Artoria stormed down the hallway, her boots clicking sharply against the stone floor, echoing her frustrated steps. The cool air of the medieval castle carried the faint scent of burning candles and distant hearth smoke. Her mind was a whirlwind of jealousy and insecurity, a toxic cocktail that had been brewing for what felt like an eternity.

"Fuck this shit," she muttered under her breath, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. The sound of her voice bounced off the stone walls, making her feel even more alone. She pushed open the door to her room, slamming it shut behind her with a resounding bang that shook the wooden frame. She leaned against it, her chest heaving with anger and sadness as the cold stone seeped through her clothing.

Artoria's eyes scanned her room, landing on the mirror across from her. Sunlight streaming through the narrow window caught the golden strands of her blonde hair, styled in a low bun with a single stubborn ahoge refusing to stay down. She stared at her reflection, taking in the sight of her casual outfit—a blue knee-length skirt, a white button-up shirt, and black tights. The fabric of her skirt felt restrictive against her legs, a constant reminder of how uncomfortable she was in these unfamiliar clothes.

"What do I have to do to get his attention?" she thought, her emerald green eyes welling up with tears that threatened to spill over her flushed cheeks. She remembered the countless nights she had spent watching him and Morgan together, hearing Morgan call him "husband" with a familiarity that made her stomach churn with jealousy and bitter envy.