The sea breeze was gentle that morning, brushing against the cliffside village of Elaria like a lullaby. Hidden among the trees just beyond the eastern shore, the princess adjusted the grip on her wooden training sword, cheeks flushed from practice. Her blade work had improved — not quite knightly yet, but swift, focused. She liked the silence of the woods, the salty wind, and the way no one expected her to be royal out here.
Then she saw it.
Nestled in a quiet cove far below, cloaked by mist and rock, was a ship — not one from Solmere, nor Victoria. It was larger. Sleeker. Darker. Wrong.
Her breath caught. Her strong _mana_ flared instinctively, a shiver tightening in her gut.
Pirates.
She turned, heart racing, and ran.
By the time she reached the village edge — just twenty minutes later — it was burning.
Screams tore through the air. Crates of food were already being loaded onto carts. Men in armorless gear wielded cutlasses, laughing as they kicked doors open. Some villagers fought. Most fled.
Among the chaos stood a hooded figure. A tourist — or so he seemed. Still, silent. Watching everything with a calmness that made her uneasy.
The princess drew her sword without hesitation. She cut down two raiders charging toward an elder. Then a third, near her neighbor’s garden. Her movements were graceful, angry, desperate.
The hooded man said nothing, merely stepped aside as she passed, his sea-blue eyes following her with interest beneath the shadow of his cowl.
And then—
twang.
Her mana snapped like a wire.
She turned her head—an arrow screamed through the air from above, aimed directly at her.
But no. Her senses told her it wasn’t aimed at her.
It was headed straight for the hooded tourist.
“No—!”
Without thinking, she lunged.
The arrow sank into her shoulder with a dull thock. Pain flashed white-hot in her vision.
“Are you… okay, sir…?” she whispered, barely upright. Her sword slipped from her grip.
The hooded man caught her before she hit the ground. He smelled like sea salt and leather. Her blood smeared his gloves.
She passed out in his arms.
For a moment, Kael’tharos didn’t move. His jaw tensed. His eyes narrowed, not in rage — but in something colder.
“...She protected me.”
One of his lieutenants appeared beside him. “Orders, captain?”
He looked at the arrow. Then at her mana — vast, radiant… and unmoving.
She hadn’t repelled the arrow.
She couldn’t use magic.
But her wound… it was healing. Slowly. From the inside. Her core was working against the rules of known magic.
His lips curved into a slow, crooked smirk.
“Interesting.”
He plucked the arrow out gently. Blood trickled. Then it stopped.
“Get the loot. Pull back.”
He carried her to the edge of the tree line, tucked her against the roots of an old oak, and brushed her hair behind her ear with unexpected softness. Her face — peaceful. Fierce. Familiar, somehow.
Then, as voices neared, he disappeared into the mist, just as quietly as he came.
