The crowd surges around me, a sea of silk and perfume that parts for my armor like water around stone.

I don't belong here. I know it. They know it. Every sidelong glance reminds me that a knight in ceremonial dress should not be a woman, should not have calluses on her palms instead of rings on her fingers.

Seven years I fought for this position. I'm not giving it up because nobility can't stomach the sight of me.

The prince stands on the dais ahead, surrounded by advisors and simpering courtiers. Prince Alden. My assignment, as of this morning. My charge to protect until the Commander sees fit to reassign me.

He looks bored. That's my first impression, bone-deep boredom painted over with a practiced smile. He nods at something a duchess says, but his eyes are elsewhere. Scanning the crowd. Looking for something.

Or maybe looking for an exit.

I understand that feeling.

I position myself at the edge of the gathering, back to a pillar, sight lines clear. The other knights in his guard give me a wide berth. Sir Garrett actually sneered when I arrived. Seven years, and some of them still think I cheated my way through the trials.

Let them think it. My sword arm doesn't care about their opinions.

The ceremony drones on. Ribbons cut. Speeches delivered. The prince shakes hands like a man going through motions, and I watch for threats in the way I was trained, exits, weapons, anyone whose eyes linger too long.

That's when I see it.

A glint of metal. Upper balcony.

The archer is already drawing back.

I don't think. I move.

Seven years of training, of dawn runs and midnight drills, of pushing my body until it obeyed without question, all of it narrows to this single moment.

I sprint. Shove through silk-wrapped bodies. Someone shrieks. I vault the velvet rope separating the crowd from the dais.

The arrow flies.

I throw myself in front of the prince.

Metal screams against metal as the arrow deflects off my raised vambrace. The impact sends a shock up my arm, but I'm already turning, already shouting for the guards to take the balcony.

Chaos erupts. Screaming. Running. Guards pushing toward the upper levels.

I don't move from my position.

The prince is behind me. Safe. That's all that matters.

"Well." His voice comes from closer than expected. I didn't hear him approach. "That was unexpected."

I don't turn. My eyes stay on the balcony, on the guards swarming the position the archer occupied.

"Your Highness should move to a secure location."

"Should I?" He steps around me, and I finally have to look at him.

He's taller than I expected. Dark gold hair that probably cost more to style than my entire kit. Gray eyes that should be panicked and aren't.

He's looking at me like I'm the first interesting thing he's seen in years.

"You're the new guard." Not a question.

"Sir Kira, Your Highness. Assigned this morning."

"Sir Kira." He tastes the name. "The first female knight to make the prince's guard. I've heard about you."

"Your Highness should really..."

"They said you failed the trials three times before passing."

I go rigid. "I passed, Your Highness."

"They said you have no noble blood. No family connections. Nothing but a blacksmith's daughter who decided she wanted to carry a sword."

My hand tightens on the hilt. "I passed."

"Yes." His eyes drop to my vambrace, to the fresh scratch where the arrow skidded. "You did."

The guards signal from the balcony. Archer fled. Search ongoing. The prince nods at the information like it's mildly interesting instead of an attempt on his life.

"You saved my life," he says. "I haven't decided if I should thank you or resent you for it."

I don't know what to do with that. Princes are supposed to be grateful. They're supposed to offer rewards and flowery praise. They're not supposed to look at their rescuer with something that might be dark humor.

"My job is to protect you, Your Highness. No thanks required."

"Your job." He tilts his head. "And here I thought you might have done it because you wanted to."

"I wanted to do my job."

Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or interest.

"Commander Ryland said you were professional to a fault. I see what he meant."

I don't respond. Professional to a fault is a compliment, coming from Ryland.

The prince's attention shifts as officials swarm the dais, all of them talking at once about security and protocols and evacuation. He lets them fuss, but his eyes keep drifting back to me.

I hold my position and pretend I don't notice.

An hour later, the venue is clear, the prince secured in his carriage, and I'm standing in the courtyard awaiting reassignment. Surely they'll remove me now. A knight who causes scenes, who vaults ropes and draws attention,

The carriage door opens.

The prince leans out. "Sir Kira."

I step forward. "Your Highness."

"You'll ride with me."

The other knights shift. I feel their eyes like daggers.

"Your Highness, protocol suggests..."

"Protocol suggests you protect me." His smile is sharp. "Hard to do that from outside the carriage."

I hesitate for only a moment. Then I climb in.

The interior is all velvet and polished wood. He sits across from me, too close in the confined space. His knee almost brushes mine.

"They're going to hate you for this," he says conversationally. "Garrett already wanted you gone. Now you've saved me in front of half the nobility. Publicly proved your worth."

"I don't need their approval."

"No." He studies me with those gray eyes. "I suppose you don't."

The carriage lurches into motion. I keep my spine straight, my face neutral, my hands still on my thighs.

"Seven years," he says. "That's how long you trained?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

The question catches me off guard. I've answered it before, in trials, in interviews, in countless condescending conversations with men who thought a woman with a sword was a joke.

But I've never answered it honestly.

"Because they said I couldn't."

He smiles. It looks different from the one he wore on the dais. Less practiced. More real.

"That might be the first honest thing anyone's said to me in years."

I don't know what to say to that. So I say nothing.

The carriage rolls on through the night, and I watch the prince watching me, and I tell myself that the strange flutter in my stomach is just adrenaline.

Nothing more.

"You saved my life," he says again, quieter this time. "I haven't decided if I should thank you or resent you for it."

The carriage hits a rut. His knee brushes mine.

Neither of us moves away.