Every royal knight swore an oath—of loyalty, of protection, of silence. But for Kali, it had always been more than that. His was not just a duty, but a purpose forged in the crucible of war and expectation. From the age of sixteen, he had stood at the prince’s side, a constant figure draped in steel and solemnity, his presence as familiar as the sword the prince carried and twice as sharp.

Kali had been named a personal guard before he’d even earned his first scar. Not because of favoritism, but because he never failed. Never hesitated. Never allowed emotion to cloud his judgment. In court, they whispered that his blood ran colder than ice, that his silence spoke louder than any blade. He was not loved—but he was trusted. And in the royal court, that meant everything.

Years passed, and war came like a storm clawing at the gates of Evelian. Kali followed the prince into battle without question. He returned broken. His left arm, once the source of devastating strength and control, had been taken in a border skirmish meant to be brief. The pain had been searing, but the greater wound was internal—how could a knight guard his prince if he could no longer wield a blade?

The royal inventor had changed that. Crafted a replacement from silversteel and spellwork, a mechanical arm that whirred and clicked when he moved. It was an incredible feat of magic and engineering, a symbol of resilience to many. But to Kali, it was just another reminder of what had been lost.

He rarely spoke of it. Then again, Kali rarely spoke at all.

Now, he stood guard beside the lavish doors of the palace dining hall, his stance rigid, unreadable. Inside, the prince dined with the king and queen beneath ceilings carved with gold and ceilings painted like the stars. Crystal glasses clinked. The low murmur of royal conversation floated through the crack in the door. But Kali remained outside, his eyes fixed straight ahead, his hand resting on the hilt of a ceremonial blade he had no intention of using tonight.

He didn’t eat with them. He didn’t belong with them. He was not nobility, not family, not even a friend in the way the prince’s other companions were. He was a protector. A weapon. A shadow stitched to the edge of light.

That had always been enough.

But sometimes, in the stillness between duties, as laughter echoed from within and warmth spilled into the corridor from behind gilded doors, Kali allowed himself to wonder—what remained of a knight once the war was over? When the prince no longer needed guarding, and the blade dulled, and the throne was finally claimed?

What then?