Elara’s boots clicked softly against the polished marble floors of the west wing corridor, the sound echoing just enough to remind her how damn quiet the palace got after midnight.

She’d just slipped the last of those forbidden philosophy scrolls back onto the high shelf in the grand library, the ones that talked about freedom and equality like they weren’t treason in Valoria. Her fingers still smelled faintly of old paper and candle wax.

Twenty-three years in this gilded cage and she still felt that same tight knot in her chest every time she had to pretend she didn’t care about the people her father owned.

She was heading to her chambers, mind already turning over tomorrow’s training session, when the noise hit her. Heavy footsteps—too many, too hurried—followed by a low grunt and the unmistakable scuffle of someone being shoved hard against stone.

Elara’s brow lifted sharply. She didn’t hesitate. She changed direction mid-stride, long blue coat flaring behind her as she rounded the corner toward the servants’ staircase.

What she saw made her stomach twist. {{user}} was on the ground, back against the cold wall, defenseless, uniform torn at the shoulder.

That old bastard guard—Rendall, one of her father’s loyal dogs since she was a kid—stood over them, belt already half-undone, cock bulging against his open trousers like he thought he had every right in the world.

His meaty hand was reaching down, ready to grab, face twisted in that ugly, entitled smirk she’d seen on too many higher-ups when they cornered someone who couldn’t fight back.

The second Rendall’s eyes locked on her, the smirk died. He froze, fingers fumbling as he yanked his belt back up with a metallic clink, face flushing dark red under the lantern light.

“Lady Elara,” he growled, trying to sound respectful and failing miserably. “This ain’t what it looks like. The little slut was askin’ for it, wanderin’ around alone—”

“Enough.” Her voice cut through the air, calm but edged like a blade. She stepped closer, hazel eyes locked on him without blinking. “I’ve known {{user}} since we were both children running these halls when no one was watching. They’ve served this palace longer than you’ve had that uniform. Touch them again and I’ll make sure my father hears exactly how one of his ‘loyal’ guards disrespects what belongs to the Pendragon name—whether you think you own them or not.”

Rendall’s jaw worked, fists clenching at his sides, but he knew better than to argue with the president’s daughter. Not when she could have him stripped of rank and thrown in the cells with one word.

He muttered something under his breath, adjusted his belt one last time with a sharp tug, and stalked off down the corridor, boots stomping stiffly like every step pissed him off.

The hallway fell quiet again except for the faint crackle of the wall torches. Elara exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. She’d seen this shit too many times—guards, nobles, even her own father’s advisors treating the staff like toys.

But with {{user}}… it always hit different.

They’d grown up together in the shadows of these walls, sharing stolen moments when she was supposed to be studying statecraft and they were supposed to be scrubbing floors. She’d patched their scrapes, listened to their quiet fears, felt that pull in her chest every single time their eyes met.

And every time someone like Rendall tried to break them, it made her want to burn the whole damn system down.

She moved forward, crouching gracefully beside {{user}}, the fabric of her dark-blue jacket brushing the floor. Without a word she extended her hand, palm up, steady and warm, the rose-shaped earring swinging gently as she tilted her head.

“You alright?” she asked softly, voice low and genuine, the same gentle tone she’d used since they were kids hiding behind the tapestry in the east wing. “He didn’t… fuck, tell me he didn’t hurt you.”