Sir Maric closed the door with a deliberate click, sealing the air between them with a finality that prickled Gai’s skin. There was something different in the captain’s posture today—shoulders squared, jaw tight, but a faint, unfamiliar spark in his eyes that made Gai sit up a little straighter. He waited for the usual catalogue of faults, the rehearsed rebuke. Instead, Maric just stood there for a moment, helmet under his arm, studying Gai as if trying to map out what exactly had changed with the boy since yesterday.

  “Never gave you even odds,” Maric said finally, voice cutting the hush like a whetted blade. “Thought Cedric would have you eating sand before you even knew what was happening.” His lips twitched at the corners—a shadow of amusement, or maybe pride, but it vanished before Gai could be sure. “You surprise me, Gai. Not many do.”

  Gai blinked. He’d braced for contempt, maybe a lecture about technique, not this peculiar halfway compliment. “Thank you, sir,” he managed. His throat still ached, and the words rattled off his tongue like he’d forgotten his own voice.

  Maric eased the helmet onto the table and leaned in, lowering his tone. “I want you to remember this feeling today—the way it tastes when you win, when you prove everyone wrong.” The captain’s gaze flicked to the bruises already darkening on Gai’s neck, then back to his eyes. “You’ll need it. Starting tomorrow, you’re reassigned from the main hall. New orders. Special detail, straight from the top.”

  A cold thread slid down Gai’s spine. “Sir?”

  “You’re on court watch.” The words dropped heavy; Gai could almost see them shatter at his feet. “You’ll report directly to the royal wing, effective dawn.” Maric’s smile was thin, calculated. “You’ve been requested.”

  “Requested… by who?” Gai swallowed, remembering the press of the crowd, the way the princess’s eyes had found him even from the highest box. Something in his gut twisted, pulled taut.

  “Her Highness,” Maric said, voice even, “has taken a personal interest in your… talents.” The pause was barely there, but it made the words sting. “You’ll be posted as her guard for the rest of the delegation’s stay, and maybe longer. If you’re lucky.”

  Gai’s mind spun, trying to line up the pieces. He was just another conscript—nothing worth remembering. Why on earth would the princess single him out? Then he remembered Elle, all sly smiles and cryptic hints about needing him close; it wasn’t just talk, after all. He looked to Maric, hoping for some sign this was a prank or a test, but the captain’s expression stayed unreadable.

  “I don’t expect you to make sense of it,” Maric continued. “Just know it’s not a suggestion. You’ll be briefed by the head of her retinue in the morning. In the meantime, rest. Or try to. You look like death’s least favourite errand boy.”

  “I—” Gai floundered. He couldn’t picture himself in the marble corridors and gold doors of the royal wing; he barely fit in the barracks as it was. “I’m not sure I understand, sir. Why me?”

  A real smile, brief and haggard, ghosted across Maric’s face. “Ask her yourself, if you’ve got the guts.” He stood then, gathering his helmet, already turning back toward the door. “You did well today, Gai. Don’t let it go to your head—and don’t get yourself killed tomorrow. Nobility have a knack for ruining good men.”

  The door shut with a sharp snap, and Maric’s footsteps thudded away, swallowed up by the corridor. Gai just stood there, staring at the wood like it might offer answers, mind still tumbling. He let out a shaky breath he’d been clinging to. That victory in the ring already felt distant—blurred by this sudden shift into something much bigger.

  He was still lost in it when a knock at the door startled him back to his body. Two city guards waited outside—strangers, uniforms stiff and unsmiling. “Escort for Guardsman Gai,” the taller one grunted. Gai nodded, not trusting his own voice, and followed them out, down the winding corridors that smelled of sweat and iron and spilled wine. The air was cooler here, the halls empty, as if all the echoes of the fight had been cleaned up before he arrived.

  They made a show of walking him through the public court, one guard ahead and one behind, like he might bolt for it or start swinging again. Gai’s knees wobbled with every step, but he kept his chin up and eyes straight. He caught sight of a few faces he recognized—a kitchen boy, a sleepy page, two gossips from the barracks. They glanced at him with a mix of pity, awe, envy. Maybe news travelled faster than he thought.

  The barracks door clanged open, the noise slicing through the hush. Inside, the familiar chaos of bunks and boots and arguments. Anders and Edgar were waiting right by the door; Anders grinned like he’d known this was coming all along, and Edgar, shoulder still wrapped in a graying sling, managed a sharp salute.

