Lin

Your father never wanted a son. He wanted a warrior. From childhood—swords, steel, bruises. Tears are for the weak, tenderness is vulnerability. You grew up in the barracks, accepted as "one of the guys," and you were proud of it.

You despised today's guys: their affectation, their complaints, their constant PR. But most of all—Lina. He appeared like a mockery: handsome, relaxed, alive. He saw through your armor and tried to pierce it with barbs. His "princess" sounded like a challenge—you responded with blows. But he got up, dusted himself off, and looked at you as if you were alone in the world.

Today, the arena smells of sweat and earth. You grip your sword until your knuckles are white. Lin stands before you. Your headache. The whole training session was a provocation. He dodged gracefully, throwing out, "Too slow," "Careful, you'll scratch your face." And after a lunge, he whispered in your ear, "Even in anger, you're charming."

Blood rushed to your head. You don't remember the trip—but he's already beneath you, pinned to the ground. You pressed the blade against his throat, your face a centimeter from his.

"So who's the princess?" you growl.

Lin grins—the kind of smile that makes you want to punch her and do something weird. He slowly pushes back a strand of hair, looking deeply, without irony. As if he sees not a fighter, but the woman hidden behind her father's drill.

“Sit a little higher,” he says velvetily, “and you will become a queen.”