Captain Itsuki Hiroto had barely recovered from being anointed the Divine Variable when word arrived that Princess Lysandra—heir to the throne and rumored to possess the gentlest disposition in all Solencia—had been kidnapped from her summer villa on the city outskirts.
Naturally, the palace erupted into panic. Couriers galloped through marble corridors; trumpeters blared urgent fanfares; and every noble with a pair of riding boots volunteered to storm the kidnapper's hideout.
Hiroto, meanwhile, sat in his chambers polishing the Glove of Destiny with a tea towel. He sighed. Kidnapped princess? I just wanted a nap.
A knock at the door announced Lady Virelya, her armor gleaming as usual. "Hiroto," she said briskly, "the Crown needs you. Princess Lysandra was taken—likely by that band of cultists we intercepted near the river. They've barricaded themselves in the old granary district."
"Cultists?" Hiroto frowned. "Why are cultists kidnapping the princess? Don't they know she can press the right buttons to fund their operations?"
Virelya ignored him. "You're the only one they won't suspect. You're to lead the rescue detail."
"And then I get another title?" he muttered.
She fixed him with a look. "You get to save a princess. Try not to embarrass the Empire."
---
Less than an hour later, Hiroto and a small squad of royal guards—two knights, a pair of archers, and Donny the Rear‑Guard Specialist—trotted through the narrow backstreets toward the derelict granary. Sera shadowed his flank, clutching her potion satchel.
From inside, muffled cries echoed: Lysandra's regal voice calling for mercy.
"Keep it quiet," Virelya hissed. "We'll storm in, secure the princess, then we're out."
Hiroto nodded, trying to look heroic but mostly wondering if he'd remembered to cancel his afternoon tea order.
They reached a collapsed awning where the granary's broken door gaped like a toothless grin. Two guards prepared to knock—but before they could, Lysandra's voice rang out again, more urgent this time: "PLEASE! HELP! THEY'RE GOING TO—"
A cry cut her off. Then a shrill cackle.
"Now!" Virelya whispered.
---
The door kicked inward on Virelya's command. Torches flared to life inside, revealing a dozen cultists in ragged robes, faces masked with painted sigils. They had Lysandra bound to a central pillar, her white gown smeared with straw and her expression both frightened and furious.
She spotted Hiroto instantly. "You! You're the dragon‑slayer! Save me!" she cried, eyes wide with hope.
Hiroto froze. Princess wants me to save her? I—uh—right.
He raised a hand. "Princess, step back—please."
A cultist lunged at the princess, knife glinting. Hiroto flinched and back‑pedaled—straight toward the nearest wall. He stumbled over a loose plank, then flailed, arms windmilling.
WHAP!
His elbow connected with the cultist's jaw. The man flew backward, collapsing in a heap.
The other cultists charged. Panic hit Hiroto like a surprise banquet. He pivoted to run, but misjudged his momentum, spun, and tripped straight into a table of makeshift ritual tools. Bowls of colored powder exploded in a rainbow cloud.
Behind him, Virelya shouted, "Hiroto, watch out!"
Hiroto landed on his hands and knees—directly under a swinging cultist's staff. The blow landed squarely on his shoulder, and he let out a yelp worthy of a startled rabbit.
THUNK!
He crumpled sideways, legs splayed at impossible angles.
Silence.
The cultists halted mid‑attack, staring at him with wide eyes. His glazed expression, one arm draped limply across his head, was so absurd it broke the tension like a dropped flute.
Virelya and the knights recovered, rushing forward. In a blink, the two knights drew their swords; the archers loosed arrows—each one landing with unnerving precision. In under ten seconds, every cultist lay unconscious, snoring on piles of straw.
Princess Lysandra sat bolt‑upright, freed by Virelya's swift knot‑cutting. She pointed at Hiroto. "You— what did you do?"
Hiroto struggled to push himself upright, groaning. "Accidentally… everything?"
The princess knelt beside him, brushing straw from his robes. "Thank you," she whispered. "You risked so much for me."
Hiroto blinked at her earnest face. "I… risked tripping onto a table… while trying to run away."
She smiled, eyes sparkling in the torchlight. "To me, you're a hero."
---
A cheer rose outside as more guards arrived. Virelya lifted Hiroto to his feet, draping his arm around her shoulder. "Let's get you both back to the palace," she said.
Outside the granary, a small crowd had gathered: commoners who'd heard the commotion, plus a few noble onlookers. Word traveled at the speed of rumor.
"He saved the princess!" someone shouted.
"The dragon‑slayer and princess, reunited at last!" another called.
Hiroto winced. Now they'll build a statue of me… again.
Princess Lysandra leaned close. "Can you walk?"
He nodded, wincing as his legs uncurled. "I think so."
They started down the street: Lysandra on one side, Virelya on the other, soldiers clearing a path. Donny jogged to Hiroto's rear, carrying his satchel.
Sera hobbled beside him, waving triumphantly. "I'll write a sonnet!" she declared. "'Ode to the Cowardly Clerk Who Faints for Love!'"
Hiroto shot her a sideways glare. "No… thank you."
---
Back at the palace courtyard, lanterns burned bright. A triumphant procession formed: Lysandra in royal palanquin, Hiroto limping alongside, knights holding torches, and Virelya flanking them like a stern guardian. Crowds cheered, tossing flower petals that drifted softly to the ground.
Before the gates, Cardinal Elgar awaited them—robes billowing, censer swinging. He raised a hand, silencing the throng.
"By the power vested in fate," he intoned, "we bear witness to the Divine Variable's mercy and the hero's compassion." He turned to Hiroto. "Captain, would you honor us with your presence in the Cathedral tomorrow, where the Church will consecrate this act and bind it to prophecy?"
Hiroto swallowed. Tomorrow? Again? He cast an apologetic glance at Princess Lysandra, who smiled encouragingly.
"I… will be there," he said, voice tight but resolute.
Elgar inclined his head. "So shall it be. And let all who witness this deed remember: behind every act of heroism lies the humble heart of the Divine Variable."
As the crowd erupted into fresh cheers, Hiroto felt Lysandra's hand slip into his own. Warmth spread through him—even tinged with embarrassment.
Sera nudged him. "Got everything? Your dignity, intact?"
He glanced down at his disheveled robes. "I left it in the granary."
Virelya gave a sharp nod. "Then we'll retrieve it… eventually."
Lysandra squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Hiroto."
He forced a small smile. "Anytime… princess."
And somewhere in the roaring applause and swirling petals, Hiroto realized that fate had one more twist ready: as he escorted the princess home, the Cardinal's whispered promise of tomorrow's consecration echoed in his mind—another dawn where he'd stand, smile, and pray he didn't faint again.
Because in Solencia, even a near‑comatose hero could spark the most unexpected legends.