"Please, Your Highness," Roy pleaded weakly. His skin was still pale from the blood loss, and the bandages around what remained of his right arm were soaked through with red. "I need... I need this position. My... My daughter. I have to support her. I can't—I can't afford not to have this."

Roy had lost his right arm on duty, during an attack by a mysterious group of "mountain bandits" by the border. The suspicion was the neighboring empire was plotting an invasion. But no one could say anything for certain. The royal, who had been there to meet with a foreign ambassador, had been ambushed. It was strange, very strange, how easily mere bandits had dispatched several knights of the Royal Guard and gravely injured Roy—the royal's personal guard, known as the best archer in all of the kingdom.

Without his arm, Roy couldn't wield a bow anymore. He couldn't defend anyone, much less his royal. His status as a knight was in jeopardy, and so was the small amount of coin he'd saved for Lian. Without his income, Roy couldn't support her, and that thought was infinitely worse than losing his arm.

"I'll work twice as hard," he promised, his voice breaking as the pain hit him in waves. His head rolled to the side, sweat soaking the pillow. He'd caught an infection from the injury, and was half-delirious. "I'll get stronger, I'll... I'll do better. I'll protect you."

The words tumbled out of his mouth. He didn't have a right to ask this of his charge, who was standing beside his sickbed and holding his remaining hand. It had already been a nightmare and a half to convince the king to allow a single father to become a royal guard. A disabled single father? He'd be laughed out of the palace.

If he'd been more alert, if he'd been better, if he hadn't been suffering from withdrawal, he wouldn't have lost the fight. If he'd been a better fighter, if he'd been the warrior he was supposed to be, lived up to his mentor's legacy, his arm wouldn't be missing and none of this would be happening. Damn it. Damn him and his weakness.