Ruth had ridden hard from the capital—horse lathered, flanks heaving, armor—sleek plates of polished steel etched with subtle vines, more elegant than the bulky suits of lesser knights—clinking softly with each stride.
Three guards trailed her, their faces set in grim masks, but Ruth's mind was a storm: Why him? Why me? The Crown dumps their failed son on this gods-forsaken edge of the world and expects me to babysit. I hate him already—hate the whispers of his "eccentricities," the way they spoke of him like a beautiful poison you couldn't quite pour out. Duty be damned; if he gives me one reason…
She had left at dawn, expecting to intercept him somewhere along the dusty road—perhaps delayed by boredom, perhaps by arrogance, perhaps by the simple fact that no sane person hurried toward a place like Val Harm.
The orders had been clear: escort the prince, ensure he arrives, ensure he stays.
A knight was assigned.
She was that knight.
She had planned to meet him on the road, to arrive together, to maintain the illusion of control.
But when she reached the market square, he was already there.
Not waiting at the gates.
Not lingering near the fortuneteller's tent with some petulant expression of impatience.
Simply there, moving through the thinning crowd as though he had always belonged to it, as though the hours she had spent in the saddle he had crossed in minutes—without horse, without escort, without explanation.
She dismounted in one sharp motion, boots striking dust hard enough to send a small cloud drifting.
Her hand settled instinctively on her sword hilt—not to draw, but to ground herself against the sudden, cold certainty that something was already wrong. How? I rode without stop. The road is long, empty, watched. Unless… no. That's impossible. He's just a man, not some shadow slipping through cracks. But he's here. First. Alone.
The guards fanned out behind her, tense, uncertain, their eyes darting from face to face as though expecting ambush.
Ruth scanned the square, heart already beating too fast—not from the ride, but from the quiet, creeping knowledge that she had been outmaneuvered before the game had even begun. He knew I was coming. He must have. And he chose to arrive first—why? To prove he doesn't need me? To make me chase him? I hate him. Hate how he's already turned this into something personal.
He was impossible to miss.
Tall, his frame rising above the hunched, weary figures around him like a shadow cast by something taller than the sun—he moved with the careless, predatory grace of a man who had never once doubted the ground would hold him.
Ruth pushed forward through the crowd.
The guards followed, hands on hilts, eyes scanning.
She reached him just as he paused near the edge of the square, turning as though he had felt her approach long before she arrived.
She stopped a measured distance away—close enough for protocol, far enough to breathe.
Her armor caught the weak light, vines etched in silver glinting faintly, a knight's look that spoke of battles won with grace as much as blade—stylish, lethal, feminine in a way that made men both want and fear her.
She hated how it suddenly felt inadequate next to him.
"Your Highness," she said, voice steady but laced with the edge of formality she had practiced on the ride. "I am Ruth, knight of the Crown, assigned as your escort and guardian in Val Harm."
He tilted his head the smallest fraction, regarding her with that same calm, faintly amused gaze—as though she were a mildly diverting curiosity in an otherwise dull afternoon.
The smile lingered, charming, cold, inviting her to lean closer even as every instinct screamed to step back.
"I was hoping you'd get lost on the way, Ruth."
The words were soft, almost affectionate, yet they carried the same intimate cruelty he had used on the fortuneteller moments before—charming on the surface, dissecting underneath, as though he had already read her orders, her resentments, her hidden thoughts, and found them quaint. How does he know my name? The missive was sealed. And that tone—like we've met before, like he owns the conversation already. I hate him. Hate how he says my name like a secret he shouldn't know.
She clenched her jaw, fighting the flush of anger—and something else, something complicated she shoved down deep. Duty first. Always duty. But gods, he's unnerving—tall enough to make me feel small, eyes like blood that sees through skin. Charming bastard. I won't let him play me.
"The palace awaits you," she replied, keeping her tone clipped, professional, though the hate simmered beneath like coals under ash.
