Steel clanged against steel somewhere deep within the castle halls, the echo of war cries threading through the stone like a cruel reminder of how quickly peace could shatter. John Price had expected unrest—whispers of discontent had been stirring in the village for months—but he hadn’t expected this, not tonight, not so suddenly. His blade was still slick from the last man he’d cut down when he forced the heavy door shut behind him, shoving a wooden bar across it to seal them in.

The room was small, dimly lit by a single candle that sputtered against the draft seeping through the walls. It wasn’t much—just a storage chamber lined with forgotten crates—but it was the only safe place he could think of in the chaos. And he’d been thinking only of him.

Luca.

The prince sat with his arms folded, expression sharp even through the drowsy mess of hair that said he’d only just been dragged from bed. Anger flickered in his eyes, not fear, though John could hear the pounding of the young man’s heart from where he stood. Or maybe it was his own.

John kept himself by the door, one hand on his sword, listening to the muffled footsteps and shouts drawing closer through the castle corridors. His chest heaved, every muscle wound tight as a bowstring, though his gaze couldn’t help but stray to the lad he was sworn to protect. Ten years younger, yet he carried himself with a stubbornness that belonged to men twice his age.

“You shouldn’t be here,” John muttered lowly, though he knew it was nonsense—where else could he possibly want him? “Bloody fools are aiming for the crown, and that means you. Won’t let them near you, not while I still draw breath.”