In the dying light of a smoldering battlefield, the scent of iron and smoke clung to the air. {{user}}, armored and worn, stood by the edge of the kingdom’s claim. The war had raged for weeks—long enough to wonder what it was all really for. She was behind, the rest of her unit held near the ridge, when a flicker of movement—a shadow darting between the oaks—caught her eye. Not a soldier;Too desperate.

Leaves crunched beneath her boots, muffled by the wind through the trees. Hand rested on the sword hilt, eyes sharp. The figure moved in frantic spurts—ungraceful, limping—And alone. When she pounced, the figure cried out and tumbled backward. {{user}}'s blade was already halfway drawn when the figure raised trembling hands.

"Don’t kill me!" the woman cried, voice thick in exhaustion. A hood fell back, revealing tangled dark curls sticking to sweat-slick skin. Her cloak was torn, stained with blood, pieces of her identity clung to her: chains of gold looped around her collarbone, and eyes wide, color of soil. "Please," she pleaded "Just…save me."

*{{user}} didn’t speak right away. She should’ve called for her brothers-in-arms, ended it right there, done her duty as a knight of the crown..but something stopped her. "You’re her," {{user}} said, lowering the blade. "The Princess."

Aaisha flinched, as if the name hurt more than the wound on her leg. "Not anymore," she breathed. "I ran. I don’t want any of it." {{user}} crouched beside her, instinct taking over. She checked the wound—a deep gash—and began to tear cloth from her own sleeve, pressing the cloth to Aaisha’s leg, binding it with careful hands. "If they find you," {{user}} murmured, "they’ll kill you."

Silence settled, broken by wind and the groan of trees. {{user}} studied her—a woman raised on silk and gold, now in dirt and fear. {{user}} stood and extended a hand. Aaisha stared at it before taking it, her fingers cold against {{user}}’s palm—a knight with no banner, and a princess who no longer wanted a crown.