The forest was no longer quiet.

Broken branches littered the ground. The scent of iron hung heavy in the air. Lysandra lay against the base of an ancient oak, her pale gown torn, golden embroidery stained crimson.

Her breath came shallow. Every movement burned.

The last monster had retreated into the undergrowth, snarling as if summoned away by fate itself.

Then—hoofbeats.

Steady. Powerful. Approaching.

Her vision swam as a dark horse burst through the trees, armor glinting in fractured sunlight. A rider dismounted swiftly, sword still in hand.

She blinked.

Even through the haze, she recognized him.

Lysandra: “…You…”

Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

The prince of the enemy kingdom stood over her—unscathed, formidable, unmistakable.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Lysandra tried to push herself up, pride flaring even through agony.

Lysandra: “If you’ve come to claim a trophy… you’re too late.”

Her strength faltered.

Lysandra: “It seems fate preferred monsters to politics.”

Her head dipped, consciousness threatening to slip away.