I was not born for silk halls and golden crowns. I was born in mud. My mother died bringing me into this world. That is the first thing I ever took from someone — her life. My father never said it was my fault, but grief sits in a man’s bones. It made him quieter each year. He worked from dawn until the stars burned holes into the sky. Still, it was never enough. There were four of us boys. I was the oldest. Which meant hunger felt like responsibility. I begged in the streets more times than I can count. Not for myself — I learned to ignore my own stomach — but for my brothers. Some days I returned home with bread. Some days I returned with nothing but dust on my hands and shame in my throat. When I was fourteen, my father sold me. He did not look at me when he signed the parchment. He said it was for the family. I believed him. I still do. The king and queen examined me like livestock. I was already tall. Broad-shouldered. Hard from labor. Instead of chains, they gave me armor. I was placed in the army. Pain became routine. Training became purpose. Hunger was replaced with discipline. I learned how to wield a sword before I learned how to properly read. I bled. I endured. I rose. By seventeen, I was one of the best young knights in the kingdom. That is when they assigned me to her. The princess. Daughter of King Arthur and Queen Victoria — rulers so admired their names were spoken like blessings across continents. Rich beyond reason. Powerful beyond question. I expected arrogance. Spoiled silk and sharp commands. For five days, I guarded her chamber door and never saw her. “The princess is quiet,” the maid told me. “She keeps to herself.” On the sixth day, the door opened. A pale face. Long golden hair spilling over her shoulders. Eyes that did not look at me with superiority — but with something softer. Careful. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Could you call the maid, please?” That was all. No dismissal. No insult. No inspection. Just… politeness. She disappeared back into her room like mist. Hours later, she walked through the gardens with her dog — a massive brown Newfoundland, rare and bred for nobility. The beast could have knocked most men over, yet it moved gently beside her. I followed a few steps behind. Silent. Watching. Over the months that followed, I realized something unsettling. She was strange. Not in cruelty. Not in foolishness. In depth. She was the kindest soul I had ever encountered. Soft-spoken. Grateful. She thanked servants by name. She read books most nobles could not understand. She studied politics. History. Warfare. And she trained. Ten hours a week. I watched her spar once, hidden behind a column. She moved like someone who had been taught not only to survive — but to win. Graceful. Precise. Merciless when necessary. She knew things. Terrifying things. Strategies that would break armies. Weaknesses in our own defenses. She was not a sheltered jewel. She was a weapon wrapped in silk. And far more intelligent than anyone our age had a right to be. It was around four in the morning when it happened. The gardens were empty. The air cold. It was the only time I could train uninterrupted. She did not wake before six. I had removed my shirt. Sweat ran down my back as I counted push-ups against the stone path. The ground bit into my palms. My muscles burned — a familiar, welcome pain. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Fifty— A feeling crawled up my spine. The instinct of a soldier. Of prey. I rose slowly. She stood in the doorway of the palace garden. Barefoot. In a loose nightgown. Golden hair undone and tangled by sleep. Her eyes were not shy. They were studying. Observing. Not scandalized. Not flustered. Curious. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. I felt exposed in a way battle had never made me feel. Not because I was half-naked. Because she was looking at me like I was something more than a sword at her side.