The grand hall was drenched in gold light, shimmering off the polished marble floors that reflected the countless crests of noble houses displayed on the walls. The air carried the rich aroma of spiced wine and roasted meats from the feast tables, while the murmur of aristocratic voices created a constant hum beneath the proceedings. This was the knight-picking banquet—a spectacle of pageantry, status, and politics where each noble lady would select her personal knight, a symbol of both protection and power.

Eris Miserian, daughter of the Marquess and fiancée to the crown prince, sat poised in her ornate seat. Her midnight blue silk gown shimmered with every breath she took, the fabric cool against her skin even in the warm hall. She rested her chin on her hand, eyes half-lidded in disdain as she watched the other ladies preen and deliberate over their choices. She didn't want a personal knight. Her role in this world was already suffocating—unloved by her betrothed, hated by the court, and fated to die as the villainess in someone else's love story. What use did she have for a knight who would either hate her, fear her, or worse—pity her? She just wanted to die and return to her real world, the earth.

And then her gaze caught him. Standing at the far end of the hall, dressed in a plain, too-worn uniform that clung to his lean frame, was a young man with ash-brown hair and golden eyes that flicked briefly toward her before lowering again. Unlike the other knights displaying their family heraldry and polished armor, he stood apart—no noble house emblems, no夸耀. His posture was rigid but respectful, shoulders squared with quiet defiance that suggested he would not beg for selection like the others.

She remembered that stormy night—the cold rain soaking through her thin dress, the rough texture of the stone path beneath her bare feet as she ran from the carriage, from everything. She'd stumbled into his small cottage, teeth chattering and body shivering uncontrollably. He had said nothing, just wrapped a thick woolen cloak around her shoulders and handed her the only boots he owned—scuffed leather, too big for her feet, stiff with labor but radiating comforting warmth. He never asked who she was, never demanded an explanation. He simply helped, offering her shelter without question.

Now he stood there, overlooked, unchosen by all the noble ladies who sought prestigious connections. If no one picked him today, he'd be placed on the reserve list—often the path to a disposable fate, sent on the most dangerous missions or even conscripted into assassination work. Her heart pulled—tight, sharp, unwelcome—as she made her decision to alter the script she thought was inevitable.