Grant is a simple person. Too simple, sometimes.

  To him, Omenmia isn’t just his homend. It’s part of him. Disrespecting Omenmia is the same as disrespecting him. There is no separation between the nd, the people, and the prince.

  And because of that, he cares. Even if he doesn’t like someone—even if they’re his enemy—if they are Omenmian, they belong to him. And he takes care of what belongs to him.

  The first time I met him, I was still an apprentice of Paul Box, Head Master of the International Mediation Center. We were visiting a war refugee camp—one of the many temporary shelters built during the Gustanese Civil War.

  I had expected to see the Princesses of Omenmia managing the aid efforts.

  Instead, I found the prince.

  A ten-Nova-year-old boy, walking between the broken tents, dirt clinging to his boots, sleeves rolled up, handing out supplies himself.

  For a moment, I couldn’t believe it. A prince helping commoners—not from a distance, not with an entourage, but here, knee-deep in their suffering, handing them bread and bnkets as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  That was Grant. That is Grant.

  But not everyone saw it the same way.

  “Stop pretending you care,” a teenage boy scoffed from the edge of the camp. His voice was sharp, and bitter, cutting through the humid afternoon air.

  That was Gustaff.

  I didn’t know much about him then, only that he was a war refugee adopted by Lady Ovivica Sibelius. But I knew enough to recognize the weight behind his words. After all, the Civil War was started by noble feuds, but the people were the ones who suffered.

  Grant turned to face him. He didn’t look angry but annoyed.

  “What?” Grant asked, brushing dirt off his hands. “Do you have a problem with me treating them?”

  Gustaff’s expression didn’t change. “If you’re trying to win political points against your sister, Princess Benna, just stop. She is already the Crown Princess.”

  Grant was offended by the accusation. “What is wrong with caring about my people?” His voice rose with conviction. “If you get hurt, I will also help you. If someone kills you, I will avenge you. That’s how Omenmia works! When my sister becomes the next empress, Oemnmia will still be my home.”

  When Grant said those, I felt like I was seeing him shine.

  Gustaff’s expression barely flickered. If anything, he just looked… tired.

  “You’re pathetic.” He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Grant staring after him.

  “I’ll be waiting outside when you are finished.” That was his st word before he left.

  I don’t think Gustaff ever believed him.

  But I did.

  Then, the kidnap happened.

  It was supposed to be another visit to the refugee camp. Another chance for Prince Grant to be among his people, to prove—to himself, if no one else—that he belonged to them and they belonged to him. But this time, the people weren’t the only ones waiting for him.

  Prince Grant was kidnapped, by the remnants of the Crime Syndicate, the Dark Acolytes, who worked with the Guild of Soul Seekers imposters. The leader of the raid was not a human but Camity, a Demon Lord of the Seven Houses.

  When Princess Benna heard what happened, she didn’t hesitate. She didn’t wait for orders. She didn’t consider the risks.

  She sneaked out with a strike team to save him.

  She found him.

  She fought for him.

  She almost died for him.

  The st thing Grant saw before he was pulled from the wreckage was Benna’s body—broken, unmoving.

  He was saved in the end.

  But something inside him wasn’t.

  The next time I saw him, he was no longer the second prince.

  He was the Crown Prince.

  Benna had been too wounded to rule. The Emperor—his father—refused to take another chance.

  Grant was confined to the pace, forced into crown prince training, and locked behind walls taller than the camps he once visited.

  I met him again during that time. Master Paul was assigned to help with Grant’s mental recovery, and as his apprentice, I spent months with him.

  I remember the first time he compined to me.

  “I miss talking to my people,” he muttered, staring out the window of the royal chamber. “How can I take care of them if I never talk to them anymore?”

  I tried to be neutral. Professional. Distant.

  “Your Highness, there are many ways to help people. Learning to be a good ruler is also a way.”

  I thought it was the right answer. The rational one. The IMC answer.

  But Grant—Grant never cared for rationality.

  “If being a good ruler means forgetting about my people,” he shot back. “Then I’d rather be a bad one!”

  He was furious. Not at me. Not even at his father. But at himself.

  He felt like he had already failed.

  And somehow, at that moment, I realized something.

  Compared to the IMC’s rigid ways of helping people, Grant’s way felt pure. Direct. Real.

  I should have looked away. I didn’t.

  His back was against the window, the dim firelight catching the angles of his face.

  His hands, gripping the sill behind him, flexed—just slightly. I caught myself watching the movement, the way his knuckles went taut, the way his breathing hitched, just once.

  Something deep in my chest pulled.

  An impulse. Something I wasn’t supposed to feel.

