Five years passed. Five long years during which the war with the northern Kingdom of Sylvan transformed from a gushing wound into a chronic, dull ache at the border. It had drained the treasury and claimed thousands of lives until, finally, it ended in a fragile truce, concluded with the active intervention of the western Kingdom of Arden's army.

The peace was hard-won, and King Alaric, taught by bitter experience, decided to fortify the frontiers. Vast borderlands were distributed among the most powerful aristocrats, whose private armies would henceforth become the first bulwark against any enemy.

One of these pillars of the kingdom was Tristan’s father, the old and formidable Marquis Garrick Hawke. He received the most restless northern lands, and with them, immense power.

Things were far from simple in the Marquis's family. A widower and father of twelve, he ruled his house with an iron fist. Tristan, though the eldest son, had five older sisters. Each had been married off advantageously, and their influential husbands were dreaming of snatching a piece of the inheritance should the young heir stumble. The pressure on Tristan was colossal. To solidify his status and prove his worth to his father, he didn't just need a union—he needed a triumph. And that triumph was to be Princess Amelia.

For all these years, Tristan had been on the hunt. His courtship was persistent, public, and devoid of any ambiguity. He bestowed the most expensive gifts upon her and sought every opportunity to get her alone. He shied away from neither servants nor courtiers, demonstrating to all his rights to the "prey."

But ever since that day at the picnic, Amelia had been on high alert. Her childish spontaneity had been replaced by polished aristocratic politeness, and behind her sweet smile lurked cold calculation. She had learned to parry his attacks with the grace of a master fencer, turning every one of his advances into his own clumsy defeat.

Their confrontation became a sort of theater for the few who were admitted into their circle.

Once, in the royal library where Monsieur Dubois was conducting a literature lesson, Tristan, who had already turned fifteen, was tasked with reading a sonnet. He stood up and, instead of looking at the teacher, locked his gaze on ten-year-old Amelia. His voice trembled with genuine passion as he recited lines about ethereal beauty and all-consuming love. A pregnant silence hung in the room, broken only by the scratching of quills.

When he finished, Amelia didn't blush or falter. She simply bestowed upon him the brightest, most innocent smile, like a teacher pleased with a pupil.

"Superb, Lord Tristan. Your passion for ancient rhymes is truly contagious. Monsieur Dubois, I assume this warrants the highest mark for expressive reading?"

She masterfully relegated his fervent confession to the rank of a school exercise, devaluing the pathos of the moment and eliciting stifled snickers from Rowan.

Another time, in the palace garden, he presented her with an obscenely large bouquet of rare orchids that cost a fortune.

"These flowers cannot compare to your beauty, Your Highness," he declared with ardor, blocking her path.

Amelia threw up her hands in genuine delight, accepting the flowers but not the courtship.

"They are magnificent, Lord Tristan! I shall immediately order them sent to the capital infirmary. Your generosity and attention to our wounded heroes will surely boost their morale! You are a true patriot!"

The attacks continued outside the palace as well. During a royal hunt, prancing on a magnificent black stallion, he rode up to her and extended his personal silver flask, intimating intimacy.

"You must be tired, Princess."

She smiled lightly, gesturing gracefully toward her companion.

"Thank you for your concern, Lord. But my faithful knight, Sir Leon, has already taken care of everything."

Beside her, a grown-up Leon—no longer a wiry youth but a statuesque, broad-shouldered young man who had received his knighthood unusually early—nodded reservedly. He held his mistress's flask at the ready, demonstrating with his entire being that this position was securely occupied.

Even Tristan's most expensive gift suffered the same fate. He waylaid her by the royal falconry grounds, holding a cage containing a magnificent white gyrfalcon—a symbol of power and nobility.

"To the most beautiful and untamed predator in this kingdom," he said with a low bow.

Amelia looked at the bird with sincere professional admiration.

Beautiful bird. And it probably costs as much as a small village's annual budget. Another attempt to buy my favor? Naive.

Then she turned a radiant gaze upon Tristan.

"What a generous gift, Lord Tristan! It will be a wonderful addition to the Royal Falconry. I am certain my father, King Alaric, will duly appreciate your contribution to increasing the Crown's assets."

His boldest attempt occurred in a secluded alley of the garden. Amelia was strolling with Leon. Tristan "accidentally" stepped out to meet them and, blocking the path, gave the knight a dismissive nod.

"Sir Leon, you are dismissed. I will escort Her Highness."

He stepped forward, intending to take Amelia’s arm and force his company upon her. But she took an elegant, barely perceptible step back, dodging the touch as if it were filth.

"But whatever for, Lord Tristan?" Her voice held genuine, almost childlike surprise. "Sir Leon is my sworn protector. To leave him behind is to doubt my father's decree regarding our safety. You aren't questioning the King's wisdom, are you?"

It was checkmate. Accused of potential disrespect toward the monarch's will, Tristan was forced to retreat, following the departing pair with a dark, angry glare.

Later, in his room, he slammed his fist onto the desk in a rage, making the inkwell jump.

She is like an eel, he thought with frustration and a dark, mounting desire. Slippery, smart, always one step ahead... But that makes the trophy all the more valuable. She will be mine. Father won't forgive a failure, and I can no longer retreat myself. I simply have no other choice.

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