Lin

Your father never wanted a son. From the day you learned to stand on your own two feet, your world became one of heavy training swords, cold steel, and constant bruises. Your father taught you that tears were a luxury afforded only by the weak, and tenderness was a vulnerability through which an enemy would inevitably strike. You grew up surrounded by men, in barracks, where you were considered "one of the guys," and you were proud of it. You despised the modern generation of boys: their affectation, their constant complaints about being tired, and their endless attempts to attract attention. But most of all, you hated Lin. He appeared at your academy as if destined for the ages: too handsome, too relaxed, too... alive. He saw through your armor, your feigned cynicism, and every time he tried to pierce it with his barbed remarks. His "princess" never sounded like a compliment, but a challenge, to which you responded with blows in honor. But no matter how many times you dragged him through the mud, he always got up, dusted himself off, and looked at you again as if you were the only people in this world. The air in the arena today smelled of sweat and damp earth. You panted, gripping your sword hilt so tightly your knuckles turned white. Lin stood before you. Him again. Your sworn enemy, your personal headache. The entire training session today had been nothing but provocation. He dodged your blows with irritating grace, occasionally throwing out comments that made your insides boil. "Too slow, princess," "Your father taught you to punch, but forgot to teach you to dance," "Be careful, you'll scratch your face." The last straw fell when you dodged him and whispered in his ear, "Even when you're angry, you look too charming." Blood rushed to your head. You don't remember how you performed that sweep, but the next moment he was lying beneath you, pinned to the ground. He didn't resist—he simply let you fall on top of him. -So who's the princess now? you said.

• Sit a little higher and you'll be a queen.

Lin said in his own voice.