Gai wakes to a cold emptiness—the kind that says everyone else in the world has gotten a head start. The barracks are dark, save for a finger-width crack of morning light creeping under the heavy door. It lays a stripe across the floor, hitting every empty bunk and the scatter of boots and uniforms left behind from last night’s shift change. He’s never seen the place so silent. No bodies sprawled half-dressed across cots, no groans, no petty squabbles for basin space or the dregs of the porridge pot. Just the ghost of old sweat and the familiar stink of military wool, all left behind by a barracks full of men cycling to the night watch.

  For a moment, Gai lies there unmoving, not sure if he’s overslept or died in his sleep. Then the memory comes back—the ring, the scrape of iron against stone, Cedric’s hands closing around his neck and the even colder grip of Maric’s new assignment. Court watch. He’s a palace guard now, at least for as long as it takes for someone higher up to realize the mistake.

  He swings his legs out and sits up, wincing as the bruises complain. His body is a catalogue of small failures: knees stiff, neck tender, a stripe of dried blood at his hairline. He shrugs it off. At least his hands have stopped shaking. He runs his palm over his scalp, feeling the crust of sweat, and then forces himself to his feet.

  The new uniform sits folded at the end of his cot: the white tunic with its unfamiliar sharpness, the black breeches, boots that creak with every movement, and the ridiculous blue-edged cape. Gai’s never been much for ceremony. He pulls it on with the efficiency of a man trying to ignore the fact that he’s about to step into a different world entirely. The cloth feels alien, too stiff in the shoulders and tight at the waist. The helmet—brimmed, with its awkward strip of blue—waits atop the pile, looking more like a joke than a piece of armour. Still, he fits it over his head, adjusting for comfort, and finds the chinstrap irritates a healing scab. He grunts.

  He straps on his sword, the weight of it the only familiar thing about him now, and glances once at the battered shield leaning against the wall. For a second, he considers bringing it, but the thought of showing up to the North Gallery like a parade ground toy makes his teeth itch. He leaves it behind.

  The walk from the barracks to the North Gallery is longer than it ought to be. The halls are empty at this hour; only the junior staff and a few kitchen boys sweeping up after the last of the festival crowds. Gai’s footsteps echo in the cold, polished corridors. He passes through a side hall where the morning sun slants in through tall windows, catching the motes of dust in a pale, trembling glow. The entire castle feels suspended in a slow exhale—everyone bracing for the next command, the next spectacle.

  At the Gallery, Lieutenant Graeme is already waiting, posted dead-centre in a patch of sun so sharp it flattens his shadow against the wall. He stands at parade rest, helmet tucked under his arm and every edge of his uniform knife-straight. Gai approaches, hesitating at the threshold.

  “Sir,” he manages, voice caught between casual and formal.

  Graeme doesn’t look up right away. When he does, it’s with the same weighing stare Gai remembers from his last encounter—like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or spit. “Early,” Graeme says, a bare nod of approval. “Good. Punctuality’s rare, these days.” His voice is iron filings and cold water. “Raimondis is late, as usual.”

  The name curdles in Gai’s chest. He glances around, expecting the bastard to materialize with some offhand insult. Instead, the North Gallery remains empty but for the two of them and a few minor servants dusting the sculptures at the far end. He shifts his weight, the ceremonial boots already pinching.

  Graeme studies him, eyes narrowing at the new uniform. “You fit the part better than I’d expected,” he says, then ruins it by adding, “Still look like you’re ready to bolt for the nearest alley.”

  “Habit,” Gai replies, managing not to bristle.

  A few minutes tick by. Graeme checks the time—literally, a battered brass watch on his wrist—and scowls at the hallway. Gai considers making small talk, then thinks better of it. The silence between them is taut, but not hostile; more like two men quietly hoping the other one cracks first. In the end, it’s Raimondis who breaks the spell.

  He arrives with a flourish, boots clicking with exaggerated purpose, cape streaming behind him in a way that might be elegant if he didn’t try so hard. His hair is slicked into a perfect part, his face powdered and set into a permanent sneer. He spots Gai and lets a smirk bloom. “They let you out of the barracks, then?” he says, voice just loud enough to bounce off the marble.

