From childhood, Morgana Arven never fit into the gilded mold expected of her.

While other noble girls spent entire afternoons learning etiquette, embroidery, or music, she would discreetly slip away through the mansion gardens, running into the woods. The sound of rustling leaves, the smell of the earth, and the freedom of the forest were the absolute opposite of the suffocating aristocratic routine. But what she truly sought, whenever she escaped, was another kind of emotion: the sensation of movement, of strength, of mastery over her own body.

The first time she held a sword she was only eight years old. It was too heavy for her small hands, but even so, her fingers instinctively closed around the hilt. The metal was cold, hard, but it carried a promise—that she could shape her own destiny.

That moment, however, was not what defined her dream.

What truly shaped her life happened months later, when her caravan was attacked by bandits on the road between Arven and the capital. A fine rain fell that afternoon, leaving the world hazy and gray. Wagons skidded, horses reared, and chaos reigned. She remembers the sounds—the shouts of the guards, the crack of steel, the thud of bodies against the ground. But the worst part was the feeling of utter powerlessness. Her mother gripped her shoulders, trembling. Even terrified, she tried to look over the crowd, but only saw flashes of blades cutting through the air.

And then… he appeared.

A single knight, wearing a dark cloak and wielding an ornate longsword. He moved like water—fluid, precise, relentless. Each strike was perfect, each movement seemed calculated in advance. In a matter of minutes, the attackers were on the ground, defeated. The knight wiped his blade on the cloak of one of the bandits, turned to her, and smiled briefly, as if to say:

"You are safe."

At that moment, Morgana didn't want to be saved. She wanted to be like him.

From that day on, her dream was born: to become a master swordswoman. Not a mere noblewoman studying military theory to feign importance at diplomatic meetings—but a true warrior. She wanted to fight, to win, to protect. She wanted to be strong enough to save herself and others. She wanted to honor that memory that had marked her forever.

And, for a time, she managed to follow that path.

She trained in secret. She bribed officials. She defied the rules. In secret, she confronted instructors hired for supposed "increases in discipline and posture." At every opportunity, she stole minutes and hours to train until her fingers bled, until her muscles trembled.

But, contrary to what she feared, when her father found out—Duke Albert Arven—he wasn't furious.

He was proud.

A cold, calculated pride, but pride nonetheless.

"If you want to fight, then you will be properly trained," he had said. "Arven doesn't raise weak daughters."

And so she entered the Knights' Academy of the Capital.

Everything seemed to be going exactly as she had dreamed… until now.

The current reality was cruel, suffocating, completely opposite to the freedom she felt when wielding her sword.

Morgana sat at a dining table that was too large, too luxurious, and too silent. The entire room seemed designed to echo the oppression that seethed within her. The high ceiling, the dark walls, the silver candelabras—everything contributed to the weight that crushed her shoulders.

Facing her, occupying the armchair as if it were a throne, was her future fiancé.

Eduard Valdeiron.

Son of Marquis Valdeiron, heir to a gigantic fortune, known for his arrogance and for believing that the world revolved around his surname.

And, apparently, now he believed that Morgana revolved around him too.

"You know, my dear," he said, while chopping the meat with lazy movements, "I know you're… let's say, a little wild. But don't worry, I'll be here to teach you proper behavior after the wedding."

Morgana felt her hand tingle.

Not from nervousness.

From a genuine urge to rip his head off with the table knife.

She maintained her impeccable posture, as required—straight back, aligned chin—but her gaze was a blade ready to cut.

"I imagine it must be a huge effort," she replied with a smile that didn't touch her eyes. "Teaching something you yourself don't have."

Eduard stopped chewing for a split second. Then he laughed. He laughed loudly, as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

"Ah, humor! I never imagined I'd have that too."

She wanted to stab him right then and there.

The fork in her hands begged for it.

He continued, completely ignoring her silent hatred. "Of course, I also heard about your… 'interest' in swords. But don't worry, we won't allow that to continue after we get married. It wouldn't be suitable for a prospective Duchess."

Morgana clenched her teeth.

A vein throbbed in her neck.

He continued, completely oblivious to the fact that he was seconds away from having a chair thrown at his head.

"Oh, and I'll talk to your father about you abandoning this ridiculous Knight Academy. It's so… inconvenient. Besides, you should focus on learning about diplomacy, land management, social etiquette… that sort of thing. After all—"

She interrupted, her voice cold as steel.

"Eduard."

"Hm?"

"If I were you…" She leaned forward, her gaze sharp. "…I wouldn't finish that sentence."

He blinked, surprised by the change in tone.

But only for a moment.

He quickly regained that arrogant smile.