  I forced myself to inhale—slow, steady.

  For the first time, I questioned everything I’d been taught.

  For the first time, I wanted to follow someone else’s vision.

  So I did.

  After I graduated, I betrayed my master.

  Instead of staying with the International Mediation Center, I went to Omenmia.

  I thought I would find that same Grant again.

  But the Grant I found was different.

  His earnest heart had been swallowed by ignorance. He was arrogant. Rude to the court.

  He bragged constantly.

  At first, I wondered if I had made the wrong choice.

  Then, he changed my mind again.

  During the pace reconstruction, I was sent to oversee the magical reinforcements for the new wing. The wizards had been struggling to integrate their designs with the original architecture, and I had prepared an entire report.

  I didn’t expect an arch to colpse above me.

  I wasn’t prepared for battle. I didn’t have my magems. I couldn’t react fast enough. I should have been crushed.

  Then—

  A sudden force. A body smmed into mine.

  “Baz!”

  Grant’s voice. Then—impact.

  We hit the ground. Hard. His weight over me.

  The crash of stone echoed around us, but all I could focus on was his breath.

  In. Out. In. Out.

  His chest pressed against mine. Rising. Falling.

  I could feel his heartbeat. Fast. Unsteady.

  Too close.

  I should move. I didn’t.

  I was still staring.

  Grant lifted himself up slightly, eyes scanning my face, searching for any injuries.

  “Are you hurt?” His voice was low, hoarse from the dust in the air.

  I swallowed hard. My throat was dry.

  This was the same Grant I’d wanted to follow.

  The same one who had fought for his people.

  The same one who still cared.

  I didn’t answer immediately. I was still caught in that moment—the heat of his skin, the feel of his body pressed against mine, the sharpness in his eyes, different from the smug arrogance I’d grown used to.

  “…I’m fine,” I finally said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. I blushed for some reason.

  “Great.” Then, just like that, he was gone. He stood, brushing dust off himself, offering me a hand.

  I took it.

  And I realized something.

  I didn’t just want to guide him.

  I didn’t just want to fix his fws.

  I wanted him to see me.

  To trust me the way I trusted him.

  I watched him gradually change into a better person with my help. I thought it was enough.

  Then, the Emperor was murdered.

  Now, he was lost again.

  And I couldn’t let him go.

  It’s too te to let go.

  ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

  My family always told me, “Sharon, gun-slinging is not a dy’s activity.”

  As far as I can remember, I was good at it—but they always insisted I train for court etiquette instead. We were Southerners parading among Northerners.

  One afternoon, after yet another scolding for pying with my father’s pistol, I ran out with it, storming into the woods behind our estate. Away from the suffocating rules.

  That’s where I met him.

  A blond-haired boy, curious and grinning, stepped into my secret world like he belonged there. “What are you doing? That looks so cool.”

  I was nine Nova years old. So was he.

  “This is a magem pistol,” I boasted, holding it up. “My father imported this for the empire.”

  “Can you teach me?”

  I hesitated, but something in his eager gaze pulled me in.

  “Sure thing. I’m Sharon. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Grant.”

  That was how it started.

  Grant wasn’t the brightest, but he was determined. I taught him how to hold a gun, how to clean it, and how to respect the weapon.

  Over time, the woods became ours.

  Our secret retreat.

  Our rebellion against the roles we were forced to py.

  “You should serve the empire with your shooting skills,” he told me one day, watching me fire a perfect shot.

  I scoffed. “My family doesn’t believe in that. They say this isn’t what a dy should do.”

  Grant frowned. Then, with absolute certainty, he said:

  “Why does that matter? What do you really want? No matter what you choose, you will always be a dy to me—if you want.”

  I remember staring at him.

  At his earnest eyes, his unshaken confidence.

  He was a prince—I didn’t know that yet. But even if I had, it wouldn’t have mattered.

  That day, he saw me in a way no one else did.

  And his energy—his sheer, infectious belief in me—made me push harder.

  I confronted my parents. I fought for my pce.

  Eventually, they agreed: I could train my marksmanship, as long as I also mastered court etiquette.

  It wasn’t perfect, but it was a victory.

  But then, he disappeared.

  And I realized—my best friend was the Lion Prince of Omenmia.

  He had been kidnapped.

  Five years passed before I saw him again.

  A royal ball.

  The golden chandeliers. The suffocating perfume of nobility. The ocean of fake smiles.

  Then, his eyes found mine.

  Even after all that time, he knew me immediately.

  I should’ve been nervous—I wasn’t the same scrappy girl in the woods anymore. But the second our gazes locked, none of that mattered.

