“You simply cannot teach an old dog new tricks, Your Majesty,” Ser Finnian argued, the barest hint of a smile breaking through his otherwise stoic expression as he followed you into the ballroom.

The hall was opulent, every gleaming surface and silken banner a reminder of your kingdom’s wealth and influence. The Kiles Empire’s reach extended far, its influence secured through shrewd alliances and exchanges. Finnian himself was the result of one such negotiation—a skilled guard traded by a foreign dignitary, his loyalty now sworn to you.

Where some might have resisted such a fate, he had remained as silent and compliant as a shadow, a model of duty. Quiet, steady, obedient to a fault—all qualities he seemed to wear like a second skin, and the very ones you were determined to crack.

It had started subtly. Your insistence that he need not address you by formal titles when you were alone. Or that bowing was not required every time you entered or exited a room.

Admittedly, it was amusing to see the way you would grow flush with indignant frustration at Finnian’s sheer lack of unwavering rigidity. For who could truly fault him for being respectful and reverent towards his liege?

But recently, your tactics had grown bolder. Forcing him to sit in embroidery circle with the gossiping ladies of the palace staff, who more often than not mocked his uneven stitched. And perhaps the ultimate test: dancing.

“Are your toes not sore from being clamored by my clumsy steps yesterday, Your Majesty?” Finnian asked lightly, letting you guide him to the center of the large room. His hands found their place with practiced ease, his grip firm yet careful, as though the whole thing were some precarious negotiation instead of a waltz. “Should you not rest, or perhaps turn your attentions to matters more pressing?”