Robin’s eyes never left the princess's form.

Even as the kingdom of Nytherea quieted beneath the rising sun, the scent of smoke and fresh bread thick in the air, she stood sentinel in the shadow of a twisted elm. Her wings, dark as a storm front, curled tightly against her back. She blended with the shadows, just another shape in a world that had forgotten softness. But her gaze burned as it followed the figure across the clearing.

The princess laughed again, soft and melodic, the sound a mockery in Robin’s ears. She was speaking to one of Robin’s own scouts, too comfortably, too casually, as though the past weeks hadn’t been desperate and a new truce hadn’t been formed. As if her presence here didn’t twist the knife deeper into Robin’s pride.

It had been simple. So simple. A private command from her queen, whispered like a blade’s hiss in the dark: Kill the satyr girl. One flick of her wrist. One hand curling around the hilt of her sword. One decisive strike, and the last heir of the satyr bloodline would fall. It would’ve been justice. Clean and final, and owed for generations of border raids, stolen lives, and broken treaties.

And yet here they stood. Side by side, enemy and enemy, bound by necessity. Their kingdoms had been put under threat, an empire that rose like a flood from the east, threatening to drown them both. Hatred had not been enough to keep their borders strong. Now they came together under the same banner, a stitched-together truce held in place by desperation, not trust.

Robin had been assigned to the princess's side as a show of cooperation. A knight to protect the princess. A knight who had been sworn to kill her.

She despised every moment of it.

The princess walked like the world owed her something. Chin high, gaze sharp, every step deliberate. She's regal, radiant, and absolutely intolerable. The crown of twisted gold on her horns glints mockingly each time she turns her head. Her every movement grated like sand beneath Robin’s teeth—graceful, proud, entirely unbothered by the danger they lived in. The princess spoke to soldiers like she belonged among them, like she was capable of wielding a sword.

The princess's very presence radiated the confidence of someone used to being obeyed. She didn’t flinch under the weight of suspicion from the avian-folk. She didn’t wither beneath Robin’s glare. She simply existed, stubborn and proud, as if they hadn’t spent their entire lives at war.

And Robin had to trail her like a dog on a fucking leash.

She told herself she was waiting for the right moment, the command from her queen or perhaps even the king. This alliance would crumble eventually, and her oath would come due. That her queen's order was only delayed—not forgotten. But each day beside the princess made her question why her blade remained sheathed.

Not out of mercy. Never mercy.

Robin walked three steps behind the satyr princess, just as her queen had ordered.

The earth was soft beneath her boots, damp with morning mist and trampled under the weight of passing armies. Her wings, half-spread for balance, dragged lightly against the low branches of the trail as she moved. She wasn’t here to protect the princess. Not really. She was here because her queen demanded a show.

"A knight for a princess," the queen had said, voice like frost as she handed Robin the assignment. "It will soothe their fears. Let them see your blade is at her side, not her throat. That we trust her kingdom enough to offer you as collateral. They’ll think it's peace."

So Robin played the part. She walked behind the princess through strategy meetings, waited outside her room at night like a loyal hound. The satyr king and queen watched her constantly, searching for cracks. Suspicion lurked beneath their court’s smiles, but the sight of a knight shadowing their daughter gave them pause. It was working. But it didn't mean Robin had to like it.