But she did not say it. She kept walking. Her face was composed. Her back was straight. Her sword was at her hip.

She had won.

And then she collided with him.

She did not see him. She was looking at the ground. Processing. Breathing. Her shoulder hit something solid. Not a wall. Not a post. A person. She stumbled. She looked up.

Her eyes widened.

Prince Goliath.

He stood before her. He was tall. Taller than her. He was dressed in white and gold. The Crown Prince’s colors. His hair was blond. Perfect. His face was beautiful. Chiseled. Cold. His eyes were blue. Ice blue. The blue of a winter sky that promised frostbite. He looked down at her with the expression of a man who has never been denied anything in his life.

Behind him stood two knights. Royal Guards. Silver armor. Hands on sword hilts. Their faces were blank. Professional. But their eyes flicked to Sera. To her sword. To the sweat on her brow.

"You should watch where you walk," Goliath said.

His voice was firm. Measured. The voice of nobility trained from birth. Every syllable was a command. Every pause was a judgment.

Sera’s body moved before her mind.

She bowed. Deep. Her braid fell forward. Her knee bent. Her head lowered.

"I apologize, Your Highness," she said. "I did not see you. The match— I was—"

"It is fine," Goliath said. He waved his hand. A gesture of dismissal. Of magnanimity. Of a prince granting a favor to a commoner.

He looked past her. At the platform. At Dorn, still sitting on the dirt where he had fallen after yielding. The Prince’s lip curled.

"Did you lose to a woman?" he called out.

Dorn’s face went white. Then red. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Goliath laughed. A short, ugly sound. He turned back to Sera. He looked her up and down. At her height. At her arms. At her sword. At her leather vest. At the sweat on her neck.

"You are the barber’s granddaughter," he said. It was not a question.

"Yes, Your Highness," Sera said. She was still bowing.

"Look at me," Goliath said.

She straightened. She met his eyes. Ice blue. Cold. Amused.

He stretched his back. He rolled his shoulders. He winced. A small, practiced wince. The wince of a man who wants someone to ask.

"I have been riding all morning," he said. "My back is killing me. The saddle was wrong. The road was rough. And I have been standing here watching amateurs swing swords like children with sticks." He looked at her. "Come. Follow me. I need a massage."

Sera’s eyes widened.

"Your Highness," she said. "I am not— I am a competitor. I am here for the selection. I do not—"

"Did I ask what you are here for?" Goliath said. His voice was still pleasant. Still noble. But there was an edge now. A blade beneath the silk. "I said follow me. Did I stutter?"

The two knights behind him looked at her. Their faces were blank. But their hands were on their hilts. Not threatening. Not yet. Just present.

The Knight Master appeared.

He was an older man. Heavy. Bearded. His armor was dented. His face was weathered. He had been fighting since before Goliath was born. He stepped forward. His boots crunched the dirt.

"Prince Goliath," he said. His voice was careful. Respectful. But firm. "This woman is a competitor. She has won her first match. She is in the selection. It would be wrong to—"

"Wrong?" Goliath said. He turned. His ice-blue eyes met the Knight Master’s brown ones. "Are you telling me what is wrong? In my father’s training ground? In my father’s capital?"

The Knight Master’s jaw tightened.

"Your Highness," he said. "I only mean that—"

"You only mean to disagree with me," Goliath said. His voice was soft now. Dangerously soft. "Is that what you mean, Knight Master? Do you wish to disagree with the Crown Prince?"

The Knight Master was silent. His hands were clenched at his sides. The tendons in his neck were visible. He was a man of war. A man of honor. But he was also a man who understood power. And the power standing before him was absolute.

"No, Your Highness," he said. His voice was hollow.

"Good," Goliath said. He turned back to Sera. "Follow me."

Sera looked at the Knight Master. At his face. At the helplessness in his eyes. At the way his fists unclenched and went limp. At the way his shoulders sagged. He could not help her. No one could. Not against the Crown Prince.

She looked at the knights behind Goliath. At their blank faces. At their hands on their hilts. They would not help her either.

She looked at the crowd. At the faces. At the whispers. At the people who had cheered her moments ago and now looked away. At the competitors who had mocked her and now pitied her. At the officials who stamped her registration and now pretended they did not know her name.

She realized.

This was not about a massage.

This was about her grandfather.

Old Tomas. The First Queen’s masseur. The man who served the queen. The queen who had reprimanded Prince Goliath last month. The queen who had called him a spoiled child in front of the court. The queen whose words had stung his pride and festered in his gut like a poisoned wound.

He could not punish the queen.

But he could punish her servant.

And her servant’s granddaughter.

Sera’s hands trembled. Her sword felt heavy. The weight of it was different now. Not the weight of steel. The weight of futility.

"Your Highness," the Knight Master said. One last attempt. His voice was barely a whisper. "The other competitors— the selection—"

"What about them?" Goliath said. He did not turn. "The selection will continue. Without her. And without you."

The Knight Master’s face went white.

"Without... me?" he whispered.

Goliath looked over his shoulder. His smile was thin. Cruel. The smile of a boy who has found a new toy to break.

"Knight Master Brennan," he said. "You have served the Crown for thirty years. Your service is appreciated. But your judgment is clouded. Your loyalty is questionable. You will be relieved of your command. Effective immediately. And the two knights behind me—Sir Valen and Sir Doran—will be reassigned. To the Northern Wall. Permanently."

The Knight Master’s mouth opened. Closed. His face crumbled. Thirty years. Thirty years of service. Of blood. Of sacrifice. Gone. In a breath. Because he had tried to protect a girl.

"Your Highness," he whispered. "Please."

"Follow me," Goliath said to Sera. He did not look at the Knight Master again.

Sera looked at the old man. At his destroyed face. At the knights behind the prince, whose jaws were clenched, whose eyes were wet, whose hands were white on their hilts.

She bowed her head.

She followed.

The room was in the palace guest wing.

It was not a massage room. It was a bedroom. Large. Opulent. The bed was canopied. The sheets were silk. The floor was marble. Candles burned in iron brackets. A bathtub sat in the corner—large, copper, filled with steaming water. A table beside it held wine. Two bottles. Three goblets. The wine was red. It caught the candlelight like blood.

Two men were already inside.

"Hoho, is this the delicious meal you offered us, Prince Goliath?"