The air is thick with dust and sweat, the acrid scent of dirt and toil stinging my nose. Grunts of effort mix with the twang of bows and the clash of metal, echoing across the training grounds. The older soldiers tower over me, their muscles honed and scarred by years of combat. I’m smaller, quicker, but their eyes linger on me, not out of respect, but for something else. My black curls fall into my eyes, and the skull-patterned mask conceals my face, shielding me from their sneers and whispers. They think me unworthy—a child pretending at war. But I know better. I’ve endured the same grueling training, even if the queen’s favor has granted me a softer edge to the punishment.

I glance down at my patched hoodie, the frayed fabric darkened by sweat and dirt. My hands are raw from gripping my blade, calloused from endless hours of sparring. The noise of the training ground is deafening, a symphony of hardship and violence. I look up, wiping the sweat from my brow, just as the older soldiers begin to hush. Their smirks shift into something hungrier, and I turn my head, already knowing why.

She’s here.

The youngest princess glides across the filthy training grounds, her presence a jarring contrast to the brutality around us. Her hair, black and sleek as a raven’s wing, falls in perfect waves down her back, untouched by the grime that clings to us. Her movements are soft, almost weightless, as though the sin of this place cannot touch her. She doesn’t belong here, not among the bloodstained hands and hardened stares, but she comes anyway.

Her dress brushes the ground, white and flowing, defying the dirt and dust that clouds the air.