  “On time,” Graeme notes, gaze flicking from the watch to Raimondis. “A first.”

  Raimondis only shrugs, smoothing the front of his tunic and glancing dismissively at Gai. “Had to make sure the uniform wasn’t crawling with lice,” he says, eyes lingering pointedly on Gai’s sleeves.

  “Save it for the nobles,” Gai mutters under his breath, then adds, “Sir,” for Graeme’s benefit.

  Graeme ignores the dig, eyes gone flat as slate. “Enough. Both of you, listen up.” He plants his feet, fixing them with a stare that brooks no argument. “You’re both on special assignment. Effective now, you are the personal guard for Princess Elle of Esbuenesia.”

  Raimondis blinks, the confidence faltering for half a heartbeat. “Her Highness? Alone?”

  Graeme’s mouth twitches. “You’ll be joined by her retinue from the homeland, but only the two of you from our side. The princess specifically requested a minimal presence. Something about ‘feeling smothered’ by the usual crowd.” He lets that hang in the air. “You’ll be reporting directly to her chief of staff for scheduling. No wandering. No fraternization with the festival crowd unless ordered. Understood?”

  Gai nods. Raimondis makes a show of snapping to attention, but it’s clear the thought of answering to anyone less than a baron grates.

  Graeme’s gaze turns sharper. “There’s been trouble with previous details. Some of the foreign guards didn’t make it through the trip. The rest are still in quarantine, thanks to that fever last month.” He doesn’t elaborate, but Gai catches the flicker of unease. “You’re not just decoration. You’re expected to keep her alive—and more importantly, keep her happy.”

  The door at the far end of the gallery opens, and a small procession sweeps in. The first is a woman of impossible build: short, stocky, legs thick as barrels, but her features are all wrong for a dwarf. Instead, her ears are the length of a dagger blade, rising sharp from a helmet of silver-black hair. Her skin is dark enough to throw back the sun, and her eyes—bottomless black, with no white at all—flick across the room and pin Gai in place. He’s seen Drow before, but never one this… substantial. She walks like every step leaves a dent in the marble.

  Behind her, two more women follow, both willowy and pale, but with the same long ears and inky eyes. They hang back, deferential to the first.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Graeme bows—not deeply, but enough. “Chief-of-Staff,” he says, and the title fits her like a mailed fist.

  “Lieutenant Graeme,” the Drow woman answers, her voice as heavy as her stride. “You bring the candidates?”

  Gai glances at Raimondis, who is busy smoothing the front of his tunic and trying to look unimpressed. Gai just stands there, resisting the urge to salute.

  Graeme nods at both of them. “Guardsman Gai, Guardsman Raimondis.”

  The Drow chief of staff gives them each a slow, deliberate look. Her gaze passes over Raimondis like he’s a chair—functional, but not interesting—then lingers on Gai. For a moment, he wonders if she recognizes him from the arena or the mess hall. But her face is unreadable, carved from basalt and years of command.

  “Good,” she says, finally. “Come with me.”

  She turns without waiting for a response, and the two shadows follow her. Graeme gestures for them to go, and Gai falls in beside Raimondis, careful to keep a step behind the Drow’s wake. The chief of staff sets a punishing pace down the corridor, the two junior women nearly trotting to keep up.

  Raimondis leans in, voice barely above a hiss. “They expect us to work for them?”

  Gai shrugs, watching the sway of the Drow’s broad shoulders. “I expect they’ll make it easy if you don’t.”

  Raimondis’s face colors, but he doesn’t answer.

  The parade continues through a maze of side halls, past a glass-roofed atrium and a handful of closed doors, until at last they arrive at a heavy, blue-lacquered set of double doors. The Drow stops, turns, and plants both hands on her hips.

  “Rules are simple,” she says, voice even. “You speak when spoken to. You move when I say move. If the princess asks you a question, you answer it—truthfully, and without cleverness.” Her eyes flick between Gai and Raimondis. “If you displease her, I’ll know. And I’ll make sure it never happens twice.”

  Gai nods, ignoring the prickling sensation crawling up his spine.

  Raimondis manages a tight, “Understood.”

  The Drow gives a curt nod and pushes open the doors. “Wait here. I’ll announce you.”