He smiled a short, sharp thing—villainous in its elegance, cold in its precision.
"That damned palace has been waiting for years. My delay of a day or two changes nothing."
She did not reply at once.
Advanced one measured step, calculating the distance the way one measures a battlefield before the first clash. He's toying with me. Arrived first, alone—how? Why? To prove he doesn't need me? I hate him more for that. But there's something… magnetic. No. Focus. He's a burden, a failed experiment. My responsibility. Nothing more.
"Today you present yourself formally to your subjects."
Her tone was pure protocol, but the exhaustion crept in—worn by the ride, by the man before her.
"You are now lord of this domain by order of the Crown."
He glanced around the square.
The faces had begun to pretend busyness again, but their eyes still followed him.
"See?" he said softly.
"They don't need this farce."
She crossed her arms sharply, the motion pulling her armor taut across her shoulders—stylish, etched with vines that softened the steel without weakening it, a knight's look that spoke of battles won with grace as much as blade. Farce? He calls duty a farce. I hate him—hate how he dismisses everything I swore to uphold. But that voice… soft, pulling you in. Complicated. Dangerous.
"And what do we care about the rabble's wishes? They need a ruler whether they realize it or not."
She added immediately, the words tasting bitter:
"That is your duty."
He laughed low—charming, villainous, the sound wrapping around her like smoke.
"Even if I say I'm unfit?"
She clenched her jaw, looked at the ground for a moment as though weighing whether to dignify it.
She did not deny his self-description—could not, with what the Crown had told her. Unfit? Eccentric, moody, a problem. Yes. But standing here, he's more than that. Terrifying. I hate how he makes me question my own orders.
"You're eccentric, moody, sometimes annoying," she said, listing the faults like inventory in a storeroom—though inside, the hate mixed with a reluctant fascination, layers of resentment and unwilling respect twisting like vines on her armor.
"And that puts me in more trouble than I can count."
He stepped closer.
Not a threat—just sovereign pressure, the kind that needs no raised voice, tall frame looming without effort, crimson eyes locking on hers with that cold, charismatic pull.
"And yet you're still here."
A pause.
"What did the Crown tell you about me?"
She did not answer at once.
Her hand tightened on the helmet strap, fingers digging into leather as though to steady the storm inside. He knows. Of course he knows. I hate him for seeing through me already.
He waited, then said:
"They told you I'm a burden. A failed experiment. Something to be expelled from the capital."
She lifted her head—sharp, defiant, though the exhaustion showed in the lines around her eyes.
"They told me you're my responsibility. So shut your damned mouth and let's move."
Silence fell across the square.
Even the market seemed to swallow its breath.
He turned.
Took one step away from her.
Her hand shot out and caught the edge of his coat.
She did not yank.
She did not need to. Touching him—gods, why does it feel like grabbing fire? I hate him. Hate this duty, hate how he makes it feel personal already.
"You won't escape today."
He looked down at her hand, then at the red glove on his own—slow, deliberate, charming in the cold calculation of it.
"Ruth…"
His voice was low, almost gentle—villainous in its intimacy.
"I know why you hate your job."
A brief pause.
"And I know why you hate me."
She raised her eyes to his—hate flaring hot, but complicated now, layered with the unnerving pull of his presence, the charisma that made her want to step closer even as she wanted to strike. How? We just met. I hate him—hate how he peels back layers I didn't know were there.
"Then don't make it harder."
He pulled the coat free—gently, deliberately.
"I'll come," he said simply.
Then, without turning:
"But don't expect me to be their slave."
She signaled the guards—sharp, commanding, though her hand still tingled from the brief touch.
"Escort him."
They moved.
The market gradually returned to its clamor, but something lingered in the air—a thin, unshakable dread, as though the entire domain had just realized that this man, who had not asked for rule, had finally stepped into the game of power.
And the game had already begun without them.