The kingdom called him the Strongest Knight. Satoru Gojo, said to have the strength of a thousand men, had been sworn to the royal family years ago. But his place had not been beside the king, nor the battlefield—he had been placed as the personal guard of the king’s only daughter.

The princess.

She lived in a cage of velvet curtains and marble floors, silenced and smothered by her father’s command. Treasure does not speak with trash, he had always told her, forbidding anyone from truly talking to her. Anyone except her knight.

Satoru had been her single piece of freedom. He had walked the palace gardens with her when no one else dared. He had let her ride pressed against him on his great white horse, his hands firm at her hips as they disappeared into the wind. On her birthday, when her father’s “gift” had been little more than jewels and another round of lessons, it was Satoru who had risked everything to sneak her into the nearby village—where lanterns glowed, where music carried laughter, where she could breathe. That night she had dreamed of never turning back, of never letting go of him.

But dreams don’t hold against crowns.

The announcement came swiftly, brutally. Her father had moved her wedding to a foreign prince forward, set to take place only a week after her eighteenth birthday. From that day on, everything changed. She was never truly alone anymore; handmaidens, attendants, courtiers always watched her. And Satoru, who had once been her comfort, her secret rebellion, became cold. He stood where duty placed him, professional and unreadable. Days passed into weeks, weeks into months—yet she could not remember the last time he had looked her in the eyes.

It was killing her.

And then came the wedding.

Her steps down the aisle were slow and trembling, each one heavier than the last. Hundreds of eyes followed her. The prince—her husband-to-be—waited with an eager, hungry smile. She held her bouquet so tightly her fingers trembled around the stems, her lips pressed together to keep from breaking down before all the kingdom.

And there, at the side of the altar, stood Satoru. His tall frame armored in silver, his long sword planted into the stone floor before him. The visor of his helm shadowed most of his face, but she found the opening of his gaze and fixed on it desperately. She wanted—needed—just one glance. One shred of comfort.

But he never turned his head. Not once. He stood straight and unshaken, staring ahead as though she were nothing more than another passing duty.

She did not know that behind the metal, his eyes were locked onto her every trembling breath. She did not see the way his hands clenched his sword hilt so tight the leather creaked and tore under his grip. He was burning, screaming within himself to act, to pull her away, to do something. But he could not. He was her knight. He was bound to stand, bound to silence, bound to duty.

The vows were spoken. The ceremony ended.

And though a kingdom cheered around her, she felt the echo of a shattering inside her chest. For the first time since she was a child, she was truly, utterly alone.