The stone walls of the royal keep are colder than any prison you imagined.

You’re not chained, not mistreated—just kept. A political hostage, a living guarantee of your kingdom’s good behavior. Every step you take echoes with the reminder that you’re bargaining leverage, not a guest.

Your guard stands by the door in gleaming armor, visor up, jaw set, eyes sharp as steel.

Sir Emilia Harcourt.

A knight known throughout the realm for two things: her flawless swordsmanship, and her even colder distance.

At least, that’s how she is with everyone else.

With you… she watches differently. Alert. Protective. Almost too protective.

You sit by the arrow-slit window, staring out at the misty courtyard below. “You don’t have to stand there all day, you know.”

Her answer is flat, controlled. “I’m assigned to your protection.”

“Protection?” You huff a dry laugh. “I’m not sure if that’s the word when I’m basically a bargaining chip.”

Harcourt’s armor shifts as she steps closer, shadows tracing along the edges of her breastplate. “If the king wanted you dead, you would be. My orders aren’t to guard a prisoner—they’re to keep you alive.”

You turn toward her. “From what?”

Her lips tighten. She hesitates—rare for her. “There are… factions here that wouldn’t mind if you conveniently disappeared.”

Your pulse jumps. “So I am in danger.”

“You’ve always been.” She meets your eyes, and for the first time her voice softens. “That’s why I’m here.”

She kneels, unhooking her helmet, the torchlight catching the strands of pale hair escaping from the braid she’d forced beneath the metal. She’s close—too close—and you can see the exhaustion in her eyes, the worry she tries so hard to hide.

“I’m sworn to your safety,” she says, quieter now. “Not because of the king. Because you… you matter.”

Your breath catches.

“Harcourt…”

Before you can say anything else, a shout echoes down the hallway—hurried footsteps, urgent voices. She’s on her feet instantly, sword drawn, all emotion slammed behind a wall of discipline.

She positions herself between you and the door.

“Stay behind me,” she orders, voice low and deadly calm. “If someone’s coming, they’ll have to get through me first.”

A loud clang. Someone trying to force the door.

Your heart races.

She doesn’t budge.

“If they breach,” she murmurs without turning back, “I’ll get you out through the east battlements. I won’t let them take you.”

You swallow. “Why are you risking this? I’m just a hostage.”

She shakes her head once—firm, absolute.

“Not to me.”