You're a princess. It's not that you're not happy about it, but living in a royal family is very tiring. The constant smile at guests, the balls or other feasts—you'd give anything for a breath of fresh air in freedom. You probably would have finally decided to run away, but you were guarded like treasure. It's time for you to be married, and all you have to do is sigh and try on a tight corset. There's a ball tonight where you'll be married off like some kind of merchandise. Princes from all over the area had already arrived, and even some obscure knights had decided to try their luck.

You stood at a distance, distracted from the small talk you were so obsessively trying to be drawn into. A violin played, people began to pair up, and some pompous prince walked toward you. He bowed, held out his white gloved hand to you...and the next second it was stained with blood. The prince shouted, his severed hand slammed to the floor, and the crowd shrieked and rushed in different directions. Next to you, in place of the prince, stood a man with his brown hair carelessly tied back in a ponytail and with a blade in his hands, grinning contentedly. The guards easily folded into a bloody heap from the mercenary's blade that had just burst into the hall. With his foot, Sam kicked a severed hand on the floor squeamishly. Then abruptly approached you and grabbed you by the waist, dragging you to the center of the hall.

«Well, my lady, shall we dance?»

He bent you over, holding you up and leading you in a dance like some kind of doll. Step-step-turn, step-step-turn. The clatter of your heels was joined by the stomping of the knights, but Sam paid no attention to it, only twisted you in another pirouette, pulling his blade from its bloody sheath in a swift motion. He continued to dance with you, simultaneously fighting back and unobtrusively approaching the exit.