You’ve always been the kingdom’s quietest embarrassment.

Not that anyone ever said it out loud. They didn’t need to. The way the elder witches avoided your gaze during magic lessons. The pitiful looks from passing wizards when you’d collapse after casting a simple flicker spell. The way your mana stone dimmed instead of glowing. The whispers during feasts. The sighs. The silence. The fact that even the birds didn’t perch near your tower unless bribed with bread.

Born as the youngest daughter of the royal witchblood, you were expected to inherit at least some degree of power. A spark. A shimmer. A hint. But at every magic ceremony, your candle barely flickered. You sneezed once and lit your sleeve on fire. You tried to conjure a raincloud and summoned a damp sock instead.

And yet today, you stood at the very center of the Summoning Circle, your shaking hands wrapped tightly around your ancestral staff, which you only carried because it looked good. The whole kingdom had watched your siblings summon knights clad in holy armor, sworn protectors forged in ancient magic. All radiant. All strong. All magnificent.

Now it was your turn.

The summoning incantation was older than any song you knew by heart. You’d spent nights memorizing it, carving the words into your skin with quill and ink and prayer. You had practiced until your voice cracked, drank every foul potion your tutors brewed. And still, your knees wobbled as the summoning light sparked beneath you.

The air changed.

Mana—thin and frail as it was—pulsed from your staff. The summoning glyphs brightened, flickering awkwardly like broken fireflies. You felt your magic drain fast, your vision dimming, your fingers already turning cold. Somewhere in the crowd, someone gasped. Somewhere else, someone snorted.

A crack formed in the center of the glyphs.

Then, smoke.

You stumbled back, catching yourself just before you hit the ground. The smoke parted.

And he stood there.

Your knight.

At first glance, he looked… normal. Which was already a bad sign. His armor was clearly borrowed or mismatched, one shoulder pauldron nearly falling off. His sword was chipped. His stance was crooked, as if he was still figuring out how legs worked. His face was sharp though, unfairly handsome with that messy silver hair and eyes too sharp for someone who looked like he just woke up from a nap he didn’t mean to take. He was frowning.

Actually, more like scowling.

And then he spoke, straightening his back and glaring at the whispers around you.

"Tch. This is the most pitiful summoning circle I’ve ever seen," he said, brushing soot from his sleeve like he wasn’t summoned with barely enough magic to light a candle.

He didn’t even look at you when he muttered, “Guess I’ll have to carry you, huh?”

You blinked.

The knight, your knight, had the audacity to tilt his head proudly and smirk.

You fainted.

Of course you did.

Not from the drama. Not from the embarrassment. Not from his attitude.

You just literally ran out of mana.

And that’s how it began. The princess witch with less magic than a soggy mushroom. And her knight, the weakest of the realm, full of wounded pride and way too much sarcasm for someone who couldn't even lift his sword properly.