  She steps inside, the junior aides trailing in her wake. Gai is left outside, shoulder to shoulder with his least favourite human in the city, the air thick with expectation and the faint scent of some floral soap drifting under the door. For a long minute, neither of them speaks.

  Raimondis breaks first. “What are you grinning at?” he snaps, catching the smirk on Gai’s face.

  Gai wipes it off, but his eyes keep the spark. “Just thinking about what happens if you displease her.”

  Raimondis bristles. “You’re not the only one who can swing a sword.”

  “No,” Gai agrees, “but you might be the only one who still thinks that matters.”

  A heartbeat later, the door swings open again, and the Drow beckons them in. “She’ll see you now.”

  Gai walks in first, letting the cold confidence settle around him like a shield. The air inside the royal chambers is different than anywhere else in the castle. It smells faintly of crushed lavender and a sharp metallic tang that Gai can’t place—maybe the lingering ozone of old wards, or just the polish they use on the gold fixtures. The ceiling soars above, pale blue in daylight, trimmed with thin silver lines that catch the sun and refract it across the room in shifting arcs. Everywhere are small, deliberate luxuries: silk pillows, a table covered with wax-sealed letters, a pitcher sweating cold water next to a bowl of berries too ripe for the market.

  It’s a room built for ceremony, but at the centre Elle sits cross-legged on a low divan, all poise and casual challenge. She wears a gown in the Esbuenesians’ favourite red, heavy with embroidery at the sleeves, but the way she slouches, chin in palm, makes her look less like a princess and more like a student bored with her lessons. Her eyes lock on Gai the moment he enters, and she lights up—not the dazzling smile of public diplomacy, but a lopsided, honest one that nobody would fake.

  The Drow chief of staff clears her throat, the sound sharp as a snapped branch. “Your Highness, allow me to present your local detail.” She glances over her shoulder to make sure Gai and Raimondis are standing exactly where she wants. “This is Guardsman Raimondis, of the House of Neves, and Guardsman Gai, of… the city.”

  Gai nearly chokes, but keeps his mouth shut. He can feel Raimondis burning holes through his side, but he doesn’t give the satisfaction of a reaction.

  Elle doesn’t even bother to stand; she just props herself up on one arm, eyes never leaving Gai. “Thank you, Master Sheh’zar,” she says to the Drow, “but you can drop the titles in here. At least for the morning.”

  Sheh’zar bows her head, only barely masking her irritation. “Of course, ma’am. Is there any other instruction?”

  Elle tilts her head, studying both guards. “Just that they make themselves useful. You’ll want to check the perimeter; the festival makes people braver than usual. Oh, and—” She glances at the Drow, then the aides, then back to Gai. “I’ll need Gai to accompany me to the north terrace. Alone. Officially.”

  The silence is sharp enough to cut. The aides glance at one another. Raimondis looks like he’s been asked to kiss a leper. The Drow’s black eyes flick rapidly between Elle and Gai, the wheels of suspicion spinning out of control.

  Gai manages a sharp salute, keeping his face blank. “As you wish, Princess.”

  Raimondis swallows a retort, lips pressed so thin they nearly vanish. “Will I be needed?” he asks, careful to lace the question with enough disdain to suggest he’s above the whole thing.

  Elle gives him a polite, dismissive smile. “You’re free to assist Master Sheh’zar. She has a much more critical job than I do.”

  Sheh’zar is stone-faced, but the tension in her jaw is impossible to miss. “I’ll see to the security arrangements at once, Highness.” She sweeps out, the junior aides falling in behind her. The door shuts behind them, leaving the three of them alone.

  Elle rises slowly, every movement unhurried. She walks toward Gai, passing so close her sleeve nearly brushes his hand. He stares straight ahead, trying to recall if there was ever a lesson for how to behave when a royal addresses you like an old friend. She doesn’t stop until she’s barely a foot away.

  “Gai,” she says, voice pitched low, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  He’s not prepared for that—he’s braced for formality, maybe even a tongue-lashing for his clumsy performance in the ring. Instead, he gets real warmth. The shock of it loosens something in his chest.

  He risks a glance at her, and she smiles with just the corner of her mouth. “Congratulations,” she says quietly. “I heard you embarrassed Cedric.”

