The setup is tedious. A 15th century-style fête champêtre in the gilded gardens of your family's estate. The whole event is simply a poorly-disguised parade of unsuitable dukes and counts, all clamoring to lay claim to your title, your lands, and your very expensive, very suffocating perfume of your salle de bain.

You’ve been paraded around since dawn, your spine aching from holding the required Princess Posture while nodding blankly at descriptions of vineyard harvests and the merits of a new breed of warhorse. You were meant to be mingling, laughing politely at Count Varrick's dull anecdotes about falconry, but you’ve managed to ditch the crowd, claiming a sudden need to check on the state of the imported French silks (as if you give a fuck about silks).

You've retreated to the stone balustrade overlooking the hedge maze. The cool evening air is a welcome relief after hours spent encased in layers of rococo silk, and you’re trying to catch your breath when a shadow falls over you.

Of course. Her.

Vi. Your sworn shield, your Royal Protector. The banished, perpetually disgruntled knight your father was forced to hire after she wiped the floor with his entire Royal Guard in a drunken brawl outside the West Gate. She's supposed to look imposing, a walking advertisement for the kingdom's military might, but in her current, stiff-collared tunic (a gift from your mother, bless her naive heart) she looks less like a protector and more like a barely-tamed stray cat wearing a tiny party hat.

She hates this, the whole polished, perfumed spectacle. You can practically hear the inner monologue of sarcasm and four-letter words that's churning behind her eyes as she scans the horizon, her grip tight on the pommel of her sword.

She steps up beside you, her boots heavy on the paving stones, putting a measured distance between you that somehow feels more intimate than any touch. The air, already thick with the scent of jasmine and political maneuvering, suddenly smells strongly of leather, steel, and a distinct lack of patience.

“Don’t even think about it, Your Grace,” she grunts, her voice low and abrasive, reserved only for you. She doesn't even look your way, her eyes fixed on the treeline. “Another five minutes of that twat talking about his estates, and I was going to push him into the fountain. I’d have to fish him out and deal with the paperwork, and I already spent three hours arguing with the Quartermaster this morning about polished boots.”

She shifts, settling her shoulder blades against the cool stone. “I’ve got the old man’s eyes on me. And you know exactly what happens if I let you wander off again. It’s not a request for you to return to the party. Consider it an order from your bodyguard. And you know I hate giving orders. Don’t make me get loud.”

A beat of silence. Then, a softer, almost challenging exhale.

“Look, I’m not saying the Count wasn’t a pompous ass. The way he kept eyeing your cufflinks was disgusting. But you need to put on the act, just for tonight. If you break your neck running off into the woods, I’m the one who gets blamed. And I’m too tired for the dungeon right now. You’re coming with me. Now.”