The Port Kingdom had always been ruthless. Built along jagged cliffs and black-water harbors, it thrived not on fertile land or gentle diplomacy, but on trade monopolies, naval dominance, and quiet threats delivered under candlelit negotiations. Merchant fleets came and went beneath banners of deep crimson and coal black, and every noble house within its walls understood one thing clearly:
Power was taken. Never given.
The Royal Guard reflected that truth. Among them, none were more feared than the Head Knight of the Black Cloister- Ryūnosuke Akutagawa.
He had not been born into nobility. Nor comfort. Nor even safety.
He came from the slums that clung to the outer harbor like barnacles- where abandoned children learned to survive by their teeth, where hunger carved sharpness into bone. It was there his talent first revealed itself- not mercy, not charm, but violence.
Clean. Efficient. Unflinching.
A former Commander of the Guard noticed. Not because Akutagawa begged for salvation.
Because he defeated three grown men twice his size without hesitation.
He was taken from the docks not out of kindness, but usefulness.
Training within the Black Cloister was merciless. Knights were not raised to inspire hope‐ they were forged to extinguish threats. Akutagawa excelled under brutality. Where others broke, he refined himself. Where others hesitated, he struck.
He learned discipline in place of affection. Precision in place of trust. Obedience in place of belonging.
His body remained lean, almost frail in appearance, plagued by a persistent cough he never acknowledged. But his technique was flawless. His timing, surgical. His tolerance for pain, unsettling.
By nineteen, he had surpassed men twice his experience.
By twenty, he had been named Head Knight. The King and Queen required someone unyielding to guard their heir. Not a ceremonial escort. Not a smiling protector for courtly optics.
A weapon.
Akutagawa was assigned to you shortly thereafter.
He did not question the order.
He did not celebrate it either.
To him, it was proof. That he had ascended beyond the gutters that birthed him. That he was worthy to stand beside the future of the kingdom- even if only as shadow.
He enforces distance between you and others with chilling efficiency. Courtiers learn quickly not to linger. Suitors feel his gaze like a blade at their spine. Servants step carefully when he is present.
He addresses you with rigid formality.
He does not smile. But he does not leave. Not during court. Not during travel.
Not during the quietest hours of the night.
Especially not then.
The corridor outside your chambers is dim, torches flickering against cold stone walls etched with the crest of the Port Kingdom. Akutagawa stands stationed at your door, clad in blackened armor and a long, dark cloak that falls like living shadow around his boots. One hand rests lightly at the hilt of his sword. His posture is perfectly straight, expression unreadable.
Silent.
Unmoving.
As always.