  He grinned like he never left.

  I grinned back.

  We fell back into sync as if no time had passed.

  He told me he hated his Shin training. So I did what he always did—I offered to help.

  I taught him every magem weapon I knew. We sparred in secret, pushed each other, ughed when we missed our shots, and cursed when we got too cocky.

  He made my life better. So I promised myself—I’d make his better, too.

  That’s what I believed.

  And now—with the empire branding him a criminal, with the weight of execution hanging over his head—

  I still believe it.

  Even now, as my body fights to stay awake, I know this—he would never let me go. And I won’t either. No matter how far we are.

  Not when it’s too te to let go.

  ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

  “Benica Sibelius?” the registration officer asked.

  “Yes,” I always answered.

  I wasn’t a Sibelius. I wasn’t a noble. I wasn’t even a distant cousin.

  I was just a war orphan with no family, no power, and no name that mattered.

  But I had survived the Civil War, and I fled north.

  Kids always bullied me for my Southern accent. Then—I realized something—I looked just enough like them. Just enough like the royal family. So I lied.

  “I am Prince Grant’s cousin. My family was stationed in the South before the Civil War.”

  It was easy enough at first. Nobody questioned it. But eventually, someone did.

  “Really?” A fellow soldier sneered. “Then prove it.”

  “You think the prince has time for some nobody like you?” I bluffed with my new northern accent.

  But the rumors reached my supervisor.

  “Benica, stop lying.”

  “I’m not lying,” I insisted, but my voice shook.

  “Fine, if you cannot show any proof tomorrow, I’ll have to terminate your position.”

  That night, I was at the tavern, drowning my failure in cheap beer. I was still clinging to the falsehood like it could save me when two men invited me to their table, challenging me to a drinking game.

  They were Commander Gao and a blond guy with a stupid grin. I didn’t know who they were, but I figured if I was going to lose everything anyway, I might as well drink myself unconscious.

  I ended up telling them everything. About my lie. About how stupid I had been. About how, by tomorrow, I would be thrown out onto the streets.

  The blond guy listened the whole time, even though he was so drunk and barely staying upright. Gao had already passed out on the table.

  I thanked them for listening. Then I stumbled home.

  The next morning, my fate was sealed.

  When I reported for duty, everyone was staring at me.

  And then I saw him.

  The blond idiot from st night. Standing with my division.

  His uniform fit too well for a regur soldier, instead of red lines, his had golden lines. The way everyone stood at attention around him wasn’t normal.

  Then he turned, smiling at me like we were old friends.

  “Benica is my cousin,” he decred to the whole division. “Does anyone have a problem with that?”

  The officers were too shocked to speak.

  Then, he looked directly at me and smugged.

  “Hey, cousin.”

  And just like that, the lie became the truth.

  After that day, I was part of his circle.

  Not just his military division. Not just his staff. His drinking group.

  It was me, Commander Gao, and Prince Grant himself.

  At first, I kept my distance. I thought it was a game to him, a joke to amuse himself.

  But the more we drank together, the more I realized—he actually meant it.

  He never called me out for lying. Never mocked me for it. Never made me prove myself beyond what I already was.

  To Grant, I was his cousin now, just because he said so.

  Gao treated me the same way. We were a trio of reckless soldiers, drinking and ughing like war wasn’t waiting for us outside the bar.

  And when someone at the tavern put their hands on me without my permission, Grant and Gao beat them to hell and back.

  Gao got reprimanded.

  Grant didn’t care.

  Neither did I.

  After that, I knew.

  Grant wasn’t just my fake cousin.

  He was my leader. Not because of his name. Not because of his birthright.

  But because he made people believe they belonged.

  And if he was willing to go that far for me, I would go further for him.

  When they arrested him for murder, I changed my shift just so I could be stationed near his cell.

  I wasn’t going to let him rot in there alone.

  When I heard the escape pn from Gao, I didn’t hesitate.

  I followed.

  Not because I thought he was innocent.

  Not because I thought he needed me.

  Because it was too te to let go.

  If Prince Grant was running toward his death, then I would follow until the very end.

  ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

  Grant Sibelius is an odd one.

  I’ve met many princes.

  Most of them? Trash. Absolute trash.

  I learned early how to read men before they can decide what I am to them. A prize. A conquest. A bargaining chip.

  Mother always told me to be polite and modest, even though I was much stronger than most people. “You never know when we’ll need a prince’s influence.”

  But she also promised me—

  “I will never force you into marriage unless you’re in love. I won’t let you go through what I did.”

  Maybe that’s why I always test them first.

  To see if they’re worth anything at all.

