Steel clashed against steel in a rhythmic dance that echoed across the training yard. The sun was high, casting a glaring light over the pale stone walls of the academy courtyard. Dust rose with every heavy step, sweat dripped from brows, and the sharp cries of effort were followed by gasps of defeat.
At the center of it all was Christina Percival, her chest rising and falling evenly as she lowered her sword, its blade humming slightly with residual force. The handle glowed faintly—a radiant blue hue that caught the sunlight and made it shimr like crystal water. Around her lay three noble sons, all defeated, breathing hard on the ground as instructors dragged them aside to nurse their bruised pride.
Another student approached, his blade drawn, but Christina did not even flinch. Her eyes were sharp, trained, and far away at the sa ti—lost in the storm of her thoughts.
This sword again...
She glanced down at the weapon in her hand. The handle, elegant and crafted with a precision that defied common smithing, glead like sapphire. Her grip tightened.
That man.
The one with erald eyes.
The one whose presence made her mother glow with a happiness Christina had never seen before. The sa man who had placed this sword in her hands, his touch lingering on the hilt just a little too long, his words gentle but laced with sothing deeper—sothing she couldn’t na.
Even this sword, one she couldn’t get registered from academy officials because it was too advanced for them.
Every ti she looked at the sword, it was like staring straight into his eyes.
And it made her chest ache with confusion.
How was she supposed to feel about a man who held her broken mother on the tips of his fingers, who could reduce her to smiles and silence? After all the years of neglect, the cold als, the distant glances and harsher words, Christina couldn’t even bla her.
If happiness was finally within reach—even in the arms of soone like him—who was she to stand in the way?
The sword thrumd in her hand again, pulling her out of her thoughts.
The noble boy lunged.
Christina’s blade t his in a precise arc, turning his montum against him. A twist of her wrist, a sidestep, a swift strike to the shoulder. His sword went flying.
He hit the ground with a loud thud.
The courtyard went still for a mont, whispers traveling among the students.
"Another one down..."
"Fourth duel today... She’s insane."
"She hasn’t even broken a sweat."
From the corner of her eye, Christina caught movent—Master Udo, tall and silent in his dark robes, passing by the edge of the arena. He didn’t stop, didn’t speak. Their eyes t for the briefest mont.
She knew that look.
Indifference. Detached observation. As if the world around him, even her pain, wasn’t his concern.
He had never bullied her.
But he had never stopped it, either.
She held his gaze for a second longer, but he broke it with effortless ease and walked away without pause.
Coward, she thought, but said nothing.
The training instructor, a knight wearing the crest of Count Dervall’s household, barked out a na. "Next! Vincent Alren, to the field! He will face Christina Percival."
Another boy stepped forward, sword in hand and fear in his eyes.
But before Christina could raise her blade, a voice rang out across the courtyard.
"Isn’t that enough?"
Everyone turned.
Standing at the top of the steps was Princess Maria Alexandria, her long raven hair tied with a gorgeous looking bun, her deep green cloak fluttering in the breeze. Her voice was calm but carried the weight of command.
The knight hesitated. "Your Highness... this is only standard training—"
"Standard?" Maria interrupted, descending the steps. "Since when has training ant sending student after student to duel one girl? Is there so new martial philosophy where three-on-one is considered educational?"
The knight gave a nervous smile. "Of course not, Your Highness. We were simply—ah, putting her talents to the test."
"Oh?" Maria raised a brow. "So you’re not showing favoritism? How generous of you."
"No, no favoritism, I assure you," the knight said hastily. "Perhaps... we’ll conclude training early for today."
"Excellent decision." Maria clapped her hands once, gently. "See? I knew you had a good brain under that helt."
Laughter rippled among the younger students. The knight looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.
Maria turned toward Christina, her gaze shifting from friendly amusent to sothing more personal. "Would you care to walk with , Christina? I have so sweets I want to try."
Christina lowered her blade slowly, flicked it to the side to clean it, and sheathed it. "It would be my greatest pleasure."
"Yay!" Maria grinned, her hands clasping in delight—but her eyes, sharp and inquisitive, flicked downward.
"To be honest," she said, "I really just wanted a closer look at that sword of yours."
Christina hesitated, fingers brushing the handle.
"This?" she said quietly. "It was a gift. From... an acquaintance."
Maria tilted her head, green eyes narrowing slightly. "Must be quite the acquaintance. That blade is no simple forgework. I’m guessing it sings in battle, doesn’t it?"
"It’s... valuable to ," Christina said. "In ways I’m still trying to understand."
"I see," Maria said, her tone suddenly softer. "And here I was hoping I could bribe you into selling it to . You wound , Lady Percival."
Christina gave a slight smile. "Apologies, Your Highness."
"Maria," the princess corrected. "You’re my first Sturgon friend."
***
The scent of cinnamon buns and roasted almonds drifted through the bustling streets of the Harlow Empire’s capital. Afternoon light poured through the narrow alleys and sun-ward rooftops, casting golden shadows over market stalls and bakeries. Crowds bustled, rchants shouted their deals, and children darted past legs with sticky hands and fuller smiles.
