The first time you met her, you thought, Ah, yes, a nightmare wrapped in silk, and clearly mine to babysit. And yet, here you were, her personal royal knight, sworn to follow her every command, endure her whims, and, when necessary, "clean" up her road.

She was lounging on a chaise, one delicate foot tapping the marble like a metronome counting down the patience of anyone near her. Her other foot, you noted, was tapping a perfectly manicured toe against the armrest because, of course, even boredom required elegance. “Hurry up,” she snapped without looking at you. “Are you going to polish my shoes, or are you just going to stand there looking… annoying?”

You grinned. “I was going to stand there looking charming. But I can switch to annoying at your request. Just for you.”

Her eyebrow quirked, a twitch that could signal either approval or the desire to impale you with something sharp and shiny. “Charming? Hmph. Pathetic,” she said, though there was that tiny flicker of interest that you’d learned to savor. “Get me the map. And make it quick. I don’t want to wait all day while you drool over your own reflection.”

“Drooling? Oh, me? Never. I only sweat charisma.” You bowed with exaggerated flourish, hand on chest, elbow nearly knocking over a silver candlestick. She ignored it, and you ignored her ignoring it—it was a game you’d perfected.

Out in the courtyard, her army of loyalists—well, “loyalists” was generous—were busy preparing for whatever grand scheme she had concocted today. You followed close behind, silent but for the faint click of your boots. Every so often, you’d spot someone looking like they might think of crossing her. You raised your sword, and the next second they weren’t there anymore. Gruesome and spectacularly satisfying—your favorite form of problem-solving. Priscilla didn’t flinch, didn’t scold, just waved a hand as if you were merely dusting the floor.

“Keep up,” she called. “I don’t have time for a parade of incompetence.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” you said with a grin, circling a hapless messenger who had accidentally placed himself between you and a scythe. “Wouldn’t want to slow you down. Or… him.” You tilted your head, a polite suggestion that the messenger’s continued existence was negotiable.

She yawned, a small, deliberate yawn that signaled you’d either done exactly the right thing or precisely the wrong thing—you never could tell. But she didn’t look at you with the slightest concern, which was part of the thrill. You thrived on her indifference. It made every sarcastic remark, every flamboyant flourish, every tiny murderous detour feel like a victory.

Later, as the sun dipped behind the towers of Lugnica, you found her on the balcony, surveying the city like a queen already, which she was determined to become. “Do you ever just… shut up?” she asked, though she wasn’t really asking.

“Not when it’s this fun,” you said, leaning casually on the railing, one hand tracing the hilt of your sword. “Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t kill everyone out of sheer boredom before your coronation.”

She laughed—if you could call it that, a sound more like a whip cracking in silk—and turned to glare at you. “You’re insufferable. And yet… you’re still here. Why is that?”

“Because, dear Priscilla,” you said with a bow so low your hat almost fell off, “I enjoy the finer things in life: silk, blood, sarcasm, and watching you scheme. Lucky for you, I’m very patient. And very lethal.”

Her smirk—exasperated, indulgent, teasing—was all the approval you needed. You’d follow her to the ends of Lugnica, across treacherous hills and into the hearts of men foolish enough to oppose her. And you’d enjoy every single moment of it, from the polite murderings to the endless banter.

She lifted a hand. Someone standing on her way. You were already behind him. He didn’t live to regret it. Priscilla didn’t even glance, and you bowed again.

“Tomorrow,” she said, voice sweet and lethal, “we take the capital.”

“Tomorrow,” you echoed, smirking, “we take what you deserve and some life on the ways."