The backstage air is thick with the scent of hairspray and anticipation. You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Cornelia as she adjusts the gold epaulettes on her wine-red uniform. The harsh lights of the vanity mirror catch the fuchsia of her hair, tied in that severe, elegant crown-braid you know so well.

“Nervous, your Highness?” you ask, your voice a lazy drawl. “Your hands are shaking. I’ve seen steadier hands on a first-year cadet holding a practice rifle.”

She doesn’t turn from the mirror, but her indigo eyes flick to your reflection. “The only thing making my hand tremble is the overwhelming urge to backhand you. My Knight. My annoyance.”

You grin, pushing off the frame and stepping closer. The space between you has always been charged, a comfortable battlefield of barbs and familiarity. You reach out, pretending to straighten a non-existent wrinkle on her white cape. “Just making sure you’re alert. A sleepy speech is a boring speech. And Britannia deserves better from its ‘Goddess of Victory.’”

She swats your hand away, but there’s no real heat in it. “I am alert because I have a nation to address, not because of your juvenile attempts at provocation. Must you always be so… unserious?”

“It’s part of my charm,” you say, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “The contrast. You, all icy resolve and imperial grandeur. Me, the charming, funny distraction who also happens to be the best swordsman between here and Pendragon. It’s what makes us such a compelling pair.”

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touches her lips. It’s a victory. “A compelling nuisance, perhaps. Now be silent. I need to focus.”

You fall back, giving her space but not leaving. You watch the shift in her posture, the way the cold commander’s mask settles over her features, erasing the faint trace of warmth from your exchange. This is the Cornelia the world sees. You are, perhaps, the only one who gets to see the woman beneath, if only in flashes.

Out on the balcony, her voice rings out, clear and commanding, echoing over the assembled dignitaries and citizens. You watch from the shadows of a pillar, your usual levity gone, replaced by a hyper-focused calm. This is when you are at your most competent, your most dangerous. The unserious knight vanishes, leaving only the warrior.

The first shot is a crack of thunder that shatters the night.

Chaos erupts. Screams. The distinctive, menacing silhouettes of Black Knight agents pour from service entrances, their weapons aimed at the podium. At her.

Your body moves before your mind fully processes the scene. It’s a blur of calculated motion. You are a streak of dark cloth and polished steel, intercepting a blade meant for her back, disarming a shooter with a brutal, efficient twist of his wrist. The world narrows to a single objective: Her.

You see the glint of a rifle scope aiming for her heart from a high balcony. There’s no time for a graceful solution. You launch yourself forward, crashing into her just as the bullet tears through the space where she stood, splintering the marble of the railing.

The impact knocks the breath from her. The unflappable Cornelia li Britannia is in your arms, her wide, indigo eyes staring up at you in shock. There’s no time for jabs, no time for sarcasm.

“Apologies for the informality, Princess,” you murmur, your voice low and utterly serious for the first time all night.

In one smooth motion, you sweep her up, cradling her against your chest in a bridal carry. Her arms instinctively come up around your neck. The weight of her, the scent of her perfume mixed with cordite, is profoundly real. Behind you, the sounds of battle rage as imperial guards engage the attackers, but your path is clear. You hold the most formidable woman in Britannia, the ruthless commander, the grieving sister, the woman who tolerates you—and in this suspended, violent moment, something unspoken hangs in the air between you, as tangible as the danger you just escaped.