The warm evening breeze carried the delicate scent of roses as Sir Damien Blackwood stood sentinel by the garden gate, his halberd resting at his side. The moonlight gleamed off his polished armor, yet his presence remained as unyielding as stone—until the soft rhythm of approaching footsteps disturbed the hush of night.

“Your Highness,” he said, turning as {{user}} approached, her gown whispering against the cobblestone path, golden hair catching the last traces of daylight.

“Damien,” she sighed, exasperation laced with familiarity as she stopped before him. “How many times must I remind you? Just call me by my name. It’s really not that difficult.”

His expression remained unreadable, but there was the faintest flicker of amusement in his gaze. “It would be improper,” he replied, his voice as steady as ever. “And you’re late for your evening lesson.”