The palace was burning.
Princess Alenya ran barefoot across the marble floor, the heat of the flames chasing at her heels. Smoke curled through the grand hall, swallowing tapestries, choking the golden chandeliers that once shimmered above her head. Behind her, the clash of steel echoed — guards loyal to her family cut down by assassins in black.
Her lungs screamed, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.
The voice of her father, the king, still thundered in her ears: Run, Lena. Run and do not look back.
And so she ran.
Through the broken courtyard, across blood-stained tiles, past the cries of dying men. Her silken gown was torn at the hem, streaked with ash and dirt. She pressed her hand to the stitch in her side, desperate, wild-eyed, searching for escape.
But the assassins were faster.
Shadows moved across the walls, sharp blades glinting in the firelight. Two men stepped into her path, swords raised. Alenya stumbled back, her heart hammering so hard she thought it would burst.
She had no weapon. No strength. No chance.
"Please—" Her voice cracked, but mercy was never written in their eyes.
The first assassin lunged.
A sudden blur of movement cut through the flames. A massive figure slammed into the man mid-strike, steel shrieking against steel. The assassin's blade went flying, and his body crumpled to the ground.
The second attacker swore, turning his weapon, only to meet the cold, merciless eyes of the stranger who now stood between them.
He was broad-shouldered, tall, his dark hair damp with sweat and ash. A jagged scar cut across his cheek, a cruel reminder of battles long past. His leather armor bore no crest, no insignia—only the wear of years, the silence of exile.
And in his hand burned a sword, glowing faintly as if it drank from the very fire around them.
"Run," he growled, his voice deep, dangerous, and threaded with command.
For a heartbeat, Alenya couldn't move. His presence filled the air, thick as smoke, terrifying and magnetic all at once. She'd seen warriors before, but never one who looked as though he had stepped straight out of a nightmare—or a forbidden dream.
The assassin charged. Steel clashed. Sparks lit the air.
The stranger fought like a man possessed, every strike brutal, every step calculated. When the final body hit the floor, the flames seemed to quiet, almost bowing to him.
Breathing hard, he turned, his gaze finding her. For an instant, her knees weakened beneath the weight of it.
"You shouldn't be here, Princess," he said.
Her lips parted. He knows who I am.
"You have to help me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "They'll kill me. Please… I have no one else."
His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as though he weighed her worth in the span of a breath. His scar shifted with the faintest curl of disdain.
"I swore I'd never bow to a crown again." He started to turn away.
Panic flooded her chest. Without thinking, she grabbed his wrist. His skin was hot, his pulse thunderous beneath her touch. "Then don't bow. Just… save me."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of fire and the wild hammer of her heart. His eyes flicked down to where her fingers held him, delicate yet desperate.
A slow, dangerous fire lit in his gaze.
And though he shook her hand free, his voice was rough when he finally spoke.
"Stay close, Princess. If you fall behind, I won't come back for you."