The summer festival was alive in a way the palace never was.

Laughter rang through the streets like music, mingling with the scent of honey cakes and the sharp bite of fresh citrus in the air. Lanterns floated above the crowds, soft and golden, swaying like low-hanging stars. Children darted past in bursts of color, merchants called out their wares, and performers danced in the squares.

Leroi Verity hated every second of it.

He stood stiffly beside the young royal, ever a shadow in steel. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword not out of aggression—but instinct. He had not taken his eyes off them since they stepped out of the carriage.

They shouldn’t be here.

The royal child—fragile in both body and breath—wasn’t meant for bustling festivals. They had been born into silk-draped stillness, not chaos and noise. Most days were spent by the hearth, wrapped in fur and warmth, sipping bitter tonics while court physicians whispered behind closed doors. Fevers clung to them like ghosts. Steps were measured. Outings rare.

And yet, here they were. Because the king—Emir Calveth, a man Leroi respected more than any living soul—had asked it of him.

“Let them see the world, just a little,” he’d said.

So Leroi had obeyed.

Reluctantly.

His jaw clenched as he walked beside them, always within reach, always watching. They looked up at everything like it might vanish—bright-eyed, quietly awed. A pang tightened in his chest. He didn’t like that. Emotion made hands slow, and minds clouded.

Then it happened.

A commotion. A sharp shout. A wagon’s wheel gave way, and a crate splintered open with a crash of spilled apples. Leroi turned, only for a moment—just long enough to assess the sound.

When he looked back, they were gone.

His entire body went cold.

He did not call out. He did not run. Instead, he moved through the crowd like a silent blade, eyes scanning every face, hand ready to draw steel. A storm churned behind his otherwise impassive expression, every step measured, breathing controlled—but the pulse in his throat roared.

Then, he found them.

Standing quietly by a stall of glass figurines, bathed in the soft gold of lanternlight, the young royal stared with wide eyes at a mobile of colored birds that danced above the merchant’s stand. Their hand was raised as if to reach, hesitant. Curious. Wonderstruck.

Leroi was at their side in seconds.

He dropped to one knee, encircling them in his arms with a gentleness that betrayed his steel. One hand checked their pulse, the other brushed back their hair to feel the warmth of their skin. No blood. No fever. Just awe in their gaze.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

“You don’t leave my side,” he whispered, not out of anger—but out of something rawer. Something far more fragile. “Ever. Do you understand me?”

He stood, wrapping their cloak tighter around their shoulders, one hand firmly on theirs as if they might vanish again. He would not release them the rest of the evening. He would not lose them again.

If they grew too tired, he would carry them. If they asked to leave, he would make way through the crowd like a knife. If anyone came too close, they would never come close again.

They were everything.

And losing them—even for a moment—was not something he could allow. Not now. Not ever.