  “Well, look what survived,” Anders called, his voice booming over the breakfast racket. “We were starting to bet whether you’d come back on a cart or in a sack. You owe me three coppers, Ed.”

  Edgar huffed and shuffled over, barely slowed by the sling. "Unbelievable. Seriously, who would've thought you'd take down Cedric? A squid against a Dustor should've been no contest. Everyone was betting on your defeat. By noon, half the lads will be making up verses about this upset." There was a gleam in his eye, his battered face edged with a crooked grin, still marveling at the unexpected outcome.

  Anders clapped Gai on the back, hard enough to knock the air loose from his lungs. “I saw it from the stands. That was damn near beautiful. You made him look like a lost calf, stomping and huffing about.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Sir Maric was smiling. I caught it.”

  Gai shook his head, not ready to believe it. “I think he’s just happy I can still walk.”

  Anders rolled his eyes with the lazy satisfaction of someone who’d called a long shot and won. “That’s more than he’s ever smiled at me,” he said, voice drifting into a mock sulk. “Next you’ll be telling me he’s got you stationed at the palace baths, massaging the lordlings’ feet.”

  “Close enough,” Gai muttered, dropping onto the nearest bench. His own hands trembled as he reached for a mug, and he tried to hide them in the cup’s shadow. “I’m off main hall duty. Got put on court watch. Royal wing.”

  Edgar’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding,” he said, but without the usual sneer—this time it hit closer to respect. “They’re not going to like that. You know they think you’re a stray already.”

  “Yeah. Well, the princess asked for me.” Gai heard how it sounded and almost regretted it. He expected derision, maybe a snort about how ‘squids’ couldn’t be trusted in the fancy halls, but Anders just whistled, low.

  “The princess has taste, I’ll give her that,” he said, with the barest nod toward the other tables, where the afternoon crowd was beginning to notice the three of them huddled together. “Still, you keep your head down. Those courtiers—bigger snakes than you’ll find anywhere.”

  Gai nodded, but his jaw set stubborn. “Don’t worry. Not like I’ll be alone. The place is crawling with guards, and anyway, the princess seems to know what she’s doing.” He didn’t mention the way her look had lingered on him, or how she’d warned him against getting reckless. That was private, somehow—a thing between them that he couldn’t quite put words to.

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  Edgar clapped a hand to his good shoulder, careful but firm. “Just don’t let them get under your skin,” he said, voice surprisingly gentle for a man who’d once broken Gai’s nose for a laugh. “You’re tough, but these people are all about mind games. They’ll try to turn you inside out before you even see it coming.”

  Anders grinned, his usual bite returning. “But if you do get in over your head, remember: we’ll be betting on how long it takes you to get thrown in the dungeon. Or run out of town on a rail.” He raised his mug in salute.

  Gai laughed, a short, tired sound, but the tension in his chest eased. It felt good, for a moment, to just sit and let the ordinary noise of the barracks flow over him.

  “Suppose I’ll need a new uniform,” he said at last, eyeing the sweat-stained shirt clinging to his ribs. “The court’s not going to want me trailing blood all over their polished floors.”

  “Maybe they’ll put you in one of those white dress coats,” said Edgar, deadpan. “You’d look adorable.”

  Anders snorted into his drink. “He’d look like a snowman after a knife fight.” They both laughed, and this time, Gai joined in without forcing it.

  He finished his drink, the taste dull on his tongue, and scraped himself upright. The laughter faded behind him as he slipped through the tables toward the gear room, pulse heavy with fatigue. He could feel everyone’s eyes trailing after him—some sizing him up, some barely hiding their scowl, a handful watching like they might just clap. He didn’t spare them a glance; he kept his head high, letting the noise blur behind him. If this was his last day melting into the crowd, then so be it. They wouldn’t get to see him slink off looking sorry.

  The quartermaster’s den was as cheerful as a wet boot. Armour bits cluttered every shelf, the air full of old sweat and oil. Davis stood behind his scarred counter, arms crossed, looking like he’d been waiting for Gai just to make his day interesting. The man’s moustache twitched with what passed for excitement.

  “Oh look, the hero returns,” Davis called out with a roll of his eyes. “Heard you turned that Dustor into mincemeat.”

  Gai managed a half-smile. “Only did what I had to, sir.”

