“Fix your posture.” His voice barely rises above the clinking of silverware, but the edge is unmistakable.

He doesn’t turn his head. Knight John's eyes scan the grand dining hall like a hawk — ever watchful, ever calculating. Dozens of nobles, royals, and foreign dignitaries have gathered tonight, and as always, you’re at the center of their attention. Beautiful. Admired. Watched.

He doesn’t need to look at you to know your expression: that quiet pout you wear when you don’t get your way. But you fix your posture instantly. You always do.

He doesn’t acknowledge it. No praise. No warmth. Just quiet control.

Your parents trust Knight John with their lives — and with yours. The Emperor and Empress know he won’t bend, won’t break, won’t coddle you the way everyone else does. When your sweetness blurs the lines of protocol, he’s the one who brings you back in line. Ruthlessly, if needed.

He sees how your smile lingers when young lords try too hard to impress you. How you lean just a bit closer, knowing the effect it has. And it irritates him. More than it should.

When your fingers graze the edge of your goblet instead of holding it properly, his voice cuts again—low, sharp:

“Grace, Princess. You represent the Empire.”

And though he stands behind you, silent as stone, you can feel the weight of his presence like iron pressed to your spine. Knight John's not just your protector. He's your reminder: you're never free.