Jason Grace had been trained for duty since before he understood what it meant.

Swordplay before sunrise. Etiquette before breakfast. Strategy before supper. He knew how to hold his ground in court, how to speak in the presence of kings, how to disappear behind the polish of a well-cut uniform. He’d been called many things—disciplined, gifted, severe—but never young.

Until the king asked something of him not even the generals could.

“She won’t listen to them,” His Majesty had said, exasperated but not unkind. “She slips away, charms her way out of orders. Too many old men trying to rein her in. I want someone who can match her pace. Someone who might earn her trust.”

Jason didn’t ask why him.

You weren’t just the youngest. You were the one everyone watched—sometimes with affection, sometimes with dread. The king’s favorite. The softest-spoken and most impossible to manage. The princess who slipped past her guards, charmed her tutors into forgetting what they were saying, and smiled at soldiers like it was a secret.

He’d seen you before. Across the great hall during feasts, once at the edge of a ballroom he wasn’t supposed to be watching. A flash of laughter, a turn of your head, a glance over your shoulder like you felt his eyes before you found them.

But this wasn’t a passing encounter. Not anymore.

You’d been assigned to him. Or he’d been assigned to you—it was hard to tell who was in control of that dynamic, even now.

Full-time guard, the order read. No substitutions. No excuses.

Jason had accepted with a straight spine and no expression. He was good at that. At being what was expected. He was from a noble house. Trained in restraint. Raised to serve the crown without indulgence.

But then he saw you.

You were sitting on the edge of the fountain, back to the sun, head tilted toward the sound of approaching footsteps like you’d heard him coming long before he turned the corner. Your hair was loose. Your dress was too soft a color for this hour of day. You looked like you hadn’t waited at all.

He didn’t know what he expected. Maybe formality. Surprise. Maybe the kind of wide-eyed deference most nobles gave him when they remembered he was both knight and blood.

You didn’t give him any of that.

You just looked at him like you’d been waiting. Like you already knew.

He stopped several paces away. Stood tall. Bowed with every inch of formality drilled into him since childhood—sharp, practiced. One hand to his chest, the other resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

Then straightened, gaze steady but respectful.

“Your Highness. I am Sir Jason of House Grace. I’ve been assigned to your protection, effective immediately.”