  Most of them fail.

  Prince Franz of Lothikar? A total scumbag. His brothers? Even worse—obsessive, controlling, the kind of men who think princesses exist for their entertainment.

  I always feel like a fish on the pte in front of them.

  Or maybe that’s just because I heard them eat Undinians.

  And I? I have mermaid blood. My grandfather, Edhard, is the king of Undinian.

  Prince Han Ya De of the Han Kingdom? Powerful. A man so strong he wiped out Omenmia’s army single-handedly. But boring. No arrogance. No ego. Talking to him is like watching hourgsses—waiting for it to be over.

  Prince Bi Ya Que from Yue Kingdom? A spoiled, abusive little brat who never grew out of his tantrums. So many scandals around him. So many women, men, and families have been broken in his wake.

  And his kingdom still covers for him.

  But Grant Sibelius?

  He should have been just like them.

  He acted like a brute.

  And yet—somehow—he wasn’t.

  I met him at the International Peace Convention held by the IMC. He was twenty-three, loud, full of himself, and completely insufferable. He didn’t py the politics. He just acted out.

  But? He treated me like I was his equal, not a flower to be picked.

  Most princes fawn over me, treating me like a fragile ornament—something pretty to admire, something delicate to own. My Shin mastery skills were irrelevant to them.

  Not Grant.

  He argued with me. Challenged me. Like I was just another noble brat to put in my pce.

  And, of course, I fought back. I didn’t even care what we were arguing about—who had the stronger country, who had the better trade deals, which army was superior—I just wanted to win.

  We both made such a spectacle of ourselves that our parents abandoned their marriage pns for us.

  They thought we hated each other.

  Maybe we did.

  Then, the Gustanese Civil War ended.

  Our delegation visited Omenmia City.

  And what did Grant do?

  He picked another fight.

  This time, about magem technology.

  Did I care? No. I just wanted to see him lose.

  We were arguing so fiercely that his father—the Lion Emperor himself—had to step in.

  Then, years ter, I saw Grant again.

  In Bareniss.

  I learnt that he was on the run, stripped of his crown.

  I thought he would have been humbled. Beaten down by fate.

  Instead—he focused on—

  “Unfinished duel.”

  I was so ready to punch him in the face.

  Then I lost.

  I lost.

  And what did Grant do?

  Did he mock me? Did he brag? Did he gloat?

  No.

  He picked me up. Carried me out.

  Didn’t say a word. Just let me settle myself.

  That moment burned.

  I had never lost to someone like him before.

  And worse—

  I had never seen that side of him.

  A prince who could win without arrogance.

  A rival who could become something else.

  And now?

  Now, I see him—broken before a demon lord.

  For the first time, he didn’t fight back.

  For the first time, I see fear in his eyes.

  I refuse to accept this.

  I refuse to let this be the end.

  I haven’t beaten him yet.

  We’re not over.

  Not yet.

  Not the time to let go.

  ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

  “You serve the empire. Your past lives are over.”

  Those were the first words the Grand Mage Estin spoke after years of reshaping us. I don’t know how long it took—time blurred together in that pce. But when I was finally sent out, they told me I had one purpose.

  “I have a special mission for you.”

  I was assigned to the pace.

  “Her name is Felicia,” Estin told the young prince.

  Prince Grant was barely more than a child. He had just lost his sister. I was meant to serve him, assist him, and make sure he functioned. I wasn’t the only one tending to him, but the other maids looked at me with thinly veiled horror, as if I were a monster. But I feel nothing.

  Maybe I was.

  Then, one evening, Grant took my hand.

  “Felicia, you remind me of Benna. Can you be my sister when I am in this pace?”

  I froze.

  I wasn’t sure I could feel anything anymore, but something cracked inside me.

  I wanted to say no. That wasn’t my role. That wasn’t my pce.

  But I couldn’t.

  The dam broke.

  Tears fell before I even knew I was crying.

  Grant hesitated for only a second before wrapping his arms around me.

  And for the first time since I could remember, I let myself exist.

  I watched him grow.

  Watched him suffer.

  Watched him smile.

  He wasn’t supposed to mean anything to me. But he did.

  Because he was the only person in this empire who treated me like a person. Not a servant. Not a tool. Not an object.

  The only one who didn’t look at me like I was something unnatural.

  And now, I see him shattered before a demon lord.

  His fear is real.

  He’s always been strong. He’s always carried the weight alone.

  But now he needs me.

  I cannot fail him.

  I’m sorry, Your Grace.

  I have to protect him.

  If I can take the body back, for just one second, I will.

  There is no time to think. Only to act.