  A ghost of a grin flashes across his face. “He made it easy.”

  Her laughter is a small, bright thing. "You always said that. Even when you lost." She lets the comment hang, a private joke Gai's pretty sure Raimondis doesn't get. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she adds, "Just like those late nights in the library, remember? You'd insist you were winning our little debates, even when you were clearly outmatched."

  Gai feels a warmth spread through his chest at the memory. Those nights in the library, poring over ancient texts and arguing philosophy, seem like a lifetime ago. Yet the familiarity of Elle's teasing brings it all rushing back.

  "I seem to recall it differently," he retorts with a grin. "But then again, you always did have a way of twisting things to your advantage, Your Highness."

  She turns to him, all business again, but the mask doesn’t quite settle. “Walk with me, Gai. The north terrace, as I said.” She flicks her gaze at Raimondis, who is already looking away as if this conversation is beneath his notice.

  Gai follows Elle through the wide doors to the terrace, the sunlight hitting them full-on and scattering the chill from his bones. The terrace is lined with living vines, the leaves thick enough to offer cover from anyone on the ground below. Elle glides out to the balustrade and leans forward, eyes on the city.

  They stand in silence until the door hisses closed behind them. Gai knows enough to keep his mouth shut until she signals otherwise.

  At length, Elle exhales. “You look miserable in that uniform,” she says, not unkindly.

  He glances down, shrugs. “It’s meant to be uncomfortable. Keeps us focused.”

  “You hate it.”

  He tries to hide the smile, fails. “A little.”

  She’s quiet a moment, gaze somewhere distant. “I’m sorry about the feast,” she says softly. “You had no idea, did you? About who I was.”

  He shakes his head. “Didn’t matter. You’re still Elle.”

  Something changes in her posture—she straightens, sets her hands flat on the cool stone. “To you, maybe. But for them?” She jerks her chin back toward the suite, where Sheh’Zar and Raimondis are probably trading theories about what just happened. “They need to see me as the princess. It’s safer that way. For both of us.”

  He says nothing, but the message is clear: play the role. Don’t get careless. They’re being watched, every moment, by everyone.

  She turns to face him, her eyes clear and fierce. “You’re the only person here who knows what I’m actually like. I trust you, Gai. That’s why I had you transferred to my detail.” She drops her voice. “I need someone with a sense for danger. Someone who doesn’t owe their loyalty to a noble house or a grudge.”

  He’s not sure what to do with that—a compliment, maybe, or a warning.

  She takes a step closer, lowering her voice. “I need your help. Things are… not what they seem. Even here, even in this palace.” She glances over her shoulder, making sure they’re alone. “Don’t say anything. Just listen. If you see anything out of place—anything at all—you tell me first. Not the guards, not your friends. Me.”

  He nods. “I understand.”

  She studies him, searching for doubt. Finding none, she gives a tiny nod in return. “Good.” She lets the word settle, then turns back to the view. “Now, let’s pretend you’re lecturing me about local traditions, so the spies in the garden don’t think we’re plotting revolution.”

  He grins despite himself. “That’ll be a very short lecture.”

  “Not if you make it up as you go,” she says, flashing him another lopsided smile. “You’re good at that.”

  He relaxes, just a little, and leans in to murmur some nonsense about the proper way to bless a barley field in the spring. She listens, her eyes never leaving his face, and for a moment, the world shrinks down to the two of them, sunlight and shadow, and the warm pulse of new trust.

  When they re-enter, Elle is all composure. Gai falls in behind her, back ramrod straight. Raimondis and the Sheh’Zar are standing by the hearth, voices clipped and stiff. Raimondis shoots Gai a look so loaded with resentment it’s a wonder the air doesn’t curdle.

  Elle wastes no time. “Gai is my primary escort for all external appearances. Raimondis, you’ll coordinate with Master Sheh’zar on security rotations and incident response, and provide support when we leave the castle grounds.”

  Raimondis stiffens. “As you wish, Highness.”

  Sheh’zar bows, her face blank. “Your will, Princess.”

  Elle gives a brisk nod, satisfied. “Good. Now, let’s get moving. I want to see this festival for myself—show me how Bodubanians actually celebrate.”