At the center of it all, two young won walked with casual elegance.
"Over there!" Princess Maria chirped, pointing toward a patisserie with pink crystal windows. "They say their lemon mousse tastes like divine rcy."
Christina, walking a step behind as she always did, narrowed her eyes. "Is that an actual review?"
"Does it matter?" Maria grinned. "My imagination is far more reliable than critics anyway."
Behind them, her knights moved with tense precision. Their formation looked casual on the surface, but anyone trained in warfare could tell—it was a protective ring. Shields hidden beneath coats, daggers ready at the hips, and sharp eyes scanning every window, every rooftop.
Christina glanced back. She could see it in their faces—anxiety. Restlessness.
Sothing wasn’t right.
She leaned toward the princess. "Your knights... they’re acting strange."
"They’re always strange," Maria said lightly, licking icing from her finger. "But yes, they’re more nervous than usual. We received so concerning ssages this morning."
Christina frowned. "What kind of ssages?"
"Ones that suggest I might not live long enough to try that lemon mousse." Maria’s voice was calm, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. "Assassins. One or more factions want dead. Possibly Harlow rebels, possibly foreign agents who’d profit from war between our nations."
"And you still wanted to go sweet-hunting?"
"Especially because of that," Maria said with a wink. "If I die, I’m not dying with an empty stomach."
Christina sighed. "You’re completely insane."
"And yet, here you are."
Maria wasn’t wrong. Despite everything, Christina had agreed to co. Why? She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was because Maria had asked her with such ease, such warmth, that it felt less like an order and more like... a friend reaching out.
But now, walking in public beside the biggest target in the continent, she was starting to regret that.
From the rooftops above and the shadows around them, things began to shift. Passersby moved faster. A breeze carried a faint tallic scent—blood, perhaps, or the oil of sharpened blades.
Maria stopped in front of a chocolate shop, examining a tower of caral sculptures.
Then, she tilted her head ever so slightly, her eyes half-lidded.
"They’re here," she said softly.
Christina tensed. "How do you know?"
Maria smiled without looking away from the sweets. "I can hear them. Their breathing. Their footfalls. The shift in air. You could say it’s instinct. Or sothing else."
Christina blinked. Even Maria’s own guards didn’t seem aware yet—but the princess had already sensed the danger.
A chill ran down her spine.
"And you’re just standing here?" Christina hissed under her breath.
"I’m admiring the artistry of sugared figs," Maria said. "Don’t worry so much. I’ll be fine."
Easy for you to say, Christina thought. You’re used to being a target. I’m not.
Her eyes darted across the crowd. She wasn’t scared of fighting—but dying as a case of mistaken identity, skewered because soone thought her cloak looked too regal? That was not how she imagined her story ending.
And yet... she knew, sowhere deep inside, she couldn’t walk away. Not from this girl who spoke so casually of death, who smiled in the face of assassins.
Not just because she’s a princess... but because she’s my friend.
Christina slowly reached behind her back, fingers wrapping around the sword with the sapphire handle—the one that always reminded her of that handso erald eyed man, which had similar eyes to Princess Maria/
It sang as she drew it from its sheath. A soft, almost inaudible hum that cut through the ambient noise like a ripple in still water.
Maria turned at the sound. Her eyes widened slightly.
"That sword again..." she murmured. "Is that the standard technique of Sturgon’s smiths? If so... I really must look into it."
Her voice was light, but her gaze lingered on the blade like it was a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve.
From the alley nearby, sothing creaked.
Then—crash!
A door burst open with a bang as a man in a torn cloak and mask stumbled into view, blood streaking one arm. He fell to one knee, gasping for breath, trying to retreat—but behind him stepped one of Maria’s personal guards.
A young woman with a bob cut hair and piercing eyes, her gauntlet-clad hand gripping the collar of her captive.
She rolled her neck once, a loud pop echoing through the street.
"Princess," the knight said calmly, "we caught one of the rats. The rest have been... disposed of."
Christina noticed a fine cut across the girl’s cheek, bleeding just a little—but her voice was steady, her posture proud.
Maria tilted her head, clicking her tongue. "Tsk tsk."
The air grew heavy. The nearby crowd, sensing sothing dangerous, slowly dispersed without needing a command.
"Two of them escaped," Maria said. "Which ans... this is a failure."
The knight bowed her head slightly, her grip on the assassin tightening. "We’ll track them."
"No need," Maria said, voice soft but commanding. "They’ll co to us. Rats always return to the crumbs."
Christina’s eyes hadn’t left the bleeding man on the ground. "You’re not going to question him?"
"Oh, we will," Maria replied. "But he won’t tell us anything. Assassins like these are loyal to silence. Even torture won’t work. But he doesn’t need to talk."
"What do you an?"
Maria stepped closer to the man, crouching down and looking at him with unsettling calm. "I’ve seen your kind before. You’re not here to kill because you hate . You’re here because soone paid you to. Soone who wants war. Soone who thinks removing would spark enough tension to shatter peace between Harlow and Sturgon."
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