The Extra's Rise

I was loved from birth.

Everyone loved me.

Everyone spoiled me.

There was nothing I lacked as both the princess of the Northern continent and one who was considered the future Saintess with the highest Purelight talent in the world. When I took my first steps, the photographers documented it from seventeen different angles. My childish drawings were preserved in climate-controlled archives as if they were great works of art. When I sneezed, three medical drones would appear with tissue dispensers and diagnostic scanners.

But life wasn't perfect.

My mother's mental breakdown showed me that.

And I vowed to myself.

I won't love anyone fully.

Because loving means to allow other people to hurt you.

And that was something I did not want at all.

Other than my father and sister, I can't love anybody.

After that day, I built walls. Not the visible kind—those would be unseemly for a princess and future Saintess. My walls were made of perfect smiles, of careful kindness administered in precise doses, of academic excellence that kept everyone at a calculable distance. I became the person everyone thought I was without ever letting them see who I might actually be.

I was unfailingly kind to everyone I met. It wasn't difficult—kindness is a simple algorithm once you understand its components. Make eye contact for 2.7 seconds. Remember one personal detail about each person. Ask follow-up questions about their interests. The palace etiquette AIs had programmed these patterns into me since infancy, and I executed them with flawless precision.

"Rachel is so approachable," they would say. "Rachel makes everyone feel special," they would marvel. "Rachel has time for everyone," they would observe.

What they didn't realize was that being kind to everyone equally meant being close to no one in particular. It was a perfect defense system. People felt appreciated without actually getting near me. They felt valued without actually knowing my values. They felt connected without actually forming a connection.

At the academy, this system worked flawlessly. The professors thought I was dedicated because I submitted assignments precisely three hours before deadline—not so early as to seem eager, not so late as to seem careless. A girl I talked to thought we were best friends because I remembered her maternal grandmother's name and asked about her collection of Southern continent sixteenth century musical instruments.

I kept everyone in their proper orbits—close enough to admire the light, far enough that they couldn't touch its source.

Then I met Arthur.

And now, somehow, I'm here in his room, making a complete fool of myself. His lips are on mine and my carefully constructed system is failing catastrophically. My hands don't know where to go—they hover awkwardly before settling on his shoulders, then move to his hair, then back to his shoulders. I'm not executing the perfect kissing technique I researched. I'm not maintaining the optimal heart rate for romantic encounters. I'm just... feeling things. Messy, unquantifiable things.

His hands are warm against my back, steady where I am anything but. I'm suddenly aware of how thin the fabric of my t-shirt is, how every point of contact between us seems to generate impossible heat.

I should be cataloging this experience for future reference. I should be analyzing his technique for educational purposes. I should be maintaining at least partial emotional detachment.

I am doing none of these things.

Instead, I am kissing Arthur Nightingale with a desperate enthusiasm that would shock the entire Northern continent if they could see their poised princess now. The walls I've built so carefully are crumbling faster than the palace's defensive systems could track, and worst of all—I don't care. Let them fall. Let him in.

This is terrifying. This is wonderful. This is possibly the stupidest thing I've ever done.

And I don't want it to stop.

"I love you," I said as we separated, both of us panting.

I loved him.

Just like those foolish teenage girls I read about and scoffed at—girls who wore their hearts on their sleeves instead of keeping them safely locked. The ones who made terrible decisions for the sake of feelings rather than following properly calculated risk assessments.

I fell in love too.

I fell in love deeply.

I fell in love with this man I was willing to give myself to.

Even if he asked for me to give him half of the Northern continent my family ruled, I would give it to him by figuring out someway to do so.

He was a man I was willing to go mad for.

He was a man I was willing to give up everything for.

He was a piece of trash who seduced three other girls at the same time and who knows how many more.

Cause he was that damn irresistible.

His intelligence that seemed to predict movements three steps ahead, like he'd already read the strategy guide to a game everyone else was playing blind.

His strength that wasn't just physical but something that radiated from him like a perfectly calibrated force field.

Yet his kindness—surprising and unpredictable, appearing in moments when even the most sophisticated pattern recognition software would have predicted selfishness instead.

I couldn't keep myself from looking at him, my eyes apparently having decided that autonomous function was overrated and preferred manual override set to "stare at Arthur."

I knew I loved him from long ago. Possibly from the moment he'd looked at me not as the Saintess or the princess, but as Rachel—a distinction so few people ever made that my brain had filed it under "statistical anomalies worth further investigation."

I knew I wanted him for myself, an embarrassingly primitive instinct.

I knew I wanted to go as far as imprisoning him—a fantasy I'd entertained that involved a very comfortable cell with excellent amenities and me.

Yet, why was this still sending fire through my veins?

Why was my brain tracing the delicate touch of his hand so precisely?

Why did I wish to treasure this moment we found ourselves in?

Foolish.

Foolish.

My love was foolish and would definitely receive a failing grade in any rational decision-making assessment.

Yet I loved him regardless. With the kind of stubborn dedication usually reserved for particularly fanatic religious converts or people who insist their ancient, constantly-malfunctioning technology is "vintage" and therefore superior.

"Arthur," I whispered in his ear as our fingers interlocked against each other, our hands fitting together with an ergonomic perfection.

"Do you want to?" I asked as my hand went on the hem of my shirt. Arthur placed his other hand on top of mine, his palm warm against my knuckles.

"No," he responded before kissing me again, the kiss somehow managing to be both gentle and firm.

And oddly, his refusal didn't sting. Instead, it felt like protection—not the overprotective shields I'd grown up with, but something chosen rather than imposed. Something that said "I want this too, but not yet, not like this," without needing to articulate the words.

Which was, perhaps, the most foolish thing of all: that even in denial, he made me love him more.