Just as my relationship with Reynard began to blossom—before I could even savor that sweet uncertainty—the royal palace dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.

Father's messenger appeared at my dormitory door bearing a wax-sealed letter. Its contents were brutally direct: I was commanded to present myself immediately at a designated location to meet some rural nobleman I'd never laid eyes on.


I held the letter between my fingers, feeling the chill spread through my fingertips.

Always the same story. No matter how far I fled or what I achieved, to them I was the Windermere princess first and Arya second. My marriage, my future—mere bargaining chips in their political chess game.

Rebellion bloomed like wildfire in my chest. Fine. I'd go. I wanted to see exactly what manner of fool thought himself worthy of claiming me.


I deliberately neglected my appearance, carelessly bundling my hair. The modest dresses I'd acquired to blend in at the academy now became weapons of defiance. I selected my oldest linen gown, complete with frayed hem.

The girl in the mirror stared back with a pale face and defiant eyes—a wild rose refusing the gardener's shears.


Perfect. If he saw me like this and still persisted, it would only prove the depth of his political ambition.

The arranged meeting took place in a private room of an upscale capital restaurant. I shoved the door open to confront my "suitor."

He stood with his back to me, clad in gleaming knight's armor, his posture straight as a pine. A full-face helmet rested on the table beside him.

I scowled. What ridiculous pageantry was this? Wearing armor to flaunt his family's military heritage? How utterly tasteless.

I yanked out the chair across from him and dropped into it heavily, deliberately creating a jarring sound.

He startled slightly before turning slowly to face me.

"Miss Arya," his voice came muffled through the helmet's visor.

"Let's skip the pleasantries," I snapped. "My time is valuable."

He paused, then raised his hands to remove the cumbersome helmet.

A soft click sounded as the helmet disengaged.

Beneath was not the corpulent, aging nobleman I'd imagined, but a face I knew better than my own.

Neat black hair, those forthright lake-green eyes, and that slightly helpless yet accommodating smile playing at his lips.

It was Reynard.

My mind emptied completely.

How could it possibly be him?

He was the Blackwood heir Father had mentioned?

Seeing me struck dumb, he set the helmet on the table, amusement deepening in his eyes.

"Surprised?"

I opened and closed my mouth like a landed fish, unable to form words. Nothing could have prepared me for this.

"I am, as I said, not of royal blood—merely a minor nobleman from the Windermere borderlands," Reynard's expression softened to its usual gentleness. "I am indeed Reynard Blackwood. The marriage contract between our families was drawn up by our grandfathers."

"So..." I finally found my voice, dry and brittle, "you approached me because of this arrangement too?"

My heart constricted painfully. Had his noble words and protective gestures been nothing but a carefully orchestrated performance?

Reynard's expression turned grave. He shook his head firmly.

"No. I've known about this betrothal for years, and I despise it as much as you do." He met my eyes directly, his gaze unflinching. "I came to the academy to escape my family's machinations. I never intended to trap you with an engagement."

"Then why today—"

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a tone of profound sincerity: "Arya, I want you to know me as Reynard, the medical student. I want you to accept me as a person, not as the Blackwood heir. Your freedom to choose matters above all else."

While Sebastian had wavered for counterfeit power, this genuine nobleman was doing everything possible to protect my autonomy.

He could have easily leveraged our engagement to win my favor, but instead chose the harder path—approaching me slowly, honestly, as an ordinary man.

Warmth welled behind my eyes. Looking at him—at those earnest eyes beneath all that ceremonial armor—the thorns and defenses around my heart dissolved in an instant.

I should have known—a man who chooses both sword and scalpel must possess a rare combination of gentleness and courage.