toward the archway, the early sun haloing the edges of her silhouette like she was carved out of dawn itself. The distance between them felt heavier than his armor.

She paused, glanced back, eyes narrowing with that stubbornness he pretended didn’t affect him.

“You don’t have to treat me like I’m made of glass, you know,” she said. “I’m not going to break if you look at me for longer than half a second.”

The courtyard fell quiet.

He exhaled slowly, hating the warmth crawling up the back of his neck. Hating how she said things without fear. Hating how he wanted to answer in a way he shouldn’t.

He tightened his grip on his sword, the oath binding him like invisible chains, and finally allowed himself one long look at her.

His voice dropped, low and rough, barely more than a warning:

“That’s exactly the problem.”