"Then I will adapt. I'll mould myself to this hellhole world and defeat her by any means necessary," I declared, chin lifting defiantly, dirt-streaked veil quivering with my resolve. The words burned like a vow etched in blood—assassin's promise, not some pampered princess plea.
"You will adapt?" Rael echoed, his helm tilting sceptically, plume stirring in the hot breeze like a question mark.
"Yes, I will. I'll learn every damn trick, every weakness, and I'll shatter her ego into the dust," I shot back, fists clenching until my nails bit palms, olive eyes fierce through the grime.
Rael shook his head slowly, gauntlet scraping his neck guard. "Your Highness, your dreams are too big, too reckless. Count Jennife is a seasoned fighter—battle-scarred from border wars, veteran of a dozen duels. You? A rookie stumbling into the ring with palace polish and no grit."
"I am not a rookie!" I snarled, stepping forward, silver tangles whipping across my face like frayed chains.