"You don't need to be nervous. I understand. It's hard to give up a childhood hobby."

Childhood hobby.

HOBBY.

CHILDHOOD.

The entire room seemed to vibrate as she tightened her fingers around the handle of the cutlery. She imagined, just for a brief second, her sword at her waist. The movement would be simple—draw, advance, cut. He wouldn't even have time to scream.

Her heart raced with contained rage.

She took a deep breath.

She breathed again.

She closed her eyes for a moment.

You promised yourself you would never lose control.

Not like this.

Never like this.

When she opened her eyes, she found Eduard still speaking.

"…and of course, when we're married, you can accompany me to important events. I'll be the center of attention, but don't worry, you'll have the honor of standing by my side."

Morgana delicately placed her fork on the table and intertwined her hands, maintaining the perfect pose of an aristocratic lady.

But her voice came out low, firm, sharp as the blade she dreamed of wielding.

"Eduard."

"Yes, my—"

"If you keep talking like I'm an object…" Her fingers slowly slid to the hilt of the decorative dagger at her waist—an accessory permitted only for noble ostentation. "I'll forget this table has witnesses."

He swallowed hard.

Finally.

A human reaction.

Morgana leaned back in her chair and reclined elegantly, though the tension in her body was visible only to those who knew her well.

Eduard tried to laugh, but it was a short, nervous laugh.

His gaze drifted.

For the first time, he seemed to notice that perhaps… perhaps he was poking a sleeping lioness.

Morgana crossed her legs, her face impassive, only her eyes burning like embers.

If he only knew how close she'd been to death… She thought.

But in the end she took a deep breath, holding back the murderous impulse deep in her chest.

Because even if she wanted to—and she did—she couldn't ruin everything there.

She couldn't put her life, her freedom, her goals, everything she had built, at risk because of a pretentious nobleman.

But, as she watched her fiancé return to eating, now silent and cautious, a crystal-clear certainty formed within her:

She would never accept this marriage.

Not even if she had to destroy half the nobility to stop it.

And deep down, very deep down, the image of Damon crossed her mind like an unexpected spark.

That fight.

That look.

That provocation that stirred emotions in her that no one had ever managed to.

She wanted to be free.

She wanted to fight.

And, above all, she wanted to decide her own destiny.

No matter how much everyone tried to hold her back—she wouldn't surrender.

Not now.

Not ever.

Night fell like a heavy cloak over the Arven estate.

The silent castle contrasted sharply with the turmoil within Morgana's mind. She sat on the edge of the bed, still half-dressed, her fingers running through her hair as she stared at the carpet as if she could wrest answers from it.

Her chest felt tight.

Her mind was boiling.

Her whole body was restless.

"Idiot… foolish old man… what kind of father does this?" she murmured, clenching her teeth.

She took a deep breath, but nothing calmed her. Not that feeling of being caged. Of having lost control over her own life. Of being pushed toward a destiny she never asked for, never wanted, never would accept.

The frustration was so intense that she didn't even hear the slight ticking on the windowsill at first.

Then came another.

And then—a low, muffled chuckle, full of amusement.

Morgana froze.

Slowly, she lifted her face.

The curtain swayed slightly in the wind.

And there, in the open window, leaning against the windowsill with a naturalness that was irritating just to look at—was he.

Damon.

The moon behind him created a silhouette, almost ethereal. The silvery glow outlined his casual posture, his crooked smile, his eyes that seemed to see more than they should.

Her chest tightened for a completely different reason this time.

"You…" she whispered, surprise escaping before she could control her voice. "What are you doing here?!"

Damon raised his hands, chuckling softly.

"Sorry about spying," he said lightly, entering the room as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "But I got worried when you just disappeared from the Academy."

Morgana stood up so quickly the bed creaked.

"Worried?" Her voice came out sharper than she intended. "How did you get in here, Damon?! This is Arven Dukedom territory!"

"Um… skill?" He shrugged. "And a little curiosity."

She ran a hand over her face.

This couldn't be happening.

But it was.

"And worse," a part of her felt relieved to see him.

"You're completely irresponsible," she muttered.

"And you're completely different than usual," he retorted, looking at her with something between amusement and genuine concern.

"You're tense. And angry. And…" he tilted his head—frustrated.

"It's none of your business."

"That's what I imagined you'd say."

They stared at each other. The night breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it the scent of flowers from the garden. For a moment, only the two of them existed in that small space, too intimate to be mere acquaintances.

Then Damon turned slightly, his silhouette against the moonlight. His figure became even more defined, his smile taking on a bolder tone.

"But since I'm here…" he began, his voice low, almost challenging. "And you clearly hate something…"

He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"…want some help getting rid of that thorn in your side?"

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