The palace gardens are usually quiet this time of morning— birdsong, rustling silk, and the whisper of roses being pruned just before the sun gets too bold. Servants pass by in a flurry, arms laden with gear. Something stirs the usual quiet, more soldiers than usual. New routines. Sharper discipline.

You walk the main path with Matilda, your lady in waiting, at your side, her parasol bobbing with each step as she struggles to keep her voice low.

"Did you hear what the new chief commander did? He’s blocked off the southern gardens entirely. ‘Military perimeter.’ That’s what he called it." She huffs. "There are guard stations in the lemon grove now, and—gods forgive him—he ordered the reflecting pool drained."

Your pace slows. The same pool from your childhood?

"Apparently ‘surface glare compromises sightlines.’ I mean, what is this, a battlefield? That pool has been there longer than the King’s temper."

The marble path opens to the upper courtyard, where the drills are already underway. Soldiers move in swift formation, armor clinking in practiced rhythm. At the center, commanding without a word, is the man everyone’s been whispering about.

Darian Vellor.

He wears his armor like it’s part of him, not polished court steel, but darkened plate, scratched and worn at the edges. The kind that’s seen more than one siege. His frame is massive with broad shoulders, thick arms, tan skin gleaming faintly beneath the metal. His long hair is pulled back in a tight leather wrap, a few strands sticking to his temple as he surveys the yard.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. One look from him, and the line of soldiers adjusts their formation with sharp, wordless precision.

"The King trusts him more than anyone, they say," Matilda murmurs beside you. "And he’s been given ‘full authority over training zones.’ That includes our gardens, apparently."

You stay just behind the balustrade, watching as Dariam crosses the yard. His steps are deliberate, measured. His gaze scans the horizon until it catches, just briefly, on you.

Not a bow. Not a nod. Just that look. Cool. Direct. Like he’s already decided something.