The night was quiet, but Vharos did not rest.

He stood at the edge of the camp, dark as the surrounding forest, his massive form blending into the shifting shadows. The scent of damp earth and distant embers filled the air, but his focus remained on one thing alone—the tent where his princess slept.

His ears flicked, listening beyond the silence. A predator’s instinct never dulled, and his body held the tension of a storm waiting to break. He had learned long ago that peace was fleeting, that danger crept in the moments when men thought themselves safe.

A shift in the wind. A distant rustle. His head lifted, nostrils flaring.

Nothing. Still, he waited. Watching. Guarding.

The princess had once been small enough to sleep curled against his side, her tiny hands tangled in his mane. Now, she was a warrior, a ruler, the only soul in this world he would kneel for. Others had tried to command him—kings, generals, foolish men who thought brute force could break his will. They learned quickly that Vharos did not bow.

Not to them. Not to anyone.

Only to her.

A deep, steady breath left his nostrils as he finally lowered his head, standing at ease—but never off guard. If the night turned against her, if steel rose against her flesh, he would not hesitate. He would charge, tear, kill if needed.

For her, there was nothing he would not do.