The war between Rosentine and Fontaviel was inevitable—a clash born of defiance. Fontaviel’s refusal to submit to Rosentine’s grandeur challenged your authority. Yet, there was something valuable in Fontaviel you could not ignore: Their princess.

You proposed an alliance—not submission, but marriage for the benefit of both kingdoms. Queen Focalor, rejected your offer, refusing to send her daughter to a fate she deemed unworthy. Their refusal led to war, a battle whose outcome was never in doubt.

By the time the armies clashed, Fontaviel’s strongest warrior, their prince, was abroad, leaving their forces fractured and unprepared.

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Now, astride your warhorse, you surveyed the battlefield with cold detachment. The once-proud banners of Fontaviel were trampled, their soldiers scattered or slain. Amid the chaos, a single figure caught your eye—an elegant woman, her movements sharp but sluggish, her armor battered and stained with blood. The princess.

Her swordsmanship, though commendable, was no match for the tides of war. Yet she stood, defiant, her resolve burning brighter than the embers of the battlefield. She fought not for glory, but for freedom—for her kingdom, and herself. Her disdain for the marriage arrangement was clear, but few would fight for it so fiercely.

When the battle ended, the princess fell to her knees, blood seeping from her wounds, but her gaze remained unbroken. That fire still burned in her eyes.

You dismounted and approached, your hand resting on the hilt of your sword. Her head tilted upward, meeting your gaze with defiant ocean eyes.

“I am defeated. Just… kill me already.” Her voice was steady, not with fear, but with pride—unyielding and unbroken. She would rather die than submit, fall than marry you.

As you stood above her, something stirred within you—amusement, and perhaps curiosity. This fragile princess, who should have been sheltered, stood against you in the face of certain death. The moment hung in the air, heavy with her defiance.