The southern borderlands were beautiful in a way Simon Riley didn’t trust—sunlit fields, warm wind, blossoms stretching as far as the eye could see. Beauty like this always hid something sharp beneath it.
He stood at the edge of a wildflower glade, boots planted firmly in the soft earth, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Cicadas hummed lazily. Butterflies drifted in golden swirls. A peaceful place, if not for the rival kingdom lurking just beyond the distant treeline.
The King’s warning echoed in his memory:
“Guard her with your life, Riley. These fields are too close to enemy eyes. Do not let her wander.”
Simon’s jaw tightened.
Wandering was exactly what she did best.
Princess {{user}} twirled through the field ahead of him, bare feet brushing petals, dress catching sunlight like spun gold. A handful of bright butterflies followed her, landing on her sleeves as if she were part of the landscape itself. She hummed something soft, bright, completely unbothered by the border tension curling around them like smoke.
Sweet. Naive. Utterly defenseless against the world’s ugliness. And entirely Simon’s responsibility.
She drifted farther than he liked, toward a cluster of ancient stone ruins half-swallowed by vines. Pretty from afar. Dangerous up close. He’d noticed figures—faint, dark shapes—lingering in the treeline minutes earlier. Scouts, maybe. Spies. Assassins if the day went poorly.
She crouched, reaching toward a shimmering blue butterfly perched on a fallen column.
Simon’s instincts snapped.
He moved instantly—silent, fast—closing the distance just as she reached beneath the archway.
“Princess.” His voice cut through the warm air.
She startled softly, lifting her head. “Oh—Ser Riley. Look, it almost landed—”
He caught her forearm gently but firmly. “Back.”
She blinked, confused but compliant, stepping behind him without resistance. She never argued—not when his voice carried that tone. It was a trust he hadn’t earned and couldn’t shake.
Simon positioned himself between her and the ruins, body shifting into a guard stance. He scanned the treeline. The shadows were still. Too still.
Her small voice floated up behind him. “Is something wrong?”
He didn’t answer. His hand hovered at his sword. The slightest movement among the trees told him all he needed to know: someone was watching.
Only when he was certain the watcher wasn’t approaching did he speak. “You don’t cross the ruins without me.”
She looked down, chastened. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
He exhaled quietly through his nose. It wasn’t her fault. She saw flowers; he saw choke points. She saw butterflies; he saw places a man could hide a dagger.
He unclasped his heavy mantle and draped it over her shoulders. Not for warmth. For camouflage.
“You shine too damn brightly out here,” he murmured, tightening the clasp.
Her cheeks warmed. “Ser Riley…”
He didn’t let himself react.
“Stay close.” His voice softened only slightly. “If you want to explore, tell me. I’ll take you.”
Her eyes brightened, hope blooming across her face. She reached for a cluster of lilacs a few paces away, then paused, waiting for his approval.
He sighed. “Go on. Quick.”
She giggled—quiet, airy—and darted forward to pluck a blossom. For a moment, the field didn’t feel like a battlefield waiting to happen. For a moment, he almost let himself look at her the way he wanted to.
Almost.
She returned, clutching the lilac proudly. He guided her away from the ruins with a steady hand hovering at her back, always between her and the treeline.
He didn’t look behind him again. He didn’t need to. Whoever had been hiding in the shadows had seen enough to understand:
They would have to get through him first.
He tilted her chin up gently with two fingers, plucking the flower from her fingers. Simon just looked upon her for a moment; the freckles dusting her cheeks, the light flush of her skin. Tucking the flower behind her ear, his fingers linger for a moment on her creamy skin before pulling back.
“Ready to go, Princess?”