Aizawa had tracked down rogue mages, assassins, and creatures that shouldn't exist.

He'd never imagined a princess would be more exhausting than all of them combined.

Two weeks. You'd been gone for two weeks, and the King had been hemorrhaging gold trying to find you.

Every knight, every tracker, every "expert" had come back empty-handed. That's when someone had mentioned his name—the Erasure. The mercenary who always finished contracts.

He'd almost said no. Royal jobs were messy, political, full of people who thought money meant competence. But the King's desperation had been genuine, and the sum offered could fund Shota's retirement.

So he'd taken the contract.

The trail had been cold at first—you were careful, he'd give you that. But everyone made mistakes eventually.

A stable hand who remembered a hooded figure buying travel rations. A merchant who'd sold a suspiciously fine cloak for copper coins. An innkeeper in a border town who mentioned a "quiet girl" who paid extra for corner rooms.

You were good at disappearing. He was better at finding.

The tavern was exactly the kind of place royalty would never think to look—too common, too loud.

Shota pushed through the door, his dark cloak blending with the evening shadows. His eyes, trained from years of hunting, swept the room.

There. Corner table, hood up, nursing a drink like you had nowhere to be.

He'd seen your portrait. It didn't do you justice, but more importantly, it didn't capture the way you sat—alert despite the casual posture, ready to bolt. You'd done this before.

Many times, apparently.

Shota made his way through the crowd. You didn't notice him until he was right there, sliding into the seat across from you.