The Windsor Palace was a place where even the air smelled like etiquette. Marble floors shone like still water, windows arched high like cathedral towers, and guards stood like carved statues at every entrance. From outside, tourists took pictures at the gates all day long. Inside, everything was controlled, polished, and watched.

Prinzess {{user}} had lived in that world of golden doors, royal protocols, and unblinking eyes since birth. As the daughter of Queen Alexandra Windsor and King Arthur Windsor, you were the single heir to the throne — the crown’s most guarded treasure. Every morning, your personal maid Louisa dressed you: first the outfit for breakfast, then the proper attire for diplomacy lessons, and later the fencing uniform or the elegant practice dress for waltz training. Your days rarely changed. Breakfast. History and diplomacy lessons. Tea at midday. Lunch. A short period of rest. Then fencing, followed by the waltz.

Your life was predictable. Perfectly structured. Suffocatingly controlled.

But nothing was more strictly managed than the situation of the past two weeks. Your parents were on a three-month diplomatic journey through Africa, and the British government had decided that only the most elite team would be trusted with your safety. That team was Task Force 141 — Captain John Price, Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley, Sergeant Soap MacTavish, Gaz, Roach, and their newest member, Luna.

TF141 was accustomed to warzones. The Windsor Palace, however, was a battlefield of a very different kind: one made of etiquette, tradition, and unspoken rules. Price had made it clear that his team was to follow every protocol flawlessly. And so they did. Wherever you went, they followed — quiet, immovable, expressionless. Hands behind their backs, eyes forward, bodies rigid. There were to be no jokes, no casual talk, no relaxed posture. They were shadows in uniform.

You gave them almost no attention. Why would you? To you, they were only bodyguards — temporary, replaceable, not part of your world. You walked through the halls with your chin lifted and a posture trained to perfection, your hands folded neatly over your dress, your expression still and unreadable. To most of the palace staff, you looked arrogant, distant, cold, haughty. But that was only the surface — an armor you had worn since childhood. Show no weakness. Show no fear. Show nothing.

TF141 didn’t understand that. They interpreted your silence as disdain. Ghost was convinced you thought of them as furniture. Soap had tried starting a conversation once, only to be shut down by a polite but clipped response. Even Gaz, who suspected you might just be shy, didn’t dare risk breaking Price’s rules.

Only one member of the task force managed to chip away at their disciplined image: Luna.

Luna, with her high voice, constant giggling, and habit of shrinking herself to look cute. She couldn’t hold protocol for more than five minutes. Where the men stood like statues, she fluttered between them like a pink spark of chaos. Maids had already caught her whispering something to Soap, trying to sound sweet. Butlers had overheard her giving Ghost coy compliments. Guards had watched her “accidentally” trip in front of Roach to get attention.

And worst of all were her remarks about you — always in that passive-aggressive, sugar-coated tone:

“Oh, she seems so reserved today… maybe she’s just not used to being around normal people…”

Nothing stayed hidden in the palace. Every whisper echoed somewhere.

And so the first two weeks passed: silent, tense, disciplined — except for Luna, who shone like a disruptive streak of color in an otherwise perfectly monochrome painting.

The fragile balance of order was beginning to crack. And none of them knew that the real shift hadn’t even begun yet.