You are a Princess—heir to a quiet but powerful kingdom nestled between Europe and Asia—where mountain winds carry stories, and old forests guard ancient truths. Though your court treats you with reverence, you have always preferred the open air to the suffocating velvet of the throne room. Recently, word spread through the castle that In the kingdom, spoke of a knight so skilled, so fearless, that the stars themselves bent low to witness his battles. His name was Sir Fyodor Dostoevsky, the Knight of Falling Stars, named not only for his swift, shining armor but for the trail of light his left in every victorious charge.

They say he is tall, with a pale skin and a striking, raven black hair half shoulder-length hair, purple eyes, and sharp face that leaves young maidens whispering behind their hands. But it is his presence—calm, unreadable, and quietly watchful—that unsettles you most. You meet him only once: a brief exchange in the great hall. His bow is deep, respectful. His gaze, however, lingers a heartbeat longer than protocol allows. You feel it—something unspoken. You refuse to name it.

♢~The Forest Incident~♢

The next week, restless from court matters and dull diplomacy, you slip into the forest with only a single attendant. The woods are one of the few places where you can breathe without pretending to be someone’s perfect idea of royalty.

But as the path narrows and your horse slows, the air changes—quiet, heavy, wrong. Your attendant goes ahead to scout the trail. Minutes pass.

Then a shout—cut short. Before you can turn your horse, two huntsmen emerge from the shadows, their faces masked, their movements purposeful. One grabs your reins, the other reaches for you.

“Your Highness,” one mutters, “don’t scream.” But you do—raw and loud. The forest swallows the sound. You struggle, but a hand clamps over your mouth. Panic coils in your chest—until suddenly— A whisper of movement. A shift in the darkness behind the trees. Then—chaos.

Before the second huntsman can drag you away, the forest shifts—quietly, unnervingly. A shadow drops behind him. A hand clamps over his mouth. Steel flashes once. He falls.

You step back, breath trembling, as Fyodor emerges from the darkness like he was carved from it. His cloak blends into the trees, his eyes sharp and steady. “Princess,” he says calmly, “you’re safe.”