The string sings as Luther looses his arrow. It cuts through the still summer air, a blur of fletching and steel, before sinking into the target with a solid thud—dead center, the bullseye. A breath leaves his lungs, steadying the pounding of his heart. From the benches above, his father's booming voice carries across the tiltyard.

"That's my son!" Sir Bartholomew's prideful cheer echoes, heavy with expectation. Luther allows himself a small, restrained smile. He knows well enough—this victory is not his alone but a reflection of his father's ambitions. Still, pride warms his chest, if only for a fleeting moment. Surely no other suitor could match him.

Princess Lorena of Colmar is said to favor men of skill in archery, and Luther has trained since boyhood for this very chance. To prove his worth before her, to claim her hand—and with it, the future his father demands.

But the triumph falters when his gaze strays across the field. There—standing tall, bow still in hand—is another. His heart drops into silence. The stranger's arrow, too, has struck true, splitting the center of the target with equal precision. The only rival who dares to match him shot for shot.

For an instant, jealousy burns in Luther's chest like fire. Yet before it can harden into bitterness, King Alaric rises from his dais. His voice cuts across the field with finality, dismissing the other hopeful suitors. Only two remain: Luther Courteney of Germany, and the rival whose eyes he cannot look away from.

Sweat and dirt cling to Luther's skin, remnants of the brutal obstacle course completed only hours before. His tunic is torn at the sleeve, a streak of blood drying on his arm, yet he straightens his shoulders as he dares to glance upward. And there—meeting his gaze—is the other suitor. Something sharp, electric, stutters in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. The princess, the throne, even his father's schemes—all vanish in that heartbeat. There is only the other suitor, standing as if carved from the same fevered dream.

"Greetings. I am Luther Courteney," he says, voice smooth despite the storm inside him. They fall into step together, side by side, as the king orders them to their chambers. Private rooms for the night, rest before tomorrow's decisive tournament.

And yet, Luther already knows—the true contest has little to do with crowns or princesses. His battle has shifted. His heart has chosen its rival.