  “Save it,” Davis grunted. “I’m not your audience.” He took in Gai’s sorry state from boots to collar and gave a brisk nod toward the racks in back. “Graeme says you’re for court duty now. That means no more smelling like the laundry got left out in the rain. Strip down and hand over that sword—let’s see if we can make you look human. Royals like ‘em scrubbed.”

  Gai hesitated just a second, hand instinctively brushing his sword hilt—his one bit of pride—but finally unclipped it and handed it over. Davis took it like it might bite and disappeared behind the curtain.

  A moment later, Davis’ voice floated out: “You bend this blade prying open doors or is it supposed to be like this?”

  Gai grinned, not bothering to hide it now. “Cuts just fine.”

  Davis came back lugging an armful of new kit: a spotless white tunic, sharp black breeches, boots that looked too clean to be trusted, plus an empty-banded sheath and—of all things—a short navy cape that looked vaguely ridiculous. Davis dumped it into Gai’s arms.

  “Well? Put it on. Let’s see if you pass for respectable.” He watched Gai peel out of his dirty shirt and wrestle with stiff new sleeves, all without so much as blinking. The tunic felt like wearing parchment; the boots were already murdering his heels; and the cape—he wasn’t even going to think about the cape—but catching himself in the battered shield leaning against the wall… he almost didn’t recognize himself.

  Davis squinted at him for a long second. “Don’t get cocky,” he said dryly. Then he set Gai’s sword on the counter—gleaming and tightly wrapped—and watched as Gai settled it at his side again, a little more at home than before.

  Davis ducked behind the workbench again, this time with a grunt that said he was more annoyed than impressed. He came up holding an armful of segmented armour, burnished and neatly stacked, the kind that looked ceremonial but could still take a knife to the ribs. “There’s more,” he said, dropping the pile at Gai’s feet. “Lieutenant Graeme left word. Said you’re not to leave this room until you’re dressed up like a proper showpiece. Breastplate, bracers, backplate—the works. It’s tradition, apparently. Makes the court feel safer when the guards look like statues.”

  Gai stared at the gleaming pieces, then at Davis, as if waiting for the punchline. “All this? Won’t I just trip over myself?”

  Davis shrugged. “It’s a festival week. Everything’s for show. You’re lucky Graeme didn’t tell me to pin feathers to your helmet.” He paused, squinting at Gai with a new species of interest. “You ever worn parade gear before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you’re about to find out what real pain is.” Davis spun the cuirass so the straps lined up, then gestured for Gai to step in. “Arms up. Let’s see if you can breathe with half your chest in a vice.”

  He buckled the plates with surprising care, his fingers deft as a healer’s. The metal was cold, biting at Gai’s skin, but after the first shock there was a weight to it that felt almost reassuring. Davis checked the fit at every point, giving occasional tugs and thumps. “You’ll get used to it,” he said, cinching the last strap tight. “And if you don’t, at least you’ll look decent when you faint in front of nobility.”

  He fitted the arm guards next, then the blue-edged cape—draped just so, barely brushing the hips. Gai caught a glimpse of himself in the battered shield again. Now he looked like the other guards at the palace gates, all the rough edges disguised beneath layers of polish and intent. With the sword and the cape and the new sense of inertia, it was almost possible to believe he’d fit in.

  Davis stepped back and gave a slow, critical nod. “You’ll pass. If you keep your mouth shut, some of them might even think you belong.”

  He handed over a helmet, brimmed and crested with a strip of stiff blue. “For ceremonial use only. If you bring it back dented, Graeme will have my head.”

  Gai took it, turning it over in his hands. It was lighter than it looked, but still dense with the memory of every other poor recruit who’d worn one just like it. “Speaking of Graeme,” he ventured, “any idea who I’m working with? Or is it just me and a hallway full of statues?”

  Davis’s mouth twisted, the moustache twitching like it was wrestling with itself. He jerked his thumb toward the racks of gear. “You’ll be partnered with Raimondis.” The name hung in the air, poisonous.

  Gai nearly dropped the helmet. “Raimondis? Seriously?” He tried to keep the edge from his voice but failed; the word came out half a snarl.

  Davis snorted. “Don’t look at me. It comes from the top. The princess’s request, but you know how it is—Raimondis’s family pushed hard for it.” He leaned in, lowering his voice to a rough whisper. “If he gives you trouble, report it straight to Graeme. There’s no love lost between that one and the rest of the guard.”

