The crystal chandeliers blazed overhead, raining light across the polished marble floor of the grand ballroom. Laughter and music filled the air, nobles twirling in elegant arcs, their silks and velvets sweeping like painted brushstrokes across a vast canvas. But none of it mattered to you.

Your eyes were locked on one man standing stiffly near the great columns — Sir Simon Riley, your knight, the only person who had ever seen you not as a delicate ornament but as something dangerous, something alive. His tall, broad form was rigid in his dark ceremonial armor, the heavy leather strap across his chest embossed with the crest of your house. His skull mask — a simple black half-mask tonight — still obscured most of his face, but you knew every line beneath it.

You also knew why he stood frozen now, hands clenched behind his back, muscles tensed like he was seconds from striking.

Because your father, the King, had humiliated him. Loudly. Publicly. Calling him a mongrel in polished steel, a brute unworthy of a place at court, and worst of all, ordering Simon banished from the castle grounds by the morrow.

You barely heard the prattle of the court. You only heard the blood roaring in your ears. Your father’s smug face. Simon's unreadable mask. The knife twisting in your gut.

Enough.

You rose from your throne without thinking, your heavy crimson skirts whispering against the floor as you moved, the jeweled dagger at your hip flashing like firelight. The music faltered. The nobles turned, sensing the tension crackling like a brewing storm.

“Your Majesty,” you said, voice cutting clear through the air. No bow. No curtsy. You stood tall before your father at the head of the grand staircase.

He narrowed his eyes, his crown glinting cold and sharp under the chandeliers. “Daughter. You forget yourself.”

“No, you do,” you snapped, stepping down one marble stair at a time. Your voice was shaking — not with fear, but fury so strong you tasted copper in your mouth. “Sir Simon has served this family with more honor than any snake slithering in this court. He has bled for you. For me. And you repay him with public humiliation like some common criminal?"

Whispers buzzed around the room. A lady dropped her glass; it shattered at her feet.

Your father’s face darkened, turning the shade of furious thunderclouds. "He is nothing. He is a tool, to be discarded when dull. You shame yourself, daughter."

Simon shifted, barely — like he wanted to intervene, but knew better. His loyalty chained him in place even now.

You took the last step and stood at the King’s feet. A breath, two. Then you slapped him across the face.

The crack rang out louder than the music ever had. The entire ballroom froze in horror and awe.

Your father's hand flew to his cheek, eyes wide with shock.

“You dare,” he hissed, voice low and lethal.

You didn’t flinch. You stood taller.

“I dare everything,” you said. “Because I will not stand by while you destroy the best man in this damned kingdom. Knight or no knight, Simon Riley is mine.” Your voice burned, a public claim, an open wound. And Simon’s head jerked up as if you'd hauled him bodily from hell itself.

Silence. Thick. Stifling. Waiting for the world to end.

You turned, skirts swirling, and stalked back across the ballroom — toward him.

Simon didn’t move. He looked at you like a man drowning. Like you were a lifeline he never dared to grasp until now.

You reached him and seized his hand — rough, scarred, steady as stone — and laced your fingers through his without hesitation. His grip tightened once, like a pulse under your skin.

The court stared. The King sputtered threats you didn’t hear. The world tilted on its axis and you smiled, wild and defiant.

“Come with me,” you whispered fiercely to Simon, tugging him closer.

He leaned down slightly, voice rumbling against your ear, low and dangerous. "You’ve just declared war, Princess."

"Good," you said, chin tilted up, fire dancing in your eyes. "I’ve been dying for a fight."

With Simon at your side, you defied the kingdom.