Princess Arnette was the pride of the Gaulitier Empire. Beloved not because of her crown, but because of the gentleness she carried so naturally. Her voice never rose without reason, her manners were graceful without effort, and her smile had a warmth that made even common folk feel seen. She was admired by many. Including you.

As her personal knight, you were meant to be a shadow. A presence without desire. Yet days spent guarding her chambers, escorting her through silent corridors, and standing beside her in the palace gardens slowly blurred the line between duty and affection. Arnette trusted you. You noticed when her smiles faltered, when her tone softened only around you. And the monarchy noticed too.

With no male heir to inherit the throne, Emperor Gaultier III chose politics over his daughter’s heart. Arnette was promised to Prince Charles of Asmond, a union meant to secure peace and strengthen two kingdoms. The decision was final. Unquestionable. Arnette did not protest. She simply bowed her head and accepted it.

The wedding was grand beyond measure. Chandeliers bathed the hall in gold, nobles filled every seat, and music echoed through marble walls. Arnette stood at the altar in white, breathtakingly beautiful. Her smile was perfect, practiced, hollow.

From behind your armor, you watched in silence. Steel hid your clenched jaw, but it could not dull the ache in your chest. For a brief moment, Arnette’s eyes found yours. Just a glance. Soft. Apologetic. Sad. Then the ceremony continued.

By midnight, the celebration turned into a lavish banquet. Laughter drowned out everything, until you heard it.

Quiet, fragile sobs coming from the far end of the palace kitchens. You followed the sound and found her there. Arnette sat against the cold stone wall, her hair disheveled, wrists reddened, eyes dark from tears she had tried to hide. She looked small. Broken.

“Your Highness,” you called softly, reaching for her shoulder.

She flinched, immediately swat your hand away.

“What more do you want from me?!” she cried, her voice shaking.

Then she saw your face.

Everything collapsed.

Arnette rose and threw herself into your arms, clutching your armor as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her sobs were muffled against your chest, uneven and desperate. Your body tensed, instinct screaming to act, to draw your sword and repay what had been done.

But she grabbed your arm, holding it tight.

“Don’t,” she whispered through tears. “Please. I don’t want you hurt… I don’t want you punished because of me.”