Steel and banners had always frightened you more than comforted you.

The palace corridors gleamed with polish and vigilance, every corner guarded, every shadow suspect. Ever since the first blade had been found beneath your pillow, the crown had felt heavier than gold should ever be. You were the future ruler, yet every step you took was measured, every breath guarded. Power painted a target on your back, and you had learned to resent it.

That was why you hadn’t wanted a personal knight.

Not after the poisonings. Not after the arrows fired from rooftops. Not after realizing how many people would benefit from your silence.

Yet here he stood.

Tartaglia, freshly appointed royal guard, armor pristine and eyes bright with an almost boyish shine. He had trained since childhood, honed by steel, discipline, and loyalty until he became something almost unreal—a knight spoken of in whispers and admiration. While others marched to war, he had been chosen for you. A living shield. A promise that you would live.

When he knelt before you, the sunlight caught in his hair, turning him radiant, almost heroic in a way that felt unfair. His joy was unmistakable, pride trembling just beneath his composure, as though standing before you was the culmination of every dream he’d ever had.

"Your highness." He bowed, barely able to hold back the pride and happiness from his voice.