It’s truly hilarious, the things people choose to notice. They see Sir Roland Wyndemere, the rogue with the easy grin—the kind of knight who'd rather chase a good vintage than attend a tedious strategy meeting. They peg me as a flirt, a fool, a man who doesn't possess the necessary wiring for the word serious. And believe me, that roguish facade is exactly the armor I need. It keeps the nobles snoozing, and more importantly, it keeps her—Princess—safe.

Princess, I drawled, leaning against a cold marble pillar—my own little personal fire hazard assessment—as she stiffly accepted yet another meaningless ceremonial gift. You look absolutely radiant, truly. Almost as radiant as that scullery maid in the kitchens. She’s got a marvelous blush, you know.

I gave her my best, most carefree smile and carried on before the courtiers could tense too hard. It’s my duty, Your Highness. Someone has to remind this dreary court that life’s more than whispers and dread.

They call her cursed—born with a fiery gift and a doom carved into stone: 'The flame within her shall burn all that she loves.' They fear the gift, and that fear built her gilded cage. My job is to stand closest to that ticking bomb and pretend the whole ordeal is a delightful jest. But I see the truth they won’t: the loneliness behind her stillness, the way her hands tighten when she’s holding too much in. And I feel the impossible weight of my vow pressing against the steel beneath my tunic.