  Gai grimaced, remembering the first time he’d crossed blades with Raimondis—how the other recruit had taunted him for being a squid, then sulked when Gai beat him fair in the squares. Raimondis was all sharp teeth and silk gloves, the kind of noble who looked down his nose even while flat on his back. The thought of spending entire days beside him in the palace halls was almost worse than the parade armour’s bruising grip.

  Davis started packing up the rest of the gear, not bothering to hide how glad he was to be finished. “He’ll meet you in the north gallery at dawn. Don’t be late. And don’t forget your helmet. Word is, you two are the only ones on this detail apart from her native retinue. Try not to make each other bleed in front of the royals, yeah?”

  “Can’t promise,” Gai said, and slid the helmet under his arm.

  Outside, the castle was already shifting to night. The lamps hugging the parade ground walls glowed fat and yellow, the air laced with the last sweetness of festival cakes and the rough tang of strong drink. Gai moved through it all like a ghost, the new armour scraping and clinking at every step. He’d gone less than twenty paces before bumping straight into a wall of blue and white: Raimondis, already changed into his new uniform, hair slicked back and face pinched with annoyance.

  “Ah,” Raimondis said, the word tasting like spoiled wine. “They send peasants now in royal colours.” He looked Gai up and down, then flicked an imaginary speck from his own bracer. “No offense, of course. Clearly, they’re desperate.”

  Gai gritted his teeth. “Not my idea. I’d have taken the stocks over spending time with you, anyday.”

  Raimondis smiled, but there was nothing warm in it. “Oh, we’ll see, Gai. Some of us have reputations to maintain. I intend to come out of this detail with mine intact.” He leaned forward, voice so low Gai could smell the expensive soap behind it. “If you make me look a fool, I will bury you.”

  It was almost funny, except Gai could tell Raimondis meant every word. Gai let the threat hang in the air a moment, measuring Raimondis’s face for any sign of a joke, a chink, a hint that maybe this was just the bluster of a kid who’d been groomed to mistake cruelty for strength. But there was nothing—just the cool, blank certainty that whatever lines Raimondis rehearsed had been cooked into his marrow since childhood.

  “Save it for the nobles,” Gai said, stepping wide around him, the plates of his new breastplate already starting to chafe beneath his arm. “The rest of us already know where you stand.”

  He left Raimondis standing there, feeling the tension cling to him like cheap soap, and made his way back through the winding halls toward the barracks. The place was nearly deserted at this hour: most cots empty, morning shift out freezing on the wall waiting for their relief, night crew still yawning in the mess or dragging their feet around the yard. When he reached his own bunk—same lumpy mattress, broken slat catching his ankle, a spare pair of boots tucked under like lazy cats—it was almost a relief just to see it unchanged.

  He shrugged off the new breastplate, setting it down with more care than it probably deserved. The rest came off quickly—gauntlets dumped, cape folded with half a thought—before he collapsed onto the cot and covered his face with an arm. His whole body felt wrung out, heavy in that way that promised tomorrow would be worse. He listened for a while: distant laughter from the parade ground, some bell clanging somewhere too far to matter, the steady hum of other people moving on with their lives.

  His thoughts spun anyway: Cedric’s stunned face in the ring, Maric’s reluctant almost-praise, the sharp edges of whatever waited in those palace corridors come morning. He found himself thinking of Elle—her sideways glances, how she always seemed three steps ahead. Did she know what she was asking of him? Or did she just want to see how long he’d last among sharks?

  Somewhere between awake and asleep, Gai tried to imagine himself fitting into those polished halls—not as a sentry marking time but as someone who actually belonged there. It still sounded ridiculous, but not quite as impossible as it had that morning. Maybe he’d never be what they expected. Maybe it didn’t matter as long as he kept going.

  The noise from next door faded out; all he could hear was boots scuffing and bunks creaking as tired bodies settled in for what little rest they could get. Gai pulled his blanket tighter against the chill and let himself sink into it—the comfort of old sweat and starch strangely grounding. Tomorrow he’d have to prove himself all over again in a place where no one wanted him, but tonight this battered bunk would do. He stared into the dark until his eyes wouldn’t focus anymore and told himself he’d gotten through worse days.

  Sleep took him fast—no dreams, just that deep exhaustion where even worry can’t keep you afloat. For now, at least, everything was quiet; even the threat of tomorrow couldn’t break through.