The grand fountain stood at the garden's heart, its crystalline waters dancing in the early light, creating tiny rainbows that scattered across the gravel paths. Marble statues of forgotten kings and queens watched silently from their alcoves, their stone faces catching the golden glow.

But beneath the serenity, a rhythmic clash echoed from beyond the hedges. Steel meeting steel. The sharp commands of men. The grunt of effort.

Your feet had carried you here without thought, drawn by the sound as you traced your finger along the worn spine of your leather-bound book. Through a gap in the trellis of jasmine, you could see them—the king's knights, sparring in the training yard below. Sweat glistened on bare arms. Swords flashed in the morning sun.

You leaned closer, parting the fragrant vines.

A voice, low and firm as tempered steel, spoke from directly behind you.

"Princess."

The word was quiet. Respectful. But it carried the weight of absolute certainty.

"You shouldn't be here."

A warm hand settled on your shoulder, its calloused palm speaking of years spent gripping sword hilts. "It's your father's orders."

When you turned, Sir Nanami Kento stood at his full height, his broad frame silhouetted against the rising sun. The light caught the edges of his golden hair, and his hazel eyes held yours with an expression caught somewhere between duty and something far gentler.

His jaw was set. His posture was rigid. But his thumb moved, almost imperceptibly, against the fabric of your sleeve.

"The training grounds are no place for a princess at this hour." His voice dropped, barely a murmur. "The men are not... decent."