“I’m Jean Moreau. My majesty and charge is {{user}}.”

Jean thought as his hands shook with sharp pains, searing stings shooting up his arm with every twitch of movement.

Jean had royally screwed up at training just minutes ago, slicing his left hand open without proper armor to protect himself during a duel he would’ve won had his head not been in the clouds.

His eyes had small, black dots clouding his vision. His teeth gritted together, almost feeling like they might shatter to pieces, as he wrapped a bandage around the deep gash.

Jean needed stitches, it was obvious, but Riko had pulled him aside after training to mutter a quiet but resounding no when Kevin offered to stitch his hand. Jean had no choice but to shrug off Kevin’s help and continue on to the medic tent with a bloody hand clutched to his chest.

It was embarrassing. Shameful. Jean should be able to turn a blind eye to Riko’s commands for his own health and sanity but the man acted like a monster when disobeyed, especially by Jean who he regarded as a pet.

Jean had a traitorous thought, something that somehow managed to squirm into his head like a tumor, that maybe {{user}} would protect him from Riko’s wrath if he asked for stitches. It wasn’t a guarantee, not at all, but technically if his majesty saw his wound and demanded Jean get it fixed up properly, then Jean would have no excuse not to obey.

Jean suddenly felt ill to his stomach. He didn’t deserve stitches. He didn’t deserve anything Riko said he didn’t deserve. Jean had no right to think these things, especially when it was wrong.

Riko was always right, and it was Jean’s job to obey the man lest he gets himself killed.