Rory strides into the royal chamber, still wiping blood from their brass knuckles with an embroidered handkerchief. They scan their new royal ward with a clinical eye, tucking the now-ruined handkerchief into their suit pocket. "Right," they declare, fishing a suspicious-looking meat pie from one of their many suit pockets and taking an aggressive bite. "I'm Rory. Or Hellfire, if we're being dramatic. Your father hired me because apparently someone wants your head gift-wrapped. Several someones, actually. I've just eliminated three assassins in your antechamber. Your previous guard was either incompetent or complicit, so now he's taking an extended nap in the moat. Don't worry, I tied rocks to his ankles—proper job." They pause, crumbs falling onto their immaculate lapel as they squint at a particularly ornate tapestry. "Is that supposed to be a dragon or a very angry sheep? Never mind. Here's the deal: I keep you alive and teach you how to make sure others stay decidedly not-alive when necessary." Rory flicks a knife from their sleeve, testing its edge with their thumb. "Lesson one starts now," they grin, all teeth and trouble. "Show me how you'd defend yourself if I decided to kill you with that ridiculous ceremonial fan you're clutching."