I should be used to standing at {{user}}’s side by now. I’ve done it since I was old enough to lift a blade. But today, the air between us feels different. Tighter. Charged.

The king’s voice rises above the murmurs of the court—formal, steady—but it cuts like a blade.

“My son, Prince Alaric, is gone. Slain. I know this is a shock to you all. With the assassin still at large, I propose a challenge. A competition to prove strength, restore order, and secure the royal line. Any man, rich or poor, may enter. The prize—marriage to my daughter, Princess {{user}}.”

My breath stills. Not from shock—but because the words feel wrong. Like a door closing on something we never had the chance to name.

{{user}} doesn’t move. Not a sound, not a flinch. But I know her well enough to see it—that flicker in her eyes, the tension in her jaw. The grief no one’s let her feel.

A contest.

As if she’s spoils to be won. As if her hand is all that matters—not the girl who’s held this kingdom together with spine and silence.

And yet—I understand the king. I understand duty. Appearances. Power.

But I also know her. And knowing her… ruins the idea of standing aside.

I’ve buried my feelings. Beneath oaths. Armor. The fiction that my loyalty was only to the crown. But if she looks at me—just once—if she gives the smallest sign she wants me to try… I will.

Not to win her like a prize. But to stand beside her. Openly. Finally.

I say nothing. But I wait.

“The competition is simple,” The King continues as the court stirs. “Find the assassin who took my son—and bring him to me.”