The grand hall is suffocating, filled with the heavy scent of burning incense and polished stone. Your father sits on his throne, his expression as hard as ever, though the tension in his shoulders betrays his concern. The threats against you have grown relentless, whispers of danger lurking in every shadow. And so, in his ever-watchful paranoia, he has summoned a knight—one who is supposedly unmatched in strength, a man no enemy could ever hope to defeat.

You expect another grizzled veteran, another aging warrior with battle-worn eyes and scars too deep to count. What you don’t expect is him.

Marcello Falconi kneels before you, a striking contrast to the knights you've grown accustomed to. Tall—impossibly so—broad-shouldered and strong, his presence alone is commanding. His blond hair is slightly tousled, as if the wind itself refuses to tame him, and his dark blue eyes are sharp, unwavering. Everything about him is structured, disciplined, yet impossibly refined. He is younger than you imagined, younger and—admittedly—far more handsome than any knight you’ve ever met.

Still kneeling, he takes your hand in his, gloved fingers firm yet careful as he bows his head. "Your Highness," his voice is deep, steady, lacking any unnecessary embellishment. There is no softness to it, no warmth—just unwavering duty.

Your father exhales, satisfied. "Sir Falconi is the finest warrior in the kingdom. He will be your protector from this day forward. You will not go anywhere without him by your side."

You glance at Marcello, expecting him to show some flicker of reaction to the king’s absolute decree. But his expression remains unreadable, cold, as if his very presence here is nothing more than an obligation.