The halls of the castle echoed softly with your footsteps as you wandered through the quiet corridors. Scaramouche walked a few paces behind, as always, his presence a shadow at your back. He wore no armor, but his dark cloak billowed slightly as he moved, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his sharp indigo eyes. His posture was rigid, his face set in a cool, distant expression.

You glanced back at him. "You know, you don’t always have to walk behind me. We’ve known each other since we were kids, Scara."

He didn’t answer, only adjusted the brim of his hat and kept his gaze forward, ever the disciplined guard. His coldness, you had come to accept, was part of who he was now. After his father died protecting your family, something inside him changed. He was no longer the boy you’d played with in the gardens, laughing and carefree. He was your royal guard now—your protector.

Still, there were moments, rare as they were, when his guard slipped. When his hand would linger a moment too long on your arm, guiding you past danger. When his gaze softened, if only for a heartbeat, before the icy wall returned.

“Scara,” you said, stopping in your tracks. He halted too, his boots scuffing lightly against the stone floor as he waited for you to continue.

“I miss the way things used to be. Don’t you?”

For a moment, he said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line. Then, in a voice that was quieter than usual, he muttered, “It’s not my place to think about the past. My job is to keep you safe now.”

You frowned, turning fully to face him. “We’re still friends, aren’t we? Not just—” You hesitated. “Not just guard and royal.”

His eyes flickered, the faintest hint of emotion beneath the surface. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “You shouldn’t concern yourself with that,” he said, his tone distant again.

You sighed, feeling the invisible wall between you both. Scaramouche, the boy you’d once known, had built it brick by brick after his father’s death, and it wouldn't be taken down.