The first encounter is colored with shadow. You catch a glimpse of his profile through the blur of combat; he is a reckless young lad, and you watch him, half-hidden by ice and fire-brightened night. You take a closer look.

He fights like a tiger, agile and wary, with a lithe grace to his movements, and the unpredictability of a forge. In his hand he wields a smoldering dagger that bursts into a stream of red and yellow when provoked.

Fire. Vinea's greatest enemy.

You want to stay, but Kou's precious magi is dying, and you want nothing to do with little brats, or defeated giants, or their tag team of blades and kicks. So you leave. You don't see his face clearly until your encounter at the palace.

When you meet him again, you find yourself bracing for a shouting match so wild, so furious, ending right where your woes have begun.

The third time, you are at the beach mincing heinous purple hair. It's the color of ground seashells, of royalty and dignity, and it does not belong on that disgusting king's head. Gold is no better; you've grown to despise Sinbad's cuffs and earrings, but Alibaba's sun blond mane, and the centers of plumeria flowers, are a completely different shade and you find comfort in that fact.

Sindria breaks your heart and pastes it back together. You part ways with a promise of friendship in the form of abalone-and-seaglass bracelets and strings of cone shells braided into your magenta locks.

You don't see each other for a year. You spend those months training with Vinea until you can single out every last droplet in a thirty-meter long water whip with a flick of your pinkie. Travelling abroad has been an eye-opener; you get tired of being useless and approach your brother Kouen for a chance to accompany him in his next battle. He looks neither shocked nor pleased, he does not laugh, and he does not answer your question. He makes you study architecture (which you hate). "You should know the value of any structure you plan to blow up," he says, and you blush, ashamed he figured out what you'd been up to on your unofficial vacation.

When you find time, you visit the market to discretely inquire about any rumors of young, blonde, amber-eyed gladiators in Reim. You listen to the bits of gossip the old folks shout at each other, but none of these fit Alibaba's description. You pick up a lot; a kind old widow teaches you how to haggle, how to tell when fruit is overripe, and where to get the best bargains. You learn the vendors' stories and the prices of all their food items. You watch the games the kids play on the street and you imagine climbing trees and riding wheelbarrows with a much younger Alibaba. You realize that you miss him. You realize that you've never missed anyone this much before. You realize that you never had anyone to miss before.

The fourth rendezvous is just as unexpected. You could never have imagined Alibaba and his blue-haired friend would show up above the smoking ruins of Magnostadt. "Kougyoku!" he cries in surprise, and his voice is deeper than you remember, but there's that unmistakable tuft of goldenrod atop his head, that intense determination on his face, and you're in Sindria all over again.

Right here, he is not a prince, and you are not a princess. You are two exhausted warriors weeding the sky.

You feel weightless in the aftermath. No less than the Imperial Crown Prince and the King of the Seven Seas commend your bravery, but it's Alibaba's "Great job, Kougyoku!" that makes your chest burst with relief. Finally, finally, your dream has come true: Kouen appoints you as his newest general and you giddily accept.

For six months, you strive to master the art of war, honing your technique and acquainting yourself with the highest-ranking officials of the army. By this time, the other generals are aware of your progress. You can take down an opponent within ten seconds of one-on-one combat or unleash two dozen waves with the lift of your sword. You think you will never again be treated as a political prisoner or a trophy wife.

You're wrong.

It breaks your heart when Koumei breaks the news of your upcoming marriage.

"Who is it?" you ask, seething with anger, with hurt. Your days of naïve dreaming are over. Your brothers don't need you anymore. They never wanted you and they never will. This is them squeezing you to the last drop.

He says two words: Alibaba Saluja.

You close your eyes in resignation.

So, the pauper prince gets to be with the illegitimate princess. Sounds like a fairytale, your sister says, with something darker than mockery in her kohl-smeared eyes. You get what this is about. It's her way of putting you in your place. Of reminding you what you are. You can tell she's jealous of your newfound attention, however superficial it may be. It shouldn't mean a thing because you're stronger now than you've ever been, strong enough to shed her words like the mat of tangles Ka Koubun lopped off when you were eight. Yet the thought makes your mouth go dry, turns your arms to scarecrow sticks. You know fairytales always end badly.

You go to Alibaba, and for the first time in memory, he doesn't want to talk to you. He's confused…and worried. He's being forced into this, just like you are. But there's nothing you can do. You can't call off the wedding. Can't set his country free. You promise your support because that's all you can give.

We're friends, aren't we, Alibaba-chan? We promised to be there for each other, no matter what. Even this mess of a sham marriage can't change that.

He's breaking. You can see it — you see the walls tear off and all the shields fly into the wind. Someone's been pushing him down too much and he's going to drown if no one pulls him out. You want to be the one to reach for his hand. You, pawn and puppet, you want to save him. And then, just when he's about to open up, the chronic whirring in your ears takes over, and you lose yourself.

When you regain consciousness, you are in your room, just like the last time. "What happened?" you say, and the reply is "Nothing." And then, "I have to go." His eyes are cold; you realize that he's about to embark on one of those do-or-die ventures and nothing you do can stop him. The door creaks shut behind him and suddenly you're so, so scared and you don't know why.

You don't get any sleep until after the roosters wake everyone else.

The next thing you know is this: war is coming. A messenger arrives, pale-faced and out of breath. He leaves five minutes later, just as Kouen starts barking orders at his men. You don't hear a word. You're screaming, screaming, SCREAMING — because already the rest of the world has come crashing down.

It's not a fairytale. It's a tragedy.

He's dead.