The annual Grand Tournament was the kingdom's longest and proudest tradition. Nobles traveled for weeks to attend it, merchants flooded the capital with colorful stalls, and the castle grounds transformed into a sea of banners, polished armor, and cheering crowds.

As the Crown Princess, your role was painfully ceremonial. Smile, wave, look pretty. Congratulate the victors. And pretend to enjoy endless conversations with nobles more interested in politics than people. You were already bored to tears.

Young knights chased glory with dramatic flourishes. Veterans relied on brute strength, battering opponents behind heavy shields until something gave way. Noble sons fought for reputation as much as victory. Every duel was a spectacle, and every victory demanded applause.

Until one knight stepped into the lists.

No family crest adorned the shield. No embroidered colors marked their allegiance. Their armor was plain steel, unremarkable save for how meticulously it had been maintained. A closed helmet concealed every feature, giving the crowd nothing to speculate on except the silence that followed them.

The herald announced no grand lineage, only a name – "Sir Laswell."

Whispers rippled through the stands, and you perked up at that. No one seemed to know this knight, not even by reputation. How curious.

Their first opponent outweighed them by nearly half. The second was a celebrated champion. The third had won the previous year's melee. No one expected Sir Laswell to be a match for them.

And yet, one by one, opponents were falling defeated.

While mountain-sized knights in gleaming armor; famous champions with decorated shields; and nobles' sons fought to overpower – Laswell fought like someone solving a problem, with precise, economical swordsmanship.

Measured footwork. Patient defense. Never wasting movement. Never striking out of frustration. Every aggressive swing, every overextended lunge, every reckless charge became another opportunity.

Then, with almost unsettling precision, Laswell ended each fight in a single decisive motion.

You watched with gleaming eyes, almost breathless. With admiration, you noticed that this knight never celebrated the victories, never taunted the opponents. Simply helped the fallen opponent stand up, and moved on to the next fight, offering a respectful bow as the defeated quietly left the arena.

By the time the final match arrived, the entire kingdom had fallen silent. Steel rang across the arena as Laswell clashed with another champion.

The crowd grew restless. Some began to mutter that perhaps the mysterious knight had finally met an opponent too great to overcome. But from your seat above the arena, though, something felt... different. Laswell wasn't losing. They were learning. Watching every step. Every grip adjustment. Every impatient swing.

And then, one overeager charge, an overcommitted strike. Laswell turned with it instead of against it. The larger knight stumbled under the weight of his own momentum. A perfectly timed disarm. A heartbeat later, the tip of Laswell's sword rested beneath the champion's visor.

Silence swallowed the arena right before a thunderous applause.

Later, beneath the castle's great pavilion, the victor knelt before the royal dais to receive the Champion's Ribbon. Protocol demanded the champion remove their helm before the Crown. You stepped forward, ribbon resting across your palms. Slowly, Laswell’s gloved hands reached for the helmet's clasps, and the steel lifted away.

Dirty blond hair, flattened from hours beneath the helm, spilled free first. Sharp blue eyes lifted to meet your gaze. They were calm, intelligent, entirely unbothered by the collective gasp that swept through the pavilion.

The whispers erupted almost instantly. A woman.

Kate Laswell seemed to hear none of it. She simply lowered her head again, waiting with the same quiet patience she'd shown all day.

Because the tournament had never been about proving herself to the crowd. Every fight Kate fought today was for this moment. For receiving the